“I am going to see Martin,” she said, wondering and very nervous as to how her father would take it. “And I wanted to tell you, father, before I went, that I was going.” Mr. Challoner was writing his sermon, but on her words his pen paused; then he looked up at her. “Very well, dear,” he said. “You know my feeling about it; but it is a thing in which you must do as you think right. And, Helen,” again he paused, and his eyes wandered away from her and were bent on his paper, “tell me, when you come back, how the lad looks, if he seems well.” She came closer to him. This was the first sign he had shown that he recognised Martin’s existence. “Ah, father, come with me,” she said. But he shook his head. “No, dear; no, dear,” he said, and went on with his work. But, on this March morning of windy brightness, what gave the _comble_ to her happiness was the talk--the first intimate one for all these weeks--which she had had with her father the night before. She had gone to her room as usual after prayers, but finding there some parish-work, concerning outdoor relief, which she ought to have done and taken to him the day before, she sat up for nearly a couple of hours, until she had finished it. Then with the papers in her hand she went down to his study. “I am so sorry, father,” she said. “You told me you wanted these yesterday, and I absolutely forgot to do them. They are finished now.” He looked up in surprise. “Why, Helen,” he said, “it is after twelve. You ought to have been in bed long ago. Have you been sitting up to do them?” She smiled at him. “Why, yes,” she said. He took them from her. “You have been a very good daughter to me, dear,” he said. He paused, but Helen said nothing, for his tone shewed an unfinished sentence. And the pause was long; it was not at all easy for him to say what followed. “And I have been often and often very difficult and very hard all these months,” he said. “But will you do your best to forget that? Will you try to forgive me?” She went close to him, very much moved, and laid her hand on his shoulder. “Ah, don’t cut me to the heart,” she said. “But promise me, if you can,” he said. Yes, it was true; he had often been difficult and hard. And she answered him. “Yes, dear father,” she said. “I promise you that with my whole heart. And in turn, when May comes, will you try not to think too hardly of me. I have tried to be good.” She sat down by his side, looking rather wistfully at him.