I looked at him long and steadily. If the faces of men are in any way an index to their lives, my father’s should rank high--high indeed. His countenance was absolutely unruffled. There was not a single shadow of fear there, or passion of any sort; only a delicate thoughtfulness tempered with that quiet dignity which seemed almost an inseparable characteristic of his. I took his hands in mine and clasped them fervently. “Father,” I cried, “give me your whole confidence. I will promise all that you desire, only let me know everything. I have thought sometimes--terrible thoughts--I cannot help them. They torment me now--they will torment me always. I know so much--tell me a little more. My lips shall be sealed. I mean it! Only----” He raised his hand softly, but the words died upon my lips. “I have nothing to tell you, child,” he said, quietly. “Put that thought away from you forever. The burden which I bear is upon my own shoulders only. God forbid that even the shadow of it should darken your young life.” “I am not afraid of any knowledge,” I cried. “It is ignorance of which I am afraid. I can bear anything except these horrible, nameless fears against which I have no power. Why don’t you trust me? I am old enough. I am wise enough. What you tell me shall be as sacred as God’s word to me.” He shook his head without any further response. I choked back the tears from my eyes. “There is some mystery, here,” I cried. “We are all enveloped in it. What does it mean? Why did we come here?” “We came here by pure accident,” my father answered. “We came here because the curacy was offered to me; and I was glad to take anything which relieved me of my duties at Belchester.” “It was fate!--a cruel fate!” I moaned. “It was the will of God,” he answered, sternly. Then there was a silence between us, unbroken for many minutes. My father waited by my side--waited for my answer. The despair in my heart grew deeper. “I cannot live here,” I said, “and remain ignorant.” “You must give me your promise, child,” he said. “I have no power to tell you anything. You are young, and for you the terror of this thing will fade away.” I answered him then with a sinking heart. “I promise,” I said, faintly. “Only--I shall have to go away. I cannot live here. It would drive me mad.” His cold lips touched mine as he rose. “You must do,” he said, gravely, “what seems best to you. You are old enough to be the moulder of your own life. If you would be happier away, you must go. Only there is this to be remembered--I can understand that this particular place may have become distasteful to you. We are not going to live here any longer. You will find life at Eastminster larger and more absorbing. I shall be able to do more for you than I have ever done before.” “It is not that,” I interrupted, wearily. “You know that it is not that. It is between us two.”