WHEN Margaret Roquevillard came into her father’s study, as she did each day, to light the lamp and draw the curtains, and take up if she could some special share of his burdens for him, she found him gazing out of the window, watching the rapidly declining daylight. “Is that you, Margaret?” he said. “There’s no light any more for working.” He made excuses for his reverie as if it were a weakness in him, but Margaret knew the cause of this preoccupation, though he would not confess it. “Those gentlemen have not come yet?” she asked. “I expect them any moment now,” he said. “They were to see Maurice in prison this afternoon.” “Who is going to make the main argument? Will it be Mr. Hamel?” “No. Mr. Hamel is the president of the benchers in our order. Maurice being a member of the bar, I begged the president to conduct his case. It’s a tradition of the bar. Mr. Hamel will give us the prestige of his half a century of professional honour, but he thinks he is too old, and too much of a specialist in questions of civil law, to make the argument. He wants Battard to do that. Battard has the highest reputation of any member of our bar in jury trials.” The young woman made a little face at the mention of Mr. Battard’s name. “I’ve heard him, father. You speak much better than he does.” But the old lawyer replied almost crossly: “I don’t speak well, little girl. I simply say what I have to say.” “Why don’t you defend him yourself, father?” “That wouldn’t do at all. Don’t you see it wouldn’t, Margaret?” She came to him, and, putting a hand on his shoulder, leant her head against his breast. “Father, have you forgiven Maurice?” “He hasn’t asked me.” “That’s because he feels so badly.” “Yes, no doubt. Fate can give us cruel blows. He at least has been responsible for his own ill-luck.” “Remember mamma.” He bent down and kissed her on the forehead. “Don’t ask me to be weak, Margaret. I have been to see him twice at the gaol. I found him walled up in his pride. He gave me no sign of regret for what he’d done, and all the woe he’s caused us. I am waiting only for one word from him to be ready to forgive him, yet we exchanged only a few insignificant remarks.” “When I go to see him he cries about mother with me. He doesn’t dare with you.” “It’s his place to speak first. I shall wait.” Margaret could not see, with her head bent, the sweetly sad look that spread over his old face, and softened the severity of his words. She repeated: “He feels very badly. He’s unhappy.” “And aren’t we?” asked Mr. Roquevillard. He raised the girl’s head gently. “What have you been doing this afternoon, Margaret?” he asked in his turn, changing the subject. “I took little Julian for a walk. Then I wrote a long letter to Hubert.” “Ah, so did I.”