"I was sure you would see that. Now, do you think you could go into the town for me, and order a few things?" Mrs. Winton wished her words to have time to work. "I will make out a list while you get ready, and leave it on the hall-table." "Yes, but I must speak to father first." CHAPTER XXXIII "How will He Take It?" WHEN Doris's tap sounded at the study door, it found Mr. Winton at his ever-recurring struggle to compose two sermons for the following Sunday. At week-day services he was content, usually, to use old compositions; but for Sunday he sternly compelled himself to make fresh ones. And the task was hard. Not that he did not know, did not feel, did not realise, did not love, the things about which he had to preach; but that the gift of expression was not his. He could be, and live, and do,—but he could not speak. And a clergyman has to speak. It is one main part of his work. "Come in," he called. "Father, I want to speak to you." Doris shut the door, and stood on the other side of his writing-table, her head thrown back. "Mother has been trying to make me say that I'll give up Dick." "Yes." "Ought I?" Mr. Winton kept uneasy silence. His shaggy eyebrows drew together. "He loves me, and I love him. Ought I to give him up now—only because his people are not exactly what one would choose?" "There are a good many things to be considered." "But I promised myself to him, daddy. I said I would—if you and mother were willing." "Ah—yes." "But if I'm forbidden—" She lifted from the table a large ivory paper-cutter of Swiss make, with a tiny carved châlet at the end. It brought back in a flash the little red-brown building, outside which she and Dick had sat and talked. Doris put it down with a decisive air. "It will just mean—waiting!" "I think you will do what we wish, my child." "I know what mother wishes. I want to know what you think—what you really, truly think!" She spoke impetuously. "Mother only sees my side of the question—and not all that. Daddy, you are a man. You can understand. You can see Dick's side. I want you to remember Dick. He is so dear, so true,—and he loves me—and we belong to one another. Should I be right—now!—to give him up, because of his relations? I didn't refuse him at first, when he told me about them. Ought I to throw him overboard, when nothing is changed? Wouldn't it be wronging him? Don't you see what I mean?" "How much did he tell you about them?" "I've just been explaining to mother." She hurriedly went over the ground again; and at the mention of Mrs. Morris, his lips drew together. "You see, Dick couldn't put all this in his letter; but he left me free to speak, only it mustn't go farther, without Mr. Stirling's leave. And I knew this when I accepted him. Wouldn't it be wronging him now, to throw him overboard?" "You might wrong him more, by becoming his wife, if it should mean in the future—?" She caught the meaning which underlay his slow utterance.