erty of the
village. Roger and his tutor were away, no one exactly knew where or on
what errand.

On the day following her return she walked across from the Vicarage to
visit her father.

He sat in the library, abstracted, pale, and limp. The jaunty, Anglo-
Indian veneer had for the time being dropped off, unmasking the worried
exterior of a chicken-hearted man.

At the sight of his daughter he pulled himself together, and crushed in
his hand the letter which he had been reading.

"Why, my child," said he, with unusual cordiality, "this is a pleasant
apparition. Cruel girl, to desert us for so long. We have hardly
existed without you, Roger and his tutor are away in France holiday-
making, while I remain here on duty with no one to cheer me up."

"Dear father," said Rosalind, kissing him, "how worried you look! What
is the matter? Won't you tell me?"

The father's eyes dwelt for a moment on her fair earnest face--so like
her mother's, so unlike a daughter of his--then they fell miserably.

"Worried?" said he. "Do I show it as plainly as all that? I flattered
myself I kept it to myself."

"Any one can see you are unhappy, father. Why?"

"I am in difficulties, my child, which you could not understand."

"I could. Do tell me."

"The fact is," said the captain, taking up his pen and dotting the
blotting-pad as he spoke, "that when on former occasions I have tried to
claim your sympathy I--well, I was not quite successful. I do not want
the pain of a similar failure again."

"I would do anything, anything to help you, if I could!"

He took her hand and held it in his.

"I am in great straits," said he. "An old Indian debt has followed me
here. I cannot meet it, and ruin stares me in the face. You know I am
a poor man; that I am living on other people--you have reminded me of
that often enough; that of all the money which passes my hands, scarcely
enough to live on belongs by right to me. You know all that?"

"Yes; I know that we are poor. How much do you owe?" she asked.

"I cannot say. Not long ago it was some hundreds, but by this time it
is nearer thousands. Nothing grows so rapidly as a debt, my child--
even," added he, with an unctuous drop of his voice, "a debt of honour."

"And will not your creditor wait?"

"My creditor has waited, but refuses to do so any longer. In a month
from now, my child, your father and those he loves best will be
paupers."

"Is there no way of meetin