enly to her feet.

"Father, you must listen to me. I am going to say something which will
startle you. All these quiet years, all the time which has gone by and
left only a dim memory of a certain man to you, have been spent by me
smothering down regrets, stifling my youth, crushing what would have
made me joyous and womanly--for Philip Arnold has not been remembered at
all dimly by me, father, and when I heard of his death I lived through
something which seemed to break the spring of energy and hope in me. I
did not show it, and you never guessed, only you told me to-day that I
had never been young, that I had never been either child or girl. Well,
all that is over now, thank God! hope has come back to me, and I have
got my lost youth again. You will have two young creatures about the
house, father, and won't you like it?"

"I don't know," said the squire. He looked up at his daughter in some
alarm; her words puzzled him; he was suddenly impressed too by the
brightness in her eyes, and the lovely coloring on her cheeks.

"What is all this excitement, Frances?" he said. "Speak out; I never
understand riddles."

Frances sat down as abruptly as she had risen.

"The little excitement was a prelude to my letter, dear father," she
said. "Philip is alive, and is coming to England immediately. Ten years
ago he saw something in me--I was only eighteen then--he saw something
which gave him pleasure, and--and--more. He says he gave me his heart
ten years ago, and now he is coming to England to know if I will accept
him as my husband. That is the news which my letter contains, father.
You see, after all, my letter is important--as important as yours."

"Bless me!" said the squire. The expression of his face was not
particularly gratified; his voice was not too cordial. "A proposal of
marriage to you, Frances? Bless me!--why, I can scarcely remember the
fellow. He was here for a month, wasn't he? It was the summer before
your mother died. I think it is rather inconsiderate of you to tell me
news of this sort just before I go to bed, my dear. I don't sleep
over-well, and it is bad to lie down with a worry on your pillow. I
suppose you want me to answer the letter for you, Frances, but I'll do
nothing of the kind, I can tell you. If you encouraged the young man
long ago, you must get out of it as best you can now."

"Out of it, father? Oh, don't you understand?"

"Then you mean to tell me you care for him? You want to marry a