ssing, dear!"

The sharp eyes meeting hers softened suddenly. Juliet drew herself to her
knees, and leaning forward across her father's lap, reached both arms up
and flung them about his neck. He held her close, her head upon his
shoulder, and all at once he found the slender figure in his arms shaken
with feeling. Juliet was not crying, but she was drawing long, deep
breaths like a child who tries to control itself.

"You need have no doubt of either of those things, my little girl," said
her father in her ear. "Both are ready. It is only your happiness I want.
I distrust the power of any poor man to give it to you. That is all. Since
I have seen this house the question looks less doubtful to me--I admit
that gladly. But I still am anxious for the future. Even in this
attractive place there must be monotony, drudgery, lack of many things you
have always had and felt you must have. You have never learned to do
without them. I understand that Robeson will not accept them at my hand,
nor at yours. I don't know that I think the less of him for that--but--you
will have to learn self-denial. I want you to be very sure that you can do
it, and that it will be worth while."

There was a little silence, then Juliet gently drew herself away and rose
to her feet. She stood looking down at the imposing figure of the elderly
man in the chair, and there was something in her face he had never seen
there before.

"There's just one thing about it, sir," she said. "I can't possibly spare
Anthony Robeson out of my life. I tried to do it, and I know. I would
rather live it out in this little home--with him--than share the most
promising future with any other man. But there's this you must remember: A
man who was brought up to do nothing but ride fine horses, and shoot, and
dance, must have something in him to go to work and advance, and earn
enough to buy even such a home as this, in five years. He has a future of
his own."

Mr. Marcy looked thoughtful. "Yes, that may be true," he said. "I rather
think it is."

"And, father----" she bent to lay a roseleaf cheek against his own--"you
began with mother in a poorer home than this, and were so happy! Don't I
know that?"

"Yes, yes, dear," he sighed. "That's true, too. But we were both poor--had
always been so. It was an advance for us--not a coming down."

"It's no coming down for me." There was spirit and fire in the girl's eyes
now. "Just to wear less costly clothes--to walk instead