“No; but they can’t keep me from sitting outside the walls.  I shall want to do that, papa, if you’re within.  I’m not going to separate myself from you—­or from anything you’re responsible for.  I couldn’t if I wanted to; but as it happens I shouldn’t try.  I should get a kind of satisfaction out of it, shouldn’t you?—­the satisfaction of knowing that every day we suffered, and every night we slept through or wept through, and every bit of humiliation and dishonor, was so much contributed to the great work of—­paying up.  Isn’t that the way you’d take it?”

“That’s all very fine now, dear, when you’re—­what shall I say?—­a little bit exaltee; but how do you think you’ll feel when they’ve—­when they’ve”—­he continued to speak with his eyes shut convulsively—­“when they’ve arrested me and tried me and sentenced me and locked me up for ten or fifteen years?”

“I shall feel as if the bitterness of death were past.  But I should feel worse than that—­I should feel as if the bitterness of both death and hell were still to come if we didn’t make an effort to shoulder our own responsibilities.”

There was more in the same vein.  He listened for the greater part of the time with his eyes closed.  He was too unutterably tired to argue or to contest her point of view.  Beyond suggesting that there were sides to the question she hadn’t yet considered, he felt helpless.  He was restrained, too, from setting them forth by a certain hesitation in demanding from her anything she did not concede of her own accord.  That she would ultimately see for herself he had little doubt.  In any case he was more or less indifferent from sheer spiritual exhaustion.  He had ceased to direct, or try to direct, his own affairs or those of any one else.  In his present condition he could only lie still and let come what might.  Fate or God would arrange things either in the way of adjustment or of fatal ruin without interference on his part.

So as he lay and listened to his daughter he uttered some bit of reason or some feeble protest only now and then.  When, occasionally, he looked at her, it was to see her—­somewhat deliriously—­white, slim, ethereal, inexorable, like the law of right.  He was feverish; his head throbbed; whenever he opened his eyes the objects in the room seemed to whirl about, while she sat tense, low-voiced, gentle, a spirit of expiation.

Among the various ways in which he had thought she might take his dread announcement this one had never occurred to him; and yet, now that he saw it, he recognized it as just what he might have expected from the almost too rigid rectitude and decidedly too uncompromising pride that made up her character.  It was the way, too, he admitted, most worthy of a Guion.  It was the way he would have chosen for himself if he had nothing to consider but his own tastes.  He himself was as eager in his way to make satisfaction as she; he was only deterred by considerations of