'You may perhaps have done harm when you meant only to do good,'
pursued Sidney. 'Always being so anxious, and showing what account
you make of her, perhaps you've led her to think a little too much
of herself. She knows other fathers don't go on in that way. And now
she wants more freedom, she feels it worse than other girls do when
you begin to deny her. Talk to her in a different way; talk as if
you trusted her. Depend upon it, it's the only hold you have upon
her. Don't be so much afraid. Clara has her faults--see them as
well as any one--but I'll never believe she'd darken your life of
her own free will.'

There was an unevenness, a jerky vehemence, in his voice, which told
how difficult it was for him to take this side in argument. He often
hesitated, obviously seeking phrases which should do least injury to
the father's feelings. The expression of pain on his forehead and
about his lips testified to the sincerity with which he urged his
views, at the same time to a lurking fear lest impulse should be
misleading him. Hewett kept silence, in aspect as far as ever from
yielding. Of a sudden he raised his hand, and said, 'Husht!' There
was a familiar step on the stairs. Then the door opened and admitted
Clara.

The girl could not but be aware that the conversation she
interrupted had reference to herself. Her father gazed fixedly at
her; Sidney glanced towards her with self-consciousness, and at once
averted his eyes; Mrs. Hewett examined her with apprehension. Having
carelessly closed the door with a push, she placed her umbrella in
the corner and began to unbutton her gloves. Her attitude was one of
affected unconcern; she held her head stiffly, and let her eyes