By dint of shaking her, and opening the window, she began to come to.  After two or three fearful laughs and shudders, she opened her eyes.  She saw my compassion, and tears fell in torrents; I cried too.  The poor girl kissed my hands; a new soul came into her face.

“Oh, Fanny, bear it as well as you can!  You and I will be friends.”

“Forgive me!  I was always bad; I am now.  If that woman comes here, I’ll stab her with Manuel’s knife.”

“Pooh!  The knife is too rusty; it would give her the lockjaw.  Besides, she will never come.  I know her.  She is already more than half-way to meet me; but I shall not perform my part of the journey, and she will return.”

“You don’t say so!” her ancient curiosity reviving.

“Manuel keeps it sharp,” she said presently, relapsing into jealousy.

“You are a fool.  Have you eaten anything to-day?”

“I can’t eat.”

“That’s the matter with you—­an empty stomach is the cause of most distressing pangs.”

Ben urged me to go to Milford to meet Alice, and to ask her to come to our house.  But father said no more to me on the subject.  Neither did Veronica.  In the afternoon they drove over to Milford, returning at dusk.  She refused to come with them, Ben said, and never would probably.  “You have thrown out your father terribly.”

“You notice it, do you?”

“It is pretty evident.”

“What is your opinion?”

He was about to condemn, when he recollected his own interference in my life.  “Ah! you have me.  I think you are right, as far as the past which relates to Alice is concerned.  But if she chooses to forget, why don’t you?  We do much that is contrary to our moral ideas, to make people comfortable.  Besides, if we do not lay our ghosts, our closets will be overcrowded.”

“We may determine some things for ourselves, irrespective of consequences.”

“Well, there is a mess of it.”

Fanny had watched for their return, counting on an access of misery, for she believed that Alice would come also.  It was what she would have done.  Rage took possession of her when she saw father alone.  She planted herself before him, in my presence, in a contemptuous attitude.  He changed color, and then her mood changed.

“What shall I do?” she asked piteously.

I tried to get away before she made any further progress; but he checked me, dreading the scene which he foreboded, without comprehending.

“Fanny,” he said harshly, but with a confused face, “you mistake me.”

“Not I; it was your wife and children who mistook you.”

“What is it you would say?”

“You have let me be your slave.”

“It is not true, I hope—­what your behavior indicates?”

I forgave him everything then.  Fanny had made a mistake.  He had only behaved very selfishly toward her, without having any perception of her—­that was all!  She was confounded, stared at him a moment, and rushed out.  That interview settled her; she was a different girl from that day.