“It was that Leighton fellow,” he said, looking up.
“Yes; it was Mr. Leighton,” said Zelda.
“I don’t like him,” said Dameron, sharply.
“I’m very sorry,” said Zelda.
“I don’t like him,” the old man repeated; and he did not raise his eyes, but kept them upon the papers.
“What dreadful liars we are, you and I, Ezra Dameron,” she said, going back to her old post by the mantel.
“You have used language to me that is infamous, blasphemous, from a child to a father.”
“Very likely,” she said; “but I can’t discuss these things with you any further.”
Leighton’s appearance had broken the spell; it had given her new courage and assurance, though it had not lifted the burden from her heart. Her father was loath to part with her; there was the extension of the trusteeship to be effected; he was about to make an appeal to her, to throw himself on her mercy, when she said, half-turning to go:
“You need not be afraid—I will sign your deed. And I have not the slightest idea of holding you to account for any of your acts. Only,—only,”—and her eyes filled and her voice broke,—“only you must never speak my mother’s name to me again!”