"It's been the struggle of my life not to spoil her--not to let my love for her lead me to neglect her eternal welfare--not to lessen her modesty by my praises--not to condone the sin because of my love for the sinner. My love has not been selfish.--It has been the struggle of my life not to let my affection be a snare to her." "Then I must say," said Miss Desmond, "that you might have been better employed." "Thank God I have done my duty! You don't understand. But my Lizzie will understand." "Yes, she will understand," cried Betty, bursting open the door and standing between the two with cheeks that flamed. "I do understand, Father dear! Auntie, I don't understand _you_! You're cruel,--and it's not like you. Will you mind going away, please?" The cruel aunt smiled, and moved towards the door. As she passed Betty she whispered: "I thought you were _never_ going to come from behind that door. I couldn't have kept it up much longer." Then she went out and closed the door firmly. Betty went straight to her step-father and put her arms round his neck. "You do forgive me--you will forgive me, won't you?" she said breathlessly. He put an arm awkwardly round her. "There's nothing you could do that I couldn't forgive," he said in a choked voice. "But it is my duty not to--" She interrupted him by drawing back to look at him, but she kept his arm where it was, by her hand on his. "Father," she said, "I've heard everything you've been saying. It's no use scolding me, because you can't possibly say anything that I haven't said to myself a thousand times. Sit down and let me tell you everything, every single thing! I _did_ mean to come home this week, and tell you; I truly did. I wish I'd gone home before." "Oh, Lizzie," said the old man, "how could you? How could you?" "I didn't understand. I didn't know. I was a blind idiot. Oh, Father, you'll see how different I'll be now! Oh, if one of us had died--and I'd never known!" "Known what, my child? Oh, thank God I have you safe! Known what?" "Why, that you--how fond you are of me." "You didn't know _that_?" "I--I wasn't always sure," Betty hastened to say. A miracle had happened. She could read now in his eyes the appeal that she had always misread before. "But now I shall always be sure--always. And I'm going to be such a good daughter to you--you'll see--if you'll only forgive me. And you will forgive me. Oh, you don't know how I trust you now!" "Didn't you always?" "Not enough--not nearly enough. But I do now. Let me tell you--Don't let me ever be afraid of you--oh, don't let me!" She had pushed him gently into a chair and was half kneeling on the floor beside him. "Have you ever been afraid of me?" "Oh, I don't know; a little perhaps sometimes! You don't know how silly I am. But not now. You _are_ glad to see me?" "Lizzie," he said, "God knows how glad I am! But it's my duty to ask you at once whether you've done anything wrong."