"What is the use of thinking?" she asked, quietly. "I could not leave her."
"You mean that she would not let you go?" Mannering asked.
"No! It is not that," the girl answered. "Sometimes I think that she would be glad. It is not that."
He nodded gravely.
"I understand. But—"
"If you understand, please do not say any more."
"But I must, Hester," he persisted. "There is no one else to give you advice. I know all that you can tell me, and I say that this is no fitting home for you. Your mother's friends are not fit friends for you. She has chosen her way in life, and she will not brook any interference. You can do no good by remaining with her. On the contrary, you are doing yourself a great deal of harm. I am old enough to be your father, child. Wise enough, I hope, to be your adviser. You shall be my secretary, and come and live at Blakely."
A faint flush stole into her anæmic. One realized then that under different conditions she might have been pretty. Her face was no longer expressionless.
"You are so kind," she said, softly. "I shall always like to think of this. And yet—it is impossible."
"Why?"