"It is quite true. I saw your father yesterday, and he told me himself."
"And to whom—?"
She tried to finish the sentence, but her rebellious tongue would not.
"To Grace! I am surprised that your father has not told you. If I had dreamed it was in the slightest degree a secret, I certainly would not have spoken." She did not answer.
He glanced at her, and saw that her cheeks and lips had turned ashen white, as she gazed steadfastly out of the window.
"My child," said the priest, "you do not speak. You are not disappointed—you are not grieved?"
She arose to go, still pale with the great and sudden surprise.
"You have given me a great shock in telling me this. I never dreamed of another taking my dear dead mother's place. I am very selfish and unreasonable, I dare say; but I thought papa would have been satisfied to make my home his. I have loved my father very much, and I cannot get used to the idea all in a moment of another taking my place."
She walked to the door. Father Francis followed her.
"One word," he said. "It is in your power, and in your power alone, to make your father seriously unhappy. You have no right to do that; he has been the most indulgent of parents to you. Remember that now—remember how he has never grieved you, and do not grieve him. Can I trust you to do this?"