“He does ask you, though. He wants you to handle his defence on your own lines, without restrictions. He knows you will be careful of his honour.” “Without restriction? It’s too late now.” “Why too late?” “Because I have dismissed Mr. Battard, his advocate.” “Who will defend him?” “I.” “Ah,” said Margaret, throwing herself into his arms, “I had given up hope of that. I have always wanted it.” And her father, already preoccupied as he was with his new and pressing task, folded her to his breast. “You have always had faith in me, little girl. Go fetch me all the family record books now, even the oldest ones.” While she was gone there was delivered to him the brief sent back by Mr. Battard, according to his promise. He opened it and turned over the leaves, glancing at the clock as he did so. “Almost six. Shall I have the time?” And he reflected sadly on the long task ahead of him with the commonplace books. There were so many that Margaret had to make several journeys to get them all. “Here they all are,” said the girl. “There are a great many of them, and some quite old ones.” Five hundred years of labour and good repute were shut up within their leaves. Last of all she handed her father a memorandum book less voluminous than the others. “In this one,” she explained, blushing a little, “I have summed up myself the principal features of our history, especially the services that have been rendered to our country. It’s a kind of abridgment in less intimate terms.” “You guessed that we should need it some day?” “No, father, I wrote it last winter, in revolt against the harsh judgments that were made on us. I read bits of it to mamma, while she was in bed, and she approved of it.” “And all the time you were preparing a defence for Maurice.” “With that, father?” “Yes. Now, let me get to work.” Then as she was going away he called her back. “Margaret, I’ve something else to tell you.” She came back to him quickly. He said nothing at first, but looked her all over with that father’s look that gives love instead of taking it, protects instead of being covetous; he was noticing not only her pallor, but the calmness of her features and the new sweet serenity of their expression. “I passed Raymond Bercy as I came in, little girl. He was down there by the carriage entrance, standing perfectly still, and I could see that he was much moved and preoccupied. He bowed to me, and made a step toward me, as if to speak to me, but it was too late. I had already passed him.” Margaret did not seem at all impressed by this news, and answered: “He had been here, and was just going away, father.” “I see. And what did he want?” “He wanted to be with you to-morrow at the trial, and help you.” “What an idea! In what way could he help?” “As a son.” “As a son? Then he had made a proposal to you?” “Yes, father.”