icient
resolution to part with his god. He must have made a supreme
effort."

Said Frank: "To pocket both our pride and the cheque, is, I think,
the best course which we can pursue. We must, however, acknowledge
his kind remittance and thank him for it. What do you think of
inviting him to tea some afternoon?"

"You are joking."

"As far as regards the invitation, yes; but as for acknowledging
receipt of the cheque, no. I leave you to decide whether you shall
do so. Of course, I am not supposed to have anything to do in the
matter."

"Since you leave it to me, go and open the lights of your
greenhouses, the sun is getting warm. While you are absent, I shall
write an answer. I cannot do it while you are here; I want to be
very serious."

Frank went out of the room. He came back after a few minutes'
absence.

"Sit you down and listen," said his wife. The letter which she had
written ran thus;--

"My Dear Father,--I have received the cheque which you were
kind enough to send me. I thank you for it."

"Your letter, however, pained me. You seem to think that I have
wantonly disobeyed you. I have not; I have only acted
honourably and conscientiously."

"I cannot but feel sorry for you when I think of the useless
and self-inflicted sufferings which you endure."

"As for your property, I am happy to state that we have enough,
and to spare.

"Father; if ever you require our aid; if ever you feel that you
would like to speak to us or to see us, do not hesitate; a
daughter's and a son-in-law's love will you always find in us."

"Your affectionate daughter,

"ADELE."

Frank was smiling. "I think that will do very nicely," he said.

When Mr. Rougeant read his daughter's missive, he uttered a cry of
contempt. "Require your aid,--well, I shall have to sink low. You
love me."--He banished the thought from him, for his heart was
already softening under the influence of those words.

Although he and his daughter had lived a life of mutual
misunderstanding during the last years of her stay at "Les Marches,"
he felt her absence much more keenly than he had anticipated.

The days that followed were for him days of inexpressible ennui. He
would saunter up and down the kitchen for half-an-hour at a time. He
conversed with Jacques; he tried to take interest in something; he
counted his money, his gold, his god.

Formerly, he found great pleasure in doi