The next morning, however, he renewed it again under similar circumstances:

"I think, my dear, that we had better give up any idea of keeping that young man on the list of our friends. It is quite evident that he does not care to continue our acquaintanceship!" Joy suffered much this time; all the more because there was nothing that she could say which would be wise. She had to content hersef with a commonplace acceptance of his views. So she answered with as steady a voice as she could manage:

"Of course, Daddy! Whatever you think right!" The answer pleased her father; he showed it in his reply:

"I am sorry about it, my dear; for he seemed a fine young fellow, and he saved you very bravely. However we cannot help it. We did all we could to make him welcome; but we can't force him to come to us. It isn't an occasion for wain-ropes!" After a pause she ventured to say meekly:

"Yes. It would be a pity if we had to quarrel with a man who did so much for us. I suppose if he could show that he did not get your letter, then it would be—you could forgive him."

"Of course I would, my dear. But these English are so stand-off that there is no understanding them. I wanted to be friends with the man who saved my little girl … But there, it is no use wishing anything when people are pig-headed …"

His words somehow made Joy's heart glow. It might be all right yet, if only …

But the present was sadly un-right. The suspense, the uncertainty, the waiting in the dark were hard to bear. It was little wonder that in the middle of the following week her father noticed that she had grown pale and listless. Deep down in his mind he connected it somehow with "that damned fellow" but he took care not to betray his thought to his daughter in any way. His present wish was