"Then it is a piece of folly," he said angrily. "I suppose you mean--but
this is a matter in which I choose to judge for myself."

"You know what I mean," I said, as quietly as I could, "though I don't
myself know; that proves there is good reason for it. Will you do one
thing for me before I leave you? Come with me into the drawing-room--"

"What end," he said, with again the tremble in his voice, "is to be
served by that?"

"I don't very well know; but to look at her, you and I together, will
always do something for us, sir. As for breach, there can be no breach
when we stand there."

He got up, trembling like an old man, which he was, but which he never
looked like save at moments of emotion like this, and told me to take the
light; then stopped when he had got half-way across the room. "This is a
piece of theatrical sentimentality," he said. "No, Phil, I will not go. I
will not bring her into any such--Put down the lamp, and, if you will
take my advice, go to bed."

"At least," I said, "I will trouble you no more, father, to-night. So
long as you understand, there need be no more to say."

He gave me a very curt "good-night," and turned back to his papers,--the
letters with the black edge, either by my imagination or in reality,
always keeping uppermost. I went to my own room for my lamp, and then
alone proceeded to the silent shrine in which the portrait hung. I at
least would look at her to-night. I don't know whether I asked myself,
in so many words, if it were she who--or if it was any one--I knew