consent. The credit of
our decision belongs to Mr. Dale. He has proved to me that our
engagement should come to an end."

My father turned toward him with a scornful smile, appreciating, I
think, the gentle sarcasm of my words. But I doubt if Roger did, for he
added immediately,--

"Yes, sir; I cannot consent to the sacrifice your daughter is prepared
to make."

"I am glad that she as well as you have come to your senses, and I thank
you for making the only amends possible for having endeavored to enter
my family contrary to my desire, by teaching my daughter her duty. I
have no doubt that we shall both be very grateful to you in the future."

This time Roger perceived that he was being laughed at, for his cheeks
flushed. But he recovered his composure, and looking at me, said,--

"I trust I may continue to come to see you as usual."

I trembled all over at his words, but I controlled myself, and
answered,--

"If you wish."

After a few moments of awkward hesitancy he left us.

When I knew that he was really gone, I could restrain myself no longer.
Sinking into a chair, I covered my face with my hands and burst into a
flood of tears. "Oh, father, he has deceived me! He has broken my
heart!"

BOOK II.

SOPHISTICATION.

I.

In the bitterness of my humiliation and distress at the perfidy of Roger
Dale I came near running away from home. My youthful imaginations, as I
have already mentioned, were of a realistic order, and it had been a
favorite scheme with me to become a shop-girl. So when this sorrow
overwhelmed me, I thought seriously of going out into the world to seek
my fortune in some such capacity. It was only my father's kindness
during those dreadful first days that deterred me from carrying out some
romantic plan of escape. I felt sore and mortified, and ready to take
any steps that would separate me from my old surroundings.

Aunt Helen did her best to comfort me, but I was in no frame of mind to
talk it all over, which was, I knew, her main idea of solace,--that and
frequent offers of tempting food. On the other hand, my father made no
allusion to the wretched incident during the fortnight he remained at
Tinker's Reach. He treated me exactly as if nothing had happened,
except that every morning after breakfast he proposed a walk through the
woods or up the mountain. Indifferent to everything as I was at the
moment, I had a consciousness that this exercise was beneficial to me,
and I