She spoke slowly, with a frantic control, with the earnestness of desperation. "Listen, father. Suppose you tell--what will be the use? David will deny your story. I, who shall be with him, I shall deny the story. And there is the decision of the court. All say the same. On your side, you have no proof--not one bit. The world will say you made up the story just to save yourself. The world will honour you less, because it will say you've tried to save yourself by disgracing Mr. Morton.... Don't you see, father?--it will do you no good to tell!--don't you see?" He gazed at her, but did not answer. "The story will create a great scandal--yes," she went on. "For you to accuse Mr. Morton--you know how that will injure St. Christopher's before the public--you know how it will lessen the Mission's influence in the neighbourhood. The story will do great ill--so very great an ill! But it will not help you a bit, father--not a bit!" She paused a moment. "Please do not tell it father! Please do not ... I beg it of you!" He did not reply at once. He realised the truth of what she had said--but to yield was hard for the Chambers's will, and it was hard to accept the great dishonour. He swallowed with an effort. "Very well," he said. "Then you'll say nothing?" she asked eagerly. "No." "Oh, thank you!--thank you!" she cried, her voice vibrating with her great relief. They looked into each other's eyes for a long space. "I hope this is all," he said. "There's one more thing," she answered, and tried to gather herself for another effort. Her breast rose and fell, and she was all a-tremble. "There is something else--something I must say--something that has been upon my heart for weeks. Say that you forgive me before I say it, father!" "Go on!" Her voice was no more than a whisper. "I have learned that the stories ... about your not being honest ... are true." His face blanched. "So--you insult your own father!" "Don't make it any harder!" she besought piteously. "You do not understand business matters," he said, harshly. She did not hear his last words. "This is the other thing--I'm going to leave home," she went on rapidly. "Perhaps I would not decide to do what I am going to do, if I thought I could help you--to be different. But I know you, father; I know you will not--be different; you do not need me--you are strong and need no support--you will have Aunt Caroline. So I am going to go. "I'm going to leave home because it seems to me that I have no right to it--to it and the other things of my life. You understand. So I want to ask you not to send any of these things to me. I want nothing--not a cent." He was silent a moment. The determination in her face again kept him from argument or intercession. He saw that to her this break was a great, tragic, unchangeable fact, and so it also became to him. "But how are you going to live?" he asked. "I have the money mother left me--that's enough."