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 indicating the open door of the living-room, the candle lifted shoulder-high as she studied his solemn face. She said no more until she had regulated the flame of the reading-lamp, which stood among disordered piles of books on the big library table as if a castle of them had fallen to ruin there.

"Miss McCoy cannot be seen, sir."

She seated herself, her face turned partly to the light, and looked across at Texas, unfriendly, hard, censorious.

"I am sorry, ma'am; I wished—"

"She is sick, the doctor has just left her side. She is crushed, Mr. Hartwell; her heart is broken by this great disgrace you have brought on her. You have brought it most thoughtlessly, sir, whether you are innocent or guilty of the charges which men lay to your door."

"Mrs. McCoy, ma'am—"

"A gentleman, sir, even a guilty one, would have thought twice before compromising a girl as young and unsophisticated as my daughter, by appearing in public at her side."

Hartwell was so deeply moved by her arraignment, soft-spoken, but cutting, and doubly cutting from the very refinement of her pose and speech, that he rose to his feet. He stood, tall and judicial before her, his somber coat well suited to the severe lines of his harsh, honest face.