with fear as anything.

"We--we never have understood each other," she found herself saying.

He looked startled.

"What? You don't mean to say you--But I'm your father."

"I suppose that's the reason."

"I have always tried to do my duty."

"The trouble is, you succeeded."

"What!" he exclaimed. "Do you actually mean to say you--ah--didn't
appreciate my duty?"

She was sitting by his side on the sofa, her eyes downcast and her lips
obstinately set. Never before in her life had she stood up to him like
this, but now that she had begun she was discovering to her surprise
that she had more of her father's temper than she had dreamt of.

"No," she said. "I didn't sometimes."

Instead of getting angry, Mr. Walkingshaw seemed merely astonished and
interested.

"Perhaps it was the way I did it," he suggested.

She looked up quickly.

"Yes," she answered.

"Well, my dear, I have lately discovered that I shall never be too old
to learn. Just tell me how you'd like to be treated, and I'll try to
manage it. I am very fond of you, Jean."

Her mouth lost its obstinacy; her eyes and voice grew kind.

"Father dear, if only you'd show it! If only--"

He interrupted her by a resounding kiss.

"More that kind of way?" he smiled.

For answer she threw her arms round him and gave him what he immediately
decided to be the pleasantest hugging he had ever enjoyed. This was a
method of doing his duty that must certainly be repeated; he had no
doubts about that. It led to such surprising results, too. In a few
minutes he found himself embarked upon the most charmingly confidential
conversation.

"It was a little rough on you," he confessed.

"You mean--?" she hesitated.

"Well, well, perhaps we'd better not allude to it again," he answered
kindly.

But apparently she had no intention at all of avoiding the subject.

"Oh, yes," she said eagerly. "I'd like to talk about it with you now."

It did not seem to occur to the W.S. that he might end by committing
himself to some expression of sympathy he would repent of later.

"Capital," he answered genially. "You still like the fellow, then?"

"Like him!" she exclaimed. "Oh, father, I--I still love him."

"I wish he'd brush his hair a little better and wear a respectable tie;
still, he undoubtedly has some original ideas."

Mr. Walkingshaw found himself musing on the artist's outrageous opinions
with a new catholicity. They had staggered him at the moment: they b