Miss Driver, who had read in a low but level and composed voice, paused here for a moment--perhaps in doubt whether to read more. Then she went on: "'With that much excuse--for I have none other--I must now, my daughter, say good-by, for I am dying. Though of my own choice I have not seen you since your infancy. I have not been without thought for you. I hesitated long before throwing on your shoulders all the burden which I have created for my own and carried on them. But in the end nature has seemed to say to me--and to speak more strongly as I grow weaker--that you are the person to whom it should belong and that, if things go wrong, it will be nature's fault, not mine. Don't spend more than two-thirds of your income--the other third should go back to work and bring in more. Give handsomely when you give, but don't be always dribbling out small sums; they mount up against you without aiding the recipients. Go to church unless you really dislike it. Be independent, but not eccentric. You have a great position; make it greater. Be a power in your world. About love and marriage, remember always that being sensible in general matters is no guarantee that you will act sensibly there. So be doubly on your guard. Suspect and fear marriage, even while you seek the best alliance you can find. Be you man or woman, by marriage you give another a power over you. Suspect it--suspect your lover--suspect yourself. You need fear no man except the man to whom you have given yourself. With earnest wishes for your welfare, I remain your affectionate father--NICHOLAS DRIVER.'" During the reading Cartmell's face had been disturbed and sad; once or twice he fidgeted restively in his chair. I had listened intently, seeming again to hear the measured full voice, the hard clean-cut counsels, to which I had listened almost daily for the last four years. Fine sense! And a heart somewhere? I was inclined to answer yes--but how deep it lay, and what a lot of digging to get there! He had never given his daughter one chance of so much as putting her hand to the spade. She tucked the letter away in her little bag; she was smiling again by now. I had smiled myself--my memories being so acutely touched; but she must have smiled for discernment, not for memory. "Now I think I should like to go and see him." Cartmell excused himself, as I knew he would. "I've never seen him, that I can remember, you know," she said. The meeting of the Catsford Corporation (the town had become a borough ten years before--largely owing to Mr. Driver's efforts) could not wait. But Cartmell had one thing to say before he went; it was not on business, nor arising out of the letter; he was to have a full business discussion with her on the morrow. He took her hand in both of his and pressed it--forgetful apparently of her sharp rebuke. "You can't live in this great house all alone," he said. "I wonder your father said nothing about that!"