"Well, Cynthy?"
"I must tell Mr. Lepel who I am. I will not of course let him think that I know anything of you now. He shall not know that you are alive. But I must do as I please about telling him my own name."
"Very well, Cynthia," said her father; "do as you like in that matter. I can trust you with a good deal, and I trust you so far; but don't let out that you know anything about me now—that I'm alive, and that you have seen me, or anything of that sort."
"No, father."
"I see what you're after," said he, after a pause. "You think he'll give you up more ready when he knows that you are my daughter—isn't that it? You may say so open-like; it doesn't hurt me, you know. Of course I can understand what he will feel. And what's always been hardest to me was the feelin' that I had injured you so much, my dear—you, the only thing left to me in the world to love."
"You could not help it, father dear."
"Well, I don't know. I might have done many things different—I see that now. But there's one thing to be said—if you feel inclined to break off with Mr. Lepel without telling him your name, I think it would be easy enough to do it."
"How? What do you mean?"
"You think he's fond of you—don't you, my dear?"
"I thought so, father."