“My dear little girl, you are not under the slightest obligation to give anything,” resumed her father, discreetly oblivious to the significance of her words.  “If you care to give a little good-will and kindness to one whom you have granted the right to visit you, they will tend to confirm and develop the better and manly qualities he is now manifesting.  You know I have peculiar faculties of finding out about people, and, incidentally and casually, I have informed myself about this Mr. Merwyn.  I think I can truly say that he is doing all and more than could be expected of a young fellow in his circumstances, with the one exception that he does not put on our uniform and go to the front.  He may have reasons—­very possibly, as you think, mistaken and inadequate ones—­which, nevertheless, are binding on his conscience.  What else could his words mean to-night?  He is not living a life of pleasure-seeking and dissipation, like so many other young nabobs in the city.  Apparently he has not sought much other society than yours.  Pardon me for saying it, but you have not given him much encouragement to avoid the temptations that are likely to assail a lonely, irresponsible young fellow.  In one sense you are under no obligation to do this; in another, perhaps you are, for you must face the fact that you have great influence over him.  This influence you must either use or throw away, as you decide.  You are not responsible for this influence; neither are your friends responsible for the war.  When it came, however, they faced the disagreeable and dangerous duties that it brought.”

“O papa!  I have been a stupid, resentful fool.”

“No, my dear; at the worst you have been misled by generous and loyal impulses.  Your deep sympathy with recent events has made you morbid, and therefore unfair.  To your mind Mr. Merwyn represented the half-hearted element that shuns meeting what must be met at every cost.  If this were true of him I should share in your spirit, but he appears to be trying to be loyal and to do what he can in the face of obstacles greater than many overcome.”

“I don’t believe he will ever come near me again!” she exclaimed.

“Then you are absolved in the future.  Of course we can make no advances towards a man who has been your suitor.”

Merwyn’s course promised to fulfil her fear,—­she now acknowledged to herself that it was a fear,—­for his visits ceased.  She tried to dismiss him from her thoughts, but a sense of her unfairness and harshness haunted her.  She did not see why she had not taken her father’s view, or why she had thrown away her influence that accorded with the scheme of life to which she had pledged herself.  The very restraint indicated by his words was a mystery, and mysteries are fascinating.  She remembered, with compunction, that not even his own mother had sought to develop a true, manly spirit in him.  “Now he is saying,” she thought, bitterly, “that I, too, am a fanatic,—­worse than his mother.”