“Of course.”

“What is your answer?  Think before you speak, for on your answer must depend your future position in my house.”

Cora was silent for a few moments.

“Sir,” she began at length, “you are a just man, at least, and you will not refuse to hear and consider my reasons for seclusion.”

“I will consider nothing!  I know them as well as you do.  Morbid sensitiveness about your peculiar position; morbid dread of facing the world; morbid love of indulging in melancholy.  And I will have none of it!  None of it!  I will be obeyed, and you shall go out into society, or else—­”

“‘Or else’ what will be the alternative, sir?”

“You leave my house!  I will have no rebel in my family!”

Had Cora followed the impulse of her proud and outraged spirit, she would have walked out of the library, gone to her room, put on her bonnet and cloak, and left the house, leaving all her goods to be sent after her; but the girl thought of her poor, gentle, suffering grandmother, and bore the insult.

“Sir,” she said, with patient dignity, “do you think that it would have been decorous, under the peculiar circumstances, for me to appear in public, and especially at a state dinner at the executive mansion?”

“Madam, I instructed you to accept that invitation and to attend that dinner!  Do you dare to hint that I would counsel you to any indecorous act?”

“No, sir; certainly not, if you had stopped to think of it; but weightier matters occupied your mind, no doubt.”

“Let that go.  But in the question of this ball?  Do you mean to obey me?”

“Grandfather, please consider!  How can I mix with gay scenes while the fate of my husband is still an awful mystery?”

“You must conquer your feelings, and go, or—­take the consequences!”

“Even if I could forget the tragedy of my wedding day, and mix with the gay world again, what would people say?”

“What would people say, indeed?  What would they dare to say of my granddaughter?”

“But, sir, it would be contrary to all the laws of etiquette and conventionality.”

“My granddaughter, madam, should give the law to fashion and society, not receive it from them!” said the Iron King, throwing himself back in his arm chair as if it had been his throne.

Cora smiled faintly at this egotism, but made no reply in words.

“To come to the point!” he suddenly exclaimed—­“Will you obey me and attend this ball, or will you take the other alternative?”

Cora’s heart swelled; her eyes flashed; she longed to defy the despot, but she thought of her meek, patient, long-suffering grandmother, and answered coldly: 

“I will go to the ball, sir, since you wish it.”

“Very well.  That will do.  Now leave the room.  I wish to read the morning papers.”

Cora went out to find her grandmother and to relieve the lady’s anxiety; old Aaron Rockharrt threw himself back in his arm chair with grim satisfaction at having conquered Cora and set his iron heel upon her neck.  Yes; he had conquered Cora through her love for her poor, timid, abused grandmother.  But now Fate was to conquer him.