"You will have to believe me," said Philip, in a not very convincing tone, but doing his best to comfort her with his look, "when I tell you, that there is absolutely nothing wrong, although"-- "Although? Ah!" cried Dora, "you see that I was right after all. Well?" And she eagerly waited to hear the explanation that should put an end to all her conjectures. "Well, then, yes," said Philip resolutely, "there is something. Sometimes I feel I should like to do so much more for you than I have been able." "What an idea! There is not a woman in the world with whom I should like to change places. How could I be happier than I am?" "What is your definition of happiness?" said Philip, continuing to paint. "For a woman," replied Dora, with warmth, "happiness consists in being loved by the man whom she loves and can be proud of; in being rich enough to afford all the necessary comforts of life, and poor enough to make pulling together a necessity; an existence hand in hand, side by side. And what is yours?" "Well, I confess, I should like to be a little richer than that," said Philip, with a little amused smile. "Ah! I see," exclaimed Dora sadly; "you are beginning to grow tired of this quiet life of ours. Take care, Philip, noise frightens happiness away. Happy the house that is hidden in the trees, as the nest in the thick of the hedges." "My dear child, we have to live for the world a little." "Excuse me if I do not understand you," said Dora; "I am only a woman. I can live for you, and for you alone. I know that love is not sufficient even for the most devoted and affectionate of husbands. A woman can live on love and die of it. That's the difference. Now, what is your definition of happiness?" "To be blessed with a dear, adorable wife; to have money enough to enable me to surround her with every luxury. Yes, I long to be really rich, if only to make my father repent of his treatment of me. In his eyes a man is successful according to his proven ability to pile up money. Ah, that letter of his, how it rankles in my mind still and always will!" "What letter is that?" said Dora; "you never spoke to me of it before. Why, what a tomb of dark secrets you are!" Philip rose, went to a drawer, took out a letter, and returned with it in his hand. "Here it is," he said; "listen." "MY SON,--When I opened to you the doors of the banking house which I have founded, and bade you join me as a clerk who would eventually be master of it, I did not doubt that you had sufficient good sense and filial docility to make you joyfully accept such an opening. It appears that you have neither of these qualities. Twice I have made the offer, twice you have declined it. From this day please to consider yourself free to follow art or any other road to starvation. I relinquish all right to direct your career, but I also require you to relinquish all right to call yourself the son of