ot mean," I cried with growing warmth, "that I, the
minister of St. Cuthbert's Kirk, New Jedboro, am to be called upon to
take into my family and to acknowledge as my son, a man who cannot speak
his father's name, who cannot," for I was maddening fast, "speak it even
to himself, forsooth, because he knows not what it is?"

"Oh, father, do not press me so; I love you--and I love him too,
and----"

"But about our family?" I asked hotly.

"I forgot about families," she sobbed. "Oh, father, teach this poor
heart of mine to love no more and I will obey your every wish--but it is
hard for love to serve two masters."

My heart was wrung by her plaintive voice; but love dwells hard by
cruelty, and my self-control was going fast. Let those defend me who
have known my agony.

"You know, I suppose, the result that will issue from your madness? You
know what it will mean to your future relations here?" I asked hoarsely,
explaining my threat by a glance about the room.

"Don't call it madness, father," she replied, pleadingly. "There is no
madness in love. I cannot help it, father. Why should I? Surely Angus is
the same as he was when first I loved him. I haven't learned anything
new about the soul of him, father."

"But his origin?" I interrupted.

"But he is good, father,--and kind--and true--and he loves me."

It was but a moment till I was past the bounds of reason.
Disappointment, pride, shame, anger--all these had their cruel way with
me. I am covered with confusion as with a garment while I try to record
what followed, though I could not tell it all, even if I would. There is
no cruelty like the cruelty of love. For the anguished soul pours out
the vials of its remorse and self-reproach upon the well loved head, and
fury waxes with its shame.

"I want none of your preaching," and my voice was coarse with anger;
"you are a willful and disobedient child and you may as well learn first
as last who is the master of this house. Do you hear?"

"Yes, I hear,--and my heart is broken. You want me to go away and not to
see me any more. And I don't know where to go."

She was kneeling now and the tears were dropping hot upon my hand, which
she had taken in both of hers. "Oh, father, when birdlings leave the
nest, surely God wants them to go, because He gives them wings. Father,
dear, oh, do not push me out in this cruel way. I want to keep you and
Angus both--and mother. Am I really wrong?

"Father, you are a preacher of