"Yes, I know. I see that. If I should be sorry by-and-by—if I should be ashamed. And I can't be sure. Things look so different at different times. Just now, all I seem to care for is to have him—Dick! And I know you will like him. He and you will just suit! Daddy—ought I to give him up?" Tears again filled her eyes. "Must I?" The Rector never could bear to see his child in distress; but he realised all that was involved in the decision; and he knew now that the thing could not be. "Don't, my dear!" he entreated. She knelt down, and laid her face against his knee. "In any case, we should have to know about his father," Mr. Winton observed, looking down with grieved eyes upon the mass of soft dusky hair. "I do not understand this mystery." "Dick doesn't either. It is queer, isn't it? But Mr. Stirling seems to know more than most people. You might ask him. He would tell you, daddy. I can't think why he should have made Dick spell his name differently from his mother and sisters. But Dick's is the right spelling, and Mrs. Morris's is the wrong. I don't understand how it comes to be Mr. Stirling's business at all; only, it was he who paid for Dick's schooling and college. So I suppose it has been real kindness, all through." The rugged face, listening intently, had grown stern. "Sometimes it seems as if such things didn't matter at all,—not in the very least. Other times—I almost feel as if I couldn't stand his people—Jane and his mother! But still—all that is not new to me. Ought I to give him up?" "Yes!"—decisively. She had not expected this; and her face paled. "It won't do, child!" "I wish he had nobody belonging to him," she broke out passionately. "That is not usual." "And—you won't help me! I thought you would be sure to help me." "It won't do," he said again. "It can't be." He added: "A few written words from yourself would be best; sent off at once, if you know where to reach him." The Rector shrewdly suspected that she did know. "It is far better to act at once—decisively—when a thing is impossible." "Oh, I can't, daddy! I can't! I won't!" She fled from the room, fighting against a rising storm of sobs, and escaped to her own room. Mr. Winton's sermon-making was spoilt for that day. He struggled for another half-hour, then gave up in despair, went to his workshop, and tried to forget troubles in woodcarving. Not till a good hour later did Doris emerge from her retirement, once more self-controlled, though heavy-eyed. She found a list of purchases lying on the hall-table, according to promise, and set off to get them done. The outcome of her solitude was a renewed determination not to give in. If she might not at present reckon herself engaged, she would let Dick know that he only had to wait. He might count upon her later. Dear, dear Dick! How could she do otherwise?