When her father came home she told him what had occurred, and unconsciously permitted him to see that her mind was disturbed.  He did not smile quizzically, as some sagacious people would have done, thus touching the young girl’s pride and arraying it against her own best interests, it might be.  With the thought of her happiness ever uppermost, he would discover the secret causes of her unwonted perturbation.  Not only Merwyn—­about whom he had satisfied himself—­should have his chance, but also the girl herself.  Mrs. Vosburgh’s conventional match-making would leave no chance for either.  The profounder man believed that nature, unless interfered with by heavy, unskilful hands, would settle the question rightly.

He therefore listened without comment, and at first only remarked, “Evidently, Marian, you are not trying to make the most and best of this young fellow.”

“But, papa, am I bound to do this for people who are disagreeable to me and who don’t meet my views at all?”

“Certainly not.  Indeed, you may have frozen Merwyn out of the list of your acquaintances already.”

“Well,” replied the girl, almost petulantly, “that, perhaps, will be the best ending of the whole affair.”

“That’s for you to decide, my dear.”

“But, papa, I feel that you don’t approve of my course.”

“Neither do I disapprove of it.  I only say, according to our bond to be frank, that you are unfair to Merwyn.  Of course, if he is essentially disagreeable to you, there is no occasion for you to make a martyr of yourself.”

“That’s what irritates me so,” said the girl, impetuously.  “He might have made himself very agreeable.  But he undervalued and misunderstood me so greatly from the first that it was hard to forgive him.”

“If he hadn’t shown deep contrition and regret for that course I shouldn’t wish you to forgive him, even though his antecedents had made anything better scarcely possible.”

“Come down to the present hour, then.  What he asked of you is one thing.  I see what he wishes.  He desires, at least, the friendship that I give to those who fulfil my ideal of manhood in these times.  He has no right to seek this without meeting the conditions which remove all hesitation in regard to others.  It angers me that he does so.  I feel as if he were seeking to buy my good-will by donations to this, that, and the other thing.  He still misunderstands me.  Why can’t he realize that, to one of my nature, fording the icy Rappahannock to-night would count for more than his writing checks for millions?”

“Probably he does understand it, and that is what he meant by his words to-night, when he said, ’What is this storm, or what a battle?’”

She was overwrought, excited, and off her guard, and spoke from a deep impulse.  “A woman, in giving herself, gives everything.  If he can’t give up a scruple—­I mean if his loyalty is so slight that his mother’s wishes and dead ancestors—­”