cousin,--your mother's--"

My father called to her to stop, with a voice of thunder. "Philip, leave
us at once. It is not a matter to be discussed with you."

And then in a moment it became clear to me what it was. It had been with
difficulty that I had kept myself still. My breast was laboring with the
fever of an impulse poured into me, more than I could contain. And now
for the first time I knew why. I hurried towards him, and took his hand,
though he resisted, into mine. Mine were burning, but his like ice: their
touch burnt me with its chill, like fire. "This is what it is?" I cried.
"I had no knowledge before. I don't know now what is being asked of you.
But, father, understand! You know, and I know now, that some one sends
me,--some one--who has a right to interfere."

He pushed me away with all his might. "You are mad," he cried. "What
right have you to think--? Oh, you are mad--mad! I have seen it
coming on--"

The woman, the petitioner, had grown silent, watching this brief conflict
with the terror and interest with which women watch a struggle between
men. She started and fell back when she heard what he said, but did not
take her eyes off me, following every movement I made. When I turned to
go away, a cry of indescribable disappointment and remonstrance burst
from her, and even my father raised himself up and stared at my
withdrawal, astonished to find that he had overcome me so soon and
easily. I paused for a moment, and looked back on them, seeing them large
and vague through the mist of fever. "I am not going away," I said. "I am
going for another messenger,--one you can't gainsay."