“He won't want to hear from me,” shyly.
“Why not?”
“Because he just won't, papa. Besides, I expect he has forgotten that such a person ever lived.”
“I wouldn't be too sure of that. What was the trouble, Constance? You'd better tell me, or I may say something I shouldn't.”
“Oh, you must not say anything,” in alarm. “You must promise.”
“Constance, what did Oakley say to you that last day he was here at the house?”
Constance's glance wandered meditatively from her father's face to the window and back again, while her color came and went. There was a faraway, wistful look in her eyes, and a sad little smile on her lips. At last she said, softly, “Oh, he said a number of things. I can't remember now all he did say.
“Did Oakley tell you he cared for you?”
Constance hesitated a moment, then, reluctantly:
“Well, yes, he did. And I let him go, thinking I didn't care for him,” miserably, and with a pathetic droop of her lips, from which the smile had fled. “I didn't know, and I have been so unhappy!”