e was to
blame, not you. After all, she took you for better or worse."

And then a strange thing happened. In spite of himself he started. His
race flushed, and his lips pressed tight together. It seemed almost as
though a spasm of pain had seized him, which he could not conceal in
spite of his best efforts. With an unconscious motion, he grasped his
wine glass and the color ebbed from his cheeks.

"Mademoiselle is mistaken," said my father. "Another wine glass, Brutus."
The stem of the one he was holding had snapped in his hand.

"Nonsense," said Mademoiselle shortly.

My father cleared his throat, and glanced restlessly away, his face still
set and still lined with the trace of suffering.

"Mademoiselle," he said finally, "you deal with a subject which is still
painful. Pray excuse me if I do not discuss it. Anything which you may
have heard of my affairs is entirely a fault of mine. You understand?"

"Yes," said Mademoiselle, "I understand, and we shall continue to
discuss it, no matter how painful it is to you. Who knows, captain;
perhaps I can bring you to your senses, or are you going to continue to
ruin your life on account of a woman?"

"Be silent, Mademoiselle," said my father sharply.

But she disregarded his interruption.

"So she believed that you had filled your ship with fifty bales of
shavings. She believed it, and called you a thief. She believed you were
as gauche as that. I can guess the rest of the story."

But my father had regained his equanimity.

"Five hundred bales of shavings," he corrected. "You are misinformed even
about the merest details."

"And for fifteen years, you have been roving about the world, trying to
convince her she was right. Ah, you are touched? I have guessed your
secret. Can anything be more ridiculous!"

He half started from his chair, and again his face grew drawn and
haggard.

"She _was_ right," he said, a little hoarsely. "Believe me, she was
always right, Mademoiselle."

"Nonsense," said Mademoiselle. "I do not believe it."

My father turned to me with a shrug of his shoulders.

"It is pleasant to remember, is it not, my son, that your mother had a
keener discernment, and did not give way to the dictates of a romantic
imagination?"

"Sir," I said, "there is only one reason why I ever came here, and that
was because my mother requested it. She wanted you to know, sir, that she
regretted what she said almost the moment you left the house. If you had