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“Mr. March has told you that we have seen Mrs. Hasketh, and that you can find your daughter at her house to-morrow evening?”

“Yes, and I have just been telling him that I am not going to see her.”

“That is very foolish–very wrong!” my wife began.

“I know you must say so,” Tedham replied, with more dignity and force than I could have expected, “and I know how kind you and Mr. March have been. But you must see that I am right–that she is the only one to be considered at all.”

“Right! How are you right? Have you been suggesting that, my dear?” demanded my wife, with a gentle despair of me in her voice.

It almost seemed to me that I had, but Tedham came to my rescue most unexpectedly.

“No, Mrs. March, he hasn’t said anything of the kind to me; or, if he has, I haven’t heard it. But you intimated, yourself, last night, that she might be so situated–“

“I was a wicked simpleton,” cried my wife, and I forebore to triumph, even by a glance at her; “to put my doubts between you and your daughter in any way. It was romantic, and–and–disgusting. It’s not only your right to see her, it’s your duty. At least it’s your duty to let her decide whether she will let you see her. What nonsense! Of course she will! She must bear her part in it. She ought not to escape it, even if she could. Now you must just drop all idea of going away, and you must stay, and you must go to see your daughter. There is no other way to do.”

Tedham shook his head stubbornly. “She has borne her share, already, and I won’t inflict my penalty on her innocence–“

“Innocence? It’s because she is innocent that it must be inflicted upon her! That is what innocence is in the world for!”

Tedham looked back at her in a dull bewilderment. “I can’t get back to that. It seemed so once; but now it looks selfish, and I’m afraid of it. I am not the one to take that ground. It might do for you–“

“Well, then, let it do for me!” I confess that I was astonished at this turn, or should have been, if I could be astonished at any turn a woman takes. “I will see her for you, if you wish, and I will tell her just how it is with you, and then she can decide for herself. You have certainly no right to decide for her, whether she will see you or not, have you?”

“No,” Tedham admitted.

“Well, then, sit down and listen.”

He sat down, and my wife reasoned it all out with him. She convinced me, perfectly, so that what Tedham proposed to do seemed not only sentimental and foolish, but unnatural and impious. I confess that I admired her casuistry, and gave it my full support. She was a woman who, in the small affairs of the tastes and the nerves and the prejudices could be as illogical as the best of her sex, but with a question large enough to engage the hereditary powers of her New England nature she showed herself a dialectician worthy of her Puritan ancestry.

Tedham rose when she had made an end; and when we both expected him to agree with her and obey her, he said, “Very likely you are right. I once saw it all that way myself, but I don’t see it so now, and I can’t do it. Perhaps we shouldn’t care for each other; at any rate, it’s too much to risk, and I can’t do it. Good-by.” He began sidling toward the door.

I would have detained him, but my wife made me a sign not to interfere. “But surely, Mr. Tedham,” she pleaded, “you are going to leave some word for her–or for Mrs. Hasketh to give her?”

“No,” he answered, “I don’t think I will. If I don’t appear, then she won’t see me, and that will be all there is of it.”