ed whereon she gave him birth--her cup, she thinks, would be
full to overflowing if her first-born son were suddenly to dispack his
box and take up the old nestling life again. The sun would have turned
back to its undimmed meridian, she weens; and yet she knows full well
that this very longing, were it gratified, would poison her overflowing
cup and tarnish her mother's pride. If she were asked to choose between
these two, womanlike, she would elect to have them both--but God
forbids.

The youth's father says: "Let the lad go forth"--and God is a Father,
though He takes counsel of a mother-heart.

All this reflective vein flows from this poor heart of mine, the truth
whereof that heart hath sorrowfully proved.

For my daughter Margaret holds within it a place of solitary tenderness,
more exclusively her own as the years go by. And I too was forced to the
great alternative, the same which hath wrung uncounted parents' hearts
before I saw the light, the same as will rend thousands more when that
poor light has filtered through darkness into Day.

What father is there who can contemplate without dismay the prospect of
his only daughter surrendered to another's care, though that other press
the cruel claim of a mate's more passionate love? Where is the father
that does not long to shelter his child's sweet innocence forever within
the pavilion of his heart's loving tenderness? And yet, where is the
father who would be free from torture, were he assured that his soul's
yearning would be satisfied, and that no high claim of unrelated love
would ever rival or dispute his own?

It was my own fault that Margaret's attachment to Angus Strachan came to
me as a bolt from the blue. I had never dreamed of it--I was so sure of
everybody loving Margaret that I never thought of anybody loving her. Of
course it was easily seen that their friendship was mutually cherished;
but friendship, although a mother's hope, is a father's reassurance.
Margaret's mother had more than once spoken of their friendship in that
portentous tone which all women hope to assume before they die; and her
words exuded the far-off fragrance of orange blossoms. She began with
the assurance that the friendship between Angus and our Margaret had no
particular meaning--to which I agreed. A little later on she ventured
the remark that she did not think Angus cared for Margaret except as a
friend--to which also I cheerfully agreed. Later still, she resorted to
th