"He lives with his mother—his father is dead—oh, I wish you could hear him tell about his father and mother, and his grandfather—it’s just beautiful. I don’t know whether he has any other relatives,—but that doesn’t make any difference. I am not married to them, papa, and he’s not responsible for his people but must be judged by his own personal character and excellence!" In this last speech of Helen, Mr. Phillips thought he caught an echo of something he had heard himself say, and he winced a little: but it only added a spark more to his anger. "But he’s so far below you socially, Helen. You cannot be happy with him! You must remember that you are the President’s daughter and—" "And my husband," interrupted Helen, "is of the one order of American nobility—_a man_! I’ve thought about all that—the man’s the thing, you said, papa—and besides, an army officer has no social superiors." There was no mere echo in Helen’s defence now. It was plain fighting her father with his own words: and it irritated him beyond endurance. His wrath burst through and threw off the shell of theories and sentiment which he had built up around himself and the man’s real self spoke. "But he’s a negro, Helen! _A negro_! How could you!" "A _negro_, papa?" Helen questioned in unmixed surprise. "What has that to do with it? He’s the finest looking man in Washington if he is—and didn’t you tell Elise that that was nothing more than a colour of skin?—that the man was the thing?—that a—that a—negro must stand or fall upon his own merit and not upon his colour or caste?—and did you not say to Mr. Mackenzie that colour has nothing to do with a man’s acceptability in your house?—and that—" "Oh, my God! yes, my child, but I did not mea—you are too young, too young to be married, my child,—too young and too—yes, too young, and we must annul this marriage—yes, we must annul it, we must annul it—we can annul it without trouble, don’t worry about it, child, don’t worry—we can annul it, and—for you are too young, my little girl, my little girl, my little girl!" At sight of her father’s tears, and the trembling that shook him as he sank down in a chair, Helen’s combative attitude began to melt and her eyes to fill. "Yes, little girl, don’t worry," he said, drawing her tenderly down within his arms, "don’t worry, and we will have it annulled in short order." "It’s too late, papa," she spoke against his shoulder. "No, no, precious heart, it’s not too late—we can have it annulled—don’t cry, and don’t worry, we can have it annulled." "But, papa," she said again as she pushed herself back so that he looked her full in the face, "it’s too late, I tell you! It’s—too—late!"—and with outburst of weeping she curled herself up against him. With a dry sob of comprehension her father gathered her close to his heart. * * * * *