ess,
so heartless as she had been! And she had done it, knowing that she
loved him! She cried bitterly, and then went away to wash her eyes,
that she might be ready to give him his coffee when he should come
up-stairs.

"She does not look well," said Grey as soon as she had left the room.

"Well;--no: how can she look well after what she has gone through?
I sometimes think, that of all the people I ever knew, she has been
the most foolish. But, of course, it is not for me to say anything
against my own child; and, of all people, not to you."

"Nothing that you could say against her would make any difference to
me. I sometimes fancy that I know her better than you do."

"And you think that she'll still come round again?"

"I cannot say that I think so. No one can venture to say whether or
not such wounds as hers may be cured. There are hearts and bodies
so organized, that in them severe wounds are incurable, whereas in
others no injury seems to be fatal. But I can say that if she be not
cured it shall not be from want of perseverance on my part."

"Upon my word, Grey, I don't know how to thank you enough. I don't,
indeed."

"It doesn't seem to me to be a case for thanking."

"Of course it isn't. I know that well enough. And in the ordinary
way of the world no father would think of thanking a man for wanting
to marry his daughter. But things have come to such a pass with us,
that, by George! I don't feel like any other father. I don't mind
saying anything to you, you know. That claret isn't very good, but
you might as well take another glass."

"Thank you, I will. I should have said that that was rather good
wine, now."

"It's not just the thing. What's the use of my having good wine here,
when nobody comes to drink it? But, as I was saying about Alice, of
course I've felt all this thing very much. I feel as though I were
responsible, and yet what could I do? She's her own mistress through
it all. When she told me she was going to marry that horrible
miscreant, my nephew, what could I do?"

"That's over now, and we need not talk about it."

"It's very kind of you to say so,--very. I believe she's a good girl.
I do, indeed, in spite of it all."

"I've no doubt of her being what you call a good girl,--none in the
least. What she has done to me does not impair her goodness. I don't
think you have ever understood how much all this has been a matter of
conscience with her."

"Conscience!" said the angry fath