“You’re very strange, Evelyn, and I don’t know what answer to make to you....  Why did you send him away, and why did you refuse to marry him?”

“I sent him away because I thought it wrong to live with him, and I refused to marry him—­well, I don’t know, father, I don’t know why I refused to marry him.  It seemed to me that if he had wished to marry me he ought to have done so long ago.”

“Is that the only reason you can give?”

“It is the only reason I know.  You seem sorry for him, father, are you?  I hope you are.  He has been very good to me.  I’ve often wished to tell you; it has often been in my heart to tell you that you should not hate him.  He was very good to me, no one could have been kinder; he was very fond of me, you must not bear him any ill will.”

“I never said that I bore him ill will.  He made you a great singer, and you say he was very kind to you and wanted to marry you.”

“Yes, and he was most anxious to see you, and he went with me to St. Joseph’s the Sunday you gave the great Mass of Pope Marcellus.  He was distressed that he could not see you to tell you about the choir.”

“They sang better that Sunday than the Sunday you heard the ’Missa Brevis.’  I have got two new trebles.  One has an exquisite voice.  I wish I could get a few good altos.  It was the altos that were wrong when you heard the ‘Missa Brevis.’  But you didn’t hear they were out of tune.  That piano has falsified your ear, but it will come back to you.”

“Dear father, how funny you are!  If nothing were more wrong than my ear ...”

They glanced at each other hastily, and to change the subject he mentioned that he had had a letter that morning from Ulick.  He had finished scoring the second act of Grania, and thinking that he was on safe ground, Mr. Innes told her that Ulick hoped to finish his score in the autumn.  The third act would not take him long; he had a very complete sketch of the music, etc.  “I shall enjoy going through his opera with him.”

“Father, I don’t know how to tell you.  Will you ever forgive me or him.  Ulick must not come back here—­at least not while I am here.  Perhaps I had better go.”

The chisel dropped from his hand, and he stood looking at his daughter.  His look was pitiful, and she could not bear to see him shake his head slowly from side to side.

“Poor father is wondering why I am like this;” and to interrupt his reflections she said—­

“I don’t know why I am like this; that’s what you’re thinking, father, but henceforth I’ll be like mother and my aunts.  They were all good women ...  I have often wondered why I am like this.”  Their eyes met, and seized with a sudden dread lest he should think (if such were really the case) that he was the original cause—­she seemed to read something like that in his eyes—­she said, “You must forgive me, whatever I am; you know that we’ve always loved each other, and