"My daughter has written to you." There was a short, scornful laugh. "Yes. But it was not Doris. That letter was not written of her own free will." Dumb though the Rector might be under normal conditions, he could sometimes forget his dumbness, could sometimes rise to the occasion, if the need were great and if it came suddenly. Both these conditions were now fulfilled. He had to slay the hopes of this young fellow; and the more merciless plan might well in the end be the more merciful. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Maurice. My daughter wrote of her own free will." "I cannot believe it!" The responding gesture spoke so strongly of sympathy, not anger, that it took instant effect. "Forgive me! I ought not to have said that. You of course mean— believe—what you say. But you do not know! Doris never wrote that letter to me—herself!" "The actual wording may have been suggested. She found it difficult, and asked for help. But she had made up her mind. The decision was her own." A white curtain spread itself over the bronzed face. "If she herself tells me so—with her own lips—" "She is away for the day; and at her own suggestion. This ought to convince you. She guessed that you might come, and she thought it better to be absent." "How am I to know what manner of influence has been used? I have a right to hear from her lips—" "She has given you her answer in writing. That should be sufficient. I cannot have my child put to needless pain." "You acknowledge—it is pain to her?" "Yes." "And you expect that she will forget me?" "I hope so." "What this means to me is—of course—nothing!" A gesture again replied; a gesture so full of kindness, of regret, that Maurice was touched, even while reiterating— "I can't and won't believe that this is really her wish! After all that passed between us—all our time together—" "Mr. Maurice, I can only say that neither her mother nor I could consent to the engagement. If Doris had decided otherwise, we should still refuse. But she now is convinced that it cannot be. It grieves me to say this, for your sake,—yet surely you will allow that I must think first of my child's happiness." "You do not believe that I could make her happy? I would die for her!" "I believe it!"—and the Rector's broad hand came on his shoulder. "But many a man would give his life for a woman, whom yet he could not make happy as her husband. I do not know you, but I like your look. If other things were different, I would gladly consent to know you better—to consider possibilities. As things are,—the objections are insuperable." "You mean—my mother being Mr. Paine's niece!" "That has weight. I have the greatest respect and liking for Mr. Paine; but our positions in life are apart. But also—Mr. Maurice— who and what was your father?" The strained white face hardened. "Can you tell me anything at all about him?"