ugh, in spite of her protestations.

"But you never met me before," I said, involuntarily.

"You never knew of my existence."

She stamped her foot. "I knew of my American relatives," she cried,
scornfully. "I knew of them and their--Oh, I cannot say the word!"

"Your father told you--" I began. She burst out at me like a flame.

"My father," she declared, "was a brave, kind, noble man. Don't mention
his name to me. I won't have you speak of him. If it were not for his
forbearance and self-sacrifice you--all of you--would be--would be--Oh,
don't speak of my father! Don't!"

To my amazement and utter discomfort she sank into the chair and burst
into tears. I was completely demoralized.

"Don't, Miss Morley," I begged. "Please don't."

She continued to sob hysterically. To make matters worse sounds from
behind the closed door led me to think that someone--presumably that
confounded Mrs. Briggs--was listening at the keyhole.

"Don't, Miss Morley," I pleaded. "Don't!"

My pleas were unavailing. The young lady sobbed and sobbed. I fidgeted
on the edge of my chair in an agony of mortified embarrassment. "Don'ts"
were quite useless and I could think of nothing else to say except
"Compose yourself" and that, somehow or other, was too ridiculously
reminiscent of Mr. Pickwick and Mrs. Bardell. It was an idiotic
situation for me to be in. Some men--men of experience with
woman-kind--might have known how to handle it, but I had had no such
experience. It was all my fault, of course; I should not have mentioned
her father. But how was I to know that Strickland Morley was a
persecuted saint? I should have called him everything but that.

At last I had an inspiration.

"You are ill," I said, rising. "I will call someone."

That had the desired effect. My newly found third--or was it fourth or
fifth--cousin made a move in protest. She fought down her emotion, her
sobs ceased, and she leaned back in her chair looking paler and weaker
than ever. I should have pitied her if she had not been so superior and
insultingly scornful in her manner toward me. I--Well, yes, I did pity
her, even as it was.

"Don't," she said, in her turn. "Don't call anyone. I am not ill--not
now."

"But you have been," I put in, I don't know why.

"I have not been well for some time. But I am not ill. I am quite strong
enough to hear what you have to say."

This might have been satisfactory if I had had anything to say. I had
not. She evidentl