repeated. "What you say
about my education is perfectly true. I _have_ been brought up to have
my own way, but also, father, to have no counsel but my own. If so much
freedom has been given me, was it not with the idea of teaching me to
make up my own mind about things? And if I have made up my mind, and I
feel my conscience urge me to take a step which involves my happiness
for the rest of my life, why is it unfilial of me to follow my own
judgment? I have been alone, and thrown upon my own responsibility, ever
since I was a child. I am not complaining. I have had no mother; you
have been busy down-town, and my aunts never agree in their advice. I
have tried to think for myself. I have chosen an interest in life to
which I am ready to devote my best energies, and in order to do so more
completely should, if you did not forbid, marry a man who is in every
way my superior, and whom I thoroughly respect. I am willing to give
this all up to please you. But I do not mean, father, that I think you
are in the right. I am no longer the child I was when I wished to
disobey you before. Then I refused to yield, until you convinced me that
I was wrong. To-day I am prepared to sacrifice my own wishes for your
sake, but I remain unconvinced. I will write to Mr. Spence to-night, and
tell him that I cannot be his wife. I will resign my position as
secretary of his Society, and give up what you call _fads_ and _isms_.
Only I shall expect for the future, father, that you will tell me
precisely what you wish me to do, and let me do it. You must not deprive
me of my liberty of choice, and then treat me just as if I were free.
Do with me what you will. Marry me to whom you please. I will
obey,--implicitly, unhesitatingly. Only take away from me the
responsibility once and for all. I am weary of it."

I had spoken with anger and excitement. My nerves were all unstrung by
the events of the past two days; and as I finished, my tears burst
forth. I wept with passionate sobs. My father made no effort to comfort
me. He sat with his chin resting on his breast, weary and sad.

"I did not mean to be disrespectful," I murmured at last. "I am willing
to do all that you desire."

"You have said that you do not love this man, Virginia."

"I love him as much as I shall ever love any one else," I answered.

"I accept your sacrifice, my child. Some day you will thank me. But
write to-night. I shall sleep better if I feel that it is done. Promise
me,