“Yes, but I've heard you say here at table that you haven't had a farthing from him these six months.” “Missy, my dear,” remonstrated the old man, with difficulty smiling, “you will force me to ask you—to mind——” “My own business? Right you are. What's the time?” “The time!” The question did indeed seem irrelevant. “I'm sure I don't know, but I'll go and have a look at the kitchen——” “Then you needn't. I don't really want to know. I was only wondering when John William would be back from Melbourne. But where's your watch?” “Getting put to rights, my dear,” said old Tees-dale faintly, with his eyes upon the carpet. “What, still?” “Yes; they're keeping it a long time, aren't they?” “They are so,” said Missy dryly. She watched the old man as he crossed the room twice, with his weak-kneed steps, his white hands joined behind him and his thin body bent forward. Then she went on reading his letter. It affected her curiously. At the third page she uttered a quick exclamation; at the fourth she lowered the letter with a quick gesture, and stood staring at David with an expression at which he could only guess, because the back of her head was against the glass. “This is too much,” cried Missy in a broken voice. “I can never let you send this.” “And why not, my dear?” laughed Mr. Teesdale, echoing, as he thought, her merriment; for it was to this he actually attributed the break in her voice. “Because there isn't a word of truth in it; because I haven't a warm heart nor a kind nature, and because I'm not frank in my dealings. Frank, indeed! If you knew what I really was, you wouldn't say that in a hurry!” Mr. Teesdale could no longer suppose that the girl was in fun. Her bosom was heaving with excitement; he could see that, if he could not see her face. He said wearily: “There you go again, Missy! I can't understand why you keep saying such silly things.” “I'm not what you think me. You understand that, don't you?” “I hear what you say, but I don't believe a word of it.” “Then you must! You shall! I can't bear to deceive you a moment longer—I simply can't bear it when you speak and think of me like this. First of all, then, this letter's no good at all!” In another instant that letter fluttered upon the floor in many pieces. “You must forgive me,” said Missy, “I couldn't help it; it wasn't worth the paper it was written on; and now I'm going to tell you why.”