his neck, sobbing against his heart, her tears and entreaties
on his lips, Ben Denning had no feeling and no care for anyone but his
daughter. He took her view of things at once. "She HAD been badly used.
It WAS a shame to tie a girl like Dora to sermons and such like. It was
like shutting her up in a convent." Dora's tears and complaints fired
him beyond reason. He promised her freedom whatever it cost him.

And while he sat in his private room considering the case, all the
racial passions of his rough ancestry burning within him, Basil Stanhope
called to see him. He permitted him to come into his presence, but he
rose as he entered, and walked hastily a few steps to meet him.

"What do you want here, sir?" he asked.

"My wife."

"My daughter. You shall not see her. I have taken her back to my own
care."

"She is my wife. No one can take her from me."

"I will teach you a different lesson."

"The law of God."

"The law of the land goes here. You'll find it more than you can defy."

"Sir, I entreat you to let me speak to Dora."

"I will not."

"I will stay here until I see her."

"I will give you five minutes. I do not wish to offer your profession an
insult; if you have any respect for it you will obey me."

"Answer me one question--what have I done wrong?"

"A man can be so intolerably right, that he becomes unbearably wrong.
You have no business with a wife and a home. You are a d---- sight too
good for a good little girl that wants a bit of innocent amusement.
Sermons and Christmas trees! Great Scott, what sensible woman would not
be sick of it all? Sir, I don't want another minute of your company.
Little wonder that my Dora is ill with it. Oblige me by leaving my house
as quietly as possible." And he walked to the door, flung it open, and
stood glaring at the distracted husband. "Go," he said. "Go at once.
My lawyer will see you in the future. I have nothing further to say to
you."

Basil went, but not to his desolate home. He had a private key to the
vestry in his church, and in its darkness and solitude he faced the
first shock of his ruined life, for he knew well all was over. All had
been. He sank to the floor at the foot of the large cross which hung on
its bare white walls. Grief's illimitable wave went over him, and like a
drowning man he uttered an inarticulate cry of agony--the cry of a soul
that had wronged its destiny. Love had betrayed him to ruin. All he had
done must be abandoned. A