the sound of her little exclamation he turned his head. At first it was clear that he did not recognise his visitor. He laid down the book and rose to his feet. Marcia came a few steps towards him and then paused. Several very ingenious openings escaped her altogether. "Father," she began, a little hesitatingly, "you see, I've come to see you. Are you glad?" He stood looking at her--a man of rather more than middle height but bowed, with silvery hair and a little patch of white whiskers. The rest of his face was clean-shaven, still hard and brown as in his youth, and his eyes were like steel. "No," he answered, "I am not glad. Since you are here, though, take this chair. I will fetch another while I hear what you have to say." "Shall we go inside?" she suggested. He shook his head. "Your mother lived and died there," he reminded her. Marcia set her teeth. "I suppose she walked in the garden sometimes," she said resentfully. "The garden is different," he declared. "The earth changes from generation to generation, just as the flowers here throw out fresh blossoms and the weeds come and go. But my rooftree stands where it always did. Wait." He disappeared into the house and returned in a few moments with a chair which he placed a few feet away from Marcia. Then he sat and looked at her steadily. "So you are Marcia," he said. "You've grown well-looking." "Marcia--your daughter," she reminded him gently. "Are you going to forget that altogether?" "Not," he replied, "if you are in need of succour or help, but I judge from your appearance that you need neither. You are flesh of my flesh, as I well know." "I want nothing from you, father, except a little kindness," she pleaded. His hands trembled. "Kindness," he repeated. "That's strange hearing. You are without friends, perhaps? You made some, maybe, and they heard of your disgrace, and they've cast you off?" She shook her head. "No, it isn't that at all. I have many friends, and they most of them know my history." "Friends of your own sort, then!" Marcia moved uneasily in her chair. "Father," she said gently, "don't you sometimes think that your views of life are a little narrow? I am very sorry indeed for what I did, inasmuch as it brought unhappiness to you. For the rest, I have nothing to regret." He was breathing a little harder now. "Nothing to regret?" he muttered. "Nothing," she repeated firmly. "For many years the man who took me away from you gave me everything I asked of him in life, everything he promised. He is still willing to do the same. If any change comes into our relations, now or in the future, it will be my doing, not his." "Meaning," he demanded, "that you've seen the wickedness of it?"