"You have had a quarrel with your father," she repeated, showing no temper at his light manner, but even seeming to take pleasure in it.
"Something like that. We don't agree. There are not two rights, are there, Martha?"
"I am not sure; there may be."
"I am sure. My father's right and mine are as the north and the south pole. If I am right, I must not stay here and vex him: it would be unfilial. If he is right, I must sit in sackcloth and ashes, and pray for fresh blood and bone and brain before we can meet again. Any way I must go; that is settled."
"Who settled it?"
"He, or I, or both of us. Are you not witch enough to guess for yourself? It came, somehow. That is enough. If you entertain the idea that the difficulty is to be smoothed over—"
"I do not," she interrupted. "I know your father."
"And me--do you think you know me?"
"I think I do."
"Therefore you must see how impossible it is that he and I, having disagreed upon a vital point--it is vital, to my thinking--can live together. I have a fancy in my head, Martha; I'll tell it to you. To have a father and not have a father--as is the case with me--is dreadful. For father and son to disagree is dreadful also. So I shall imagine a father, and as he is sure to agree with me, we shall be the best of friends. I shall picture him tender, and good, and kind; tolerant, yet conscientious; merciful, yet just. I can see him, and I love him already!"