University of Virginia Library

18. CHAPTER XVIII.
MARY HAMMETT'S FATHER HAS A VERY EXCITING TIME IN
CRAMPTON.

It was a pleasant Saturday night in August, when,
as Mary Hammett sat at her window, she caught a
glimpse of the Crampton coach as it drove into the village,
raising its usual cloud of dust, and bearing its
usual covering of the same material. On its back seat
sat an elderly gentleman with his head down, and an
altogether superfluous amount of material around his
face. Mary could see but little, and saw that only for
a moment, but she was convinced that her day of trial
had come. She could not be mistaken in the stout
shoulders, the short neck, and the heavy eyebrows.
She passed out of her room to get a better view of the
passenger while he alighted at the hotel, and, though it
was almost twilight, and the house at a considerable
distance across the common, she was certain that her
first impressions were correct.

She immediately returned to her room, and wrote a
note to Dr. Gilbert, Aunt Catharine, and Fanny, and
despatched it by the hand of Arthur, requesting those

friends to call upon her so soon as it should be dark.
They came accordingly, wondering much at the singular
form of the invitation, and curious to ascertain what
it could mean. Mary met them in the parlor, and calling
in Arthur Blague and his mother, closed the door,
and sat down before them, pale, faint, and trembling.
There was an expression of painful embarrassment upon
her face, and Fanny, anxious to do something to relieve
her, rose, and crossing the room, took a seat beside her
on the sofa, and handed her a fan. Mary put the fan
aside with a quiet “Thank you,” and said: “My friends,
I am sure that trouble lies just before me, and I want
your advice.”

“Certainly,” responded Dr. Gilbert promptly.
“I'm sure we are all at your service.”

“You have all been very kind to me,” continued
Mary, “for you have trusted me without knowing me,
and received me as a friend without inquiring into my
history. I wish to thank you for this, and to assure you
that, whatever may be the events of the next few days,
I shall remember you with gratitude as long as I live.”

There was a pause. Dr. Gilbert, exceedingly puzzled,
sat and drummed upon the arms of his chair. It
was all a mystery to him—her solemnity, her apprehension,
and her allusion to imminent events of an unpleasant
character. “Miss Hammett,” said the doctor,
“what do you mean? Who menaces you? Are you
going to leave us?”

“I may be obliged to leave you for a time, at least,”
replied Mary, her eyes filling with tears.

“Who or what can drive you from Crampton?”
said Dr. Gilbert, bringing his hand excitedly down upon

the arm of his chair. “Let them deal with me. Unless
there is some one who has a legal right to control
you, I will stand between you and all harm.”

“Dr. Gilbert,” said Mary, trembling, “my father is
in Crampton.”

“Your father!” exclaimed all her auditors in concert.

“My father is in Crampton, and he is very, very
angry with me.”

“What is he angry with you for?” inquired Dr.
Gilbert, that being the first question that rose to his
lips.

“Because,” said Mary with strong feeling, “because
I will not perjure myself.”

“Let him lay his hand on you at his peril,” said the
doctor fiercely, again bringing his hand down upon the
arm of his chair with a will.

“No, doctor, no; there must be no violence. I
must get out of his way.”

“Because you will not perjure yourself!” exclaimed
the doctor, coming back to the cause of the difference
between the young woman and her father. “I'm sure
some explanation should go with that. I don't understand
it.”

“Dr. Gilbert,” said Mary, “my father insisted upon
my breaking the most sacred pledge of my life, and
breaking two hearts with it; and on my refusal to do
it, he bade me never enter his presence again. That is
the reason I am here in Crampton to-night. That is the
reason you found me in the mill at Hucklebury Run.
I took his alternative, glad in my choice; and he is here
to force me, if possible, back to my home.”

“You don't know that,” said the doctor, thoughtfully.

“You don't know my father,” said Mary.

“But how did he learn that you were in Crampton?
That's what puzzles me,” said the doctor.

Then Mary told him of Dan Buck, and all the persecutions
of which she had been the subject at his hands, and
of her conviction, from the first, that this would be the
result. Dan Buck had been a salesman in her father's
store, had seen and known her then, had been discharged
for his dissolute habits, and had now sold the secret of
her hiding-place for money.

“Miss Hammett,” said the doctor, rising to his feet,
“I propose to manage this matter myself. You are not
going to leave Crampton at all. If Dan Buck has told
your father that you are in this town, he has told him
what house you are in. Now just pack your trunks,
and Arthur and I will take them over to my house.
Aunt Catharine and Fanny will look after you; and if
he gets an interview with you, he will get it because he
is a stronger man than I am.”

The doctor looked as if he thought that entirely settled
the matter of her safety from all intrusion.

Aunt Catharine and Fanny very earnestly seconded
this project of Dr. Gilbert. Aunt Catharine even went
so far as to declare her intention to give the gentleman
a piece of her mind if he should ever darken the door of
the Gilbert mansion, at which the owner of that mansion
smiled, and shrugged his shoulders. Fanny was
delighted. This was life. She would lay away in
memory every incident of this affair, and some time it
should be woven into a romance. Mrs. Blague and Arthur

objected, but the majority were against them; and
when Sunday morning came, it found Mary Hammett
the occupant of a room in Dr. Gilbert's dwelling, which
overlooked the common, and the hotel on the opposite
side of it.

Through the half-closed blind, Mary Hammett was
an earnest watcher of every movement at the hotel.
For half of the day her father sat at his window, looking
at the people as they walked or drove past on their
way to and from church. He had his reasons for not
showing himself in the street, and so had his daughter.
The day wore away, and night descended again. In the
evening, Mary for the first time revealed the story of
her life to her companion, Fanny Gilbert, all of which
Fanny carefully remembered, that she might have abundant
materials for her future romance. The doctor and
Aunt Catharine dropped into her room in the course of
the evening to talk over affairs, and contrive for the
emergencies that would develop themselves, without
doubt, on the following day.

It was Mary's opinion, that her father, having
learned her business and the habits of her charge,
would keep himself out of her sight and knowledge, so
far as possible, until she was within her school-room and
alone with her little flock. This would give him his
best opportunity to meet her without the intrusion of
Dr. Gilbert, of whose strength of will and whose local
power and influence, she had no doubt, he had been
abundantly informed by Dan Buck. So it was determined
that Mary should remain a prisoner in her chamber,
and that Fanny should go over, and perform her
duties as teacher.

This arrangement Fanny agreed to gladly. It would
give her an opportunity to meet the old gentleman
alone, and possibly furnish her with further materials
for the great romance.

On Monday morning, there was a good deal of excitement
in the family circle that gathered around the
breakfast table in Dr. Gilbert's dwelling. All were
possessed with the feeling that exciting and not altogether
pleasant events were before them. Mary Hammett
could eat nothing; and even Dr. Gilbert made
very severe work of pretending to an appetite. It was
deemed a matter of prudence to keep little Fred at
home as company for his teacher. She would hear his
lessons, and the plan delighted him. Fanny feared that
she could not control his tongue, if the visitor whom
she expected should ask any questions about the absent
schoolmistress.

At nine o'clock, Fanny left the house, dressed to
disguise her form and cover her face as much as possible;
and soon the wondering children responded to the
little school-bell, and vanished from the street to meet
their new mistress. Fanny explained to them that it
was not convenient for Miss Hammett to be with them,
and that she should act as their teacher until their mistress
should be ready to resume her duties. Her exercises
had not proceeded half an hour, when she caught
a glimpse of a figure passing the window. Her heart
leaped to her mouth, and she turned instinctively toward
the door, expecting at the next moment to hear a rap.
Instead of this polite summons, the door was flung wide
open, and an elderly gentleman, red in the face—red to
the very summit of his bald crown—stood before her.

The first expression which Fanny caught upon his face
was one of fierce exultation. This passed off, or passed
into a look of vexation—a puzzled stare—that showed
he was quite disappointed, and somewhat abashed.
Fanny uttered not a word, but stood regarding him with
well-feigned indignation and wonder.

As soon as the intruder could recover from his surprise,
he said: “Excuse me for coming in without warning.
I—I—expected to see some one else. This is not
Miss Hammett. Is she in?”

“She is not, sir,” replied Fanny, with excessive
frigidity.

“Are you the mistress of this school?”

“I am, sir.”

“Is Miss Hammett your assistant?”

“She is not, sir.”

The man looked still more puzzled. “There must
be some mistake,” said he. “How long have you been
in this school?”

“Twenty minutes.”

“I do not refer to this morning, particularly. How
long have you been mistress of the school?”

“Twenty minutes.”

A mingled expression of anger and alarm came upon
the old man's face, as he walked rapidly and excitedly
forward, shaking his cane in Fanny's face, and saying:
“Young woman, you must not deceive me. You must
tell me the truth. I am in no mood to be trifled with.
Is the woman you call Mary Hammett in this house?”

Fanny did not stir—did not wink—but, looking imperiously
in his face, said: “Will you put down your
cane, sir?”

“There, damn it! my cane is down,” exclaimed the
choleric gentleman, bringing it sharply to the floor.
“Now answer my question.”

“John,” said Fanny to one of the boys, “will you
run over, and tell Dr. Gilbert that there is a strange
gentleman in the school-room, who came in without
knocking, and is using profane language before the children?”

“John,” said the old man, shaking his cane in his
face, “you stir an inch, and I knock your head off.” At
this the little fellow began to cry, and when he began
his little sister began, and one by one the scared children
fell into line, and set up a very dismal howl indeed.

“Will you retire, sir?” inquired Fanny, coolly.

“Will you tell me whether Mary Hammett is in
this building?”

“I have told you, sir.”

The old man looked up and around, apparently
taking the gauge of the structure, to see if there could
be any hiding-place. He advanced to the door of a
little recitation-room, opened it, and looked in. Then
he looked into a wood-closet, at which some of the children,
reassured by the calmness of their new mistress,
began to titter. Then he came back to Fanny, who had
not stirred, and said in an altered tone: “Will you tell
me where Miss Hammett is?”

“I will not, sir.”

The man wheeled upon his heel without making any
reply, and walked out of the house. Fanny was delighted
with the interview. She had thought of such
scenes a great many times—of “drawing her queenly

form up to its full height,” and saying extremely cool
and imperious things—of “withering” some impertinent
man by her “quiet and determined eye.” She had tried
the experiment and succeeded. She would like to try
it again.

Fanny had not much heart for the school exercises
after this. She was in the heroic mood, and did not
perceive how her duties could help on her projects.
She watched the stout gentleman as he walked off,
swinging his cane, and making long reaches with it, as
if there were some power in the motion to lengthen out
his legs. She saw that he made directly for the house
of Mrs. Blague, and thither we will follow him.

Arriving at the door, he hesitated, as if to determine
what should be his mode of entrance. Then he tried
the knob, and finding the door locked, gave the knocker
a strong treble blow. The door was not opened immediately,
because Arthur had not completed his instructions
to his mother. After she and Jamie had
removed themselves to a distant room, Arthur started
to answer the summons, just as the caller, in his impatience,
had repeated it. Arthur opened the door, and
stood coolly fronting the irascible gentleman, who was
evidently disturbed by meeting a man. “Will you
walk in, sir?” said Arthur, who had waited a moment
in vain for the man to make known his errand.

The man walked in and entered the parlor, but did
not take a seat. Arthur stepped up to him with a
smile, and taking his hand, inquired: “To whom am I
indebted for the honor of this call?”

“My name is—no matter about my name, sir. I
called to see a young woman who boards in this family.

Her name is—that is, the name by which you know her
—is Hammett—Mary Hammett, I believe. Will you
be kind enough to say to her that an old acquaintance
would like an interview with her? Passing through
the town—thought I would call—known her from
a baby—very pleasant little village, this Crampton.”
The man said this, walking uneasily back and
forth, and attempting to be very careless and composed.

“There is no woman of the name in this house, sir.
You allude to Miss Hammett, the school teacher, I presume.”

The old man bit his lips; but having assumed a
false character, he still affected carelessness. “She
formerly boarded here, I think—I was informed so, at
least,” said he.

“Yes, she formerly boarded here.”

“And you say she does not board here now?”

“She does not board here now.”

“How long since she left you?”

“Thirty-six hours.”

“Where has she gone, sir? Where shall I be likely
to find her?”

“I cannot tell, sir.”

The bald head grew very red, as its owner, puzzled
and baffled, walked up and down the apartment. Then,
as if he had forgotten the presence of Arthur, he said:
“Twenty minutes out of school—thirty-six hours out of
boarding-house—damned conspiracy!” Then turning
to Arthur suddenly, he said: “Young man, do you
want money?”

“Any money that I could get honestly,” said Arthur,
with a smile, “would do me a great deal of good.”

“Look you, then!” said the man, coming up to
him closely. “Tell me where I can see this Mary
Hammett, and I'll give you a sum that will make your
heart jump. You see I wish to surprise her.”

“I do not answer questions for money,” said Arthur,
“and as I have no talent for deception, or double-dealing,
I may as well tell you, sir, that your relations to
Mary Hammett are known to her friends here, and that
your presence in Crampton is known to her. She has
taken such measures as her friends have thought proper
for keeping out of your way, and you will probably be
obliged to leave Crampton without seeing her.”

All this was said very calmly, but its effect upon
the old man was to excite him to uncontrollable anger.
He grasped Arthur by the collar, and exclaimed: “By
—, young man, you don't get off from me in this
way. Tell me where this runaway girl is, or I'll cane
you.” Arthur grasped the cane with one hand and
wrenched it from his grasp, and with the other, by a
violent movement, released himself from the hold upon
his collar.

“There is your cane, sir,” said Arthur, extending it
to him. “You see I am not to be frightened, and that
violence will do you no good.”

The man looked at him fiercely for a moment, as if
he would like to kill him; but he saw that he had to
deal with one who was physically more than a match
for him. Finally he said: “Young man, I have a right
to know where this girl is. I am her natural protector,
and I demand that you tell me where she is.”

“I would not tell you for all the money you are
worth,” replied Arthur; “and you may be sure that

you have learned every thing about her that you can
learn in this house.”

“Very well! very well!” said the man, stamping
his cane upon the floor with such spite as to show that
he meant any thing but “very well.” “I am here for a
purpose; and I do not propose to leave till I have accomplished
it. I'm no boy—I'm no boy, sir; and if
you are one of this girl's friends, you will do her a service
by not provoking me too far. I may be obliged
to see you, or you may be obliged to see me, again.
Now tell me where this committee-man lives—this Dr.
Gilbert.”

Arthur walked to the window with some hesitation,
and pointed out Dr. Gilbert's house to him. “We
shall see—we shall see!” said he, as he covered his
fiery poll with his hat, and walked off without the
courtesy of a formal “good morning.”

All these movements, so far as they were out of
doors, had been carefully observed from the windows
of Dr. Gilbert's house. Dr. Gilbert had made very
early professional calls, and returned, anticipating an
interview with the angry New Yorker; and he, with
Aunt Catharine and Mary Hammett, had seen him
enter and emerge from the school-house, and then call
at the house of Mrs. Blague, and retire. When Mary
saw him turning his footsteps resolutely in the direction
of her refuge, she grew sick at heart, and almost
fainted. She felt the relations which she sustained
toward her father to be most unnatural, and it was
quite as much from this consideration as any other that
she was so sadly distressed. Nothing but a sense of
outrage could ever have placed her in antagonism toward

one to whom she owed the duties of a daughter.
Nothing but what she deemed to be the forfeiture of his
paternal character, could have induced her to break
away from him, and from her motherless home. From
the first she had shielded him. She had never told her
story till she felt compelled to do it for her own safety
and protection; and, had she been differently situated,
her father's sin against her would never have been mentioned
to any one but him to whom she had pledged
herself.

The doctor saw him approach; and as he came near
the dwelling, looking up and around, the former exclaimed:
“Good Heaven! I've seen that man before.”

Down the stairs Dr. Gilbert ran, as nimbly as his
sturdy physique would permit, very highly excited with
his discovery. He had never doubted that he should
see a gentleman bearing the name of Hammett, whenever
Mary's father should present himself. There flashed
upon him the memory of a scene that he had recalled a
thousand times; and now that the central figure of that
scene was at his door, under such strange circumstances,
his excitement was mingled with awe. It seemed as if
the hand of Providence had revealed itself, and that, by
ways all unknown and undreamed of, he was to be made
instrumental in effecting its designs.

The door-bell rang, and the doctor answered it,
throwing the door wide open. The moment the visitor
looked in Dr. Gilbert's face, the stern, angry expression
which he bore, changed to one of bewilderment and
wonder.

“This is Dr. Gilbert, I believe,” said he, extending
his hand to that gentleman, who, in a brief moment, had

determined upon changing the tactics arranged for the
occasion.

“Mr. Kilgore, how do you do?” said the doctor,
heartily shaking his hand. “What could have brought
you to Crampton, sir? I had not the remotest thought
that you would remember me. Come in, sir; come in.
Why, you must have spent the Sabbath in the village, and
this is the first time you have come near me. I should
have been happy to take you to church. Our hotel is a
very small affair, and you must have had a lonely time.”

Dr. Gilbert said this with his hand still grasping
that of Mr. Kilgore, and leading him slowly into the
parlor. Then, still talking rapidly, he took from his
hand his hat and his cane, and urged him into a chair,
departing for a moment to carry the relinquished articles
into the hall.

“I suppose I have met you before, sir,” said Mr.
Kilgore, of the great firm of Kilgore Brothers. “In
fact, I know I have met you, for I never forget
faces, but I cannot recall the circumstances of our meeting.”

“That is not to be wondered at,” replied the doctor,
heartily; “but, really, I was flattering myself that you
had called for the sake of old acquaintance.”

Mr. Kilgore looked vexed. He had not played his
cards discreetly; but the trick was lost, and he must
look out for the next one. So he said: “Dr. Gilbert,
be kind enough to recall our interview. I have certainly
conversed with you.”

“I called upon you one morning, in New York, to
endeavor to get you to publish a novel written by my
daughter. Perhaps you will remember that there was

an insane man in at the same time, who had a manuscript
on the millennium, which he was anxious to get
published.”

Mr. Kilgore was still in the fog. Matters of that
kind were of every-day occurrence in the little counting-room.

“Do you not remember,” pursued the doctor, “sending
your man Ruddock out of the room, and calling me
back to ask me whether my daughter was obedient or
not? Do you not remember getting excited about disobedient
daughters?”

It was evident from Mr. Kilgore's face, that he remembered
the scene very well. It was not a pleasant
recollection at all. It came to him accompanied by a
vague impression that he had not treated Dr. Gilbert
with much consideration, and that Dr. Gilbert's present
cordiality might not be so genuine as it seemed.

“We all have our ways, doctor,” said Mr. Kilgore,
by way of apology for whatever the doctor might recall
from that interview of an offensive character. “We all
have our ways. I suppose I'm a little sharp and hard
sometimes, but my business has the tendency to make
me so.”

“Never mind about what passed on that occasion,”
said the doctor, laughing heartily. “If everybody who
meets you on similar business, is as stupid and simple
as I was, it would not be strange if it should make you
sharp and hard. It is enough that we know each other,
and that you are in Crampton. Now what can I do for
you? By the way, you are not interested in the Ruggles
estate, are you?”

The face grew red again, and the florid tint rose and

re-enveloped the bald crown. “I was passing through
Crampton,” said Mr. Kilgore, hesitatingly, and turning
from Dr. Gilbert's fixed gaze, “and learning that an old
acquaintance of mine was here—a young woman—I
thought I would call upon her. I came to you to inquire
about her.”

“Aha!” exclaimed the doctor, with a very significant
smile. “That is the way the wind lies, is it?
Upon my word, you New Yorkers hold out against age
right gallantly.”

Mr. Kilgore tried to smile, but made very sorry
work of it. “You misapprehend me entirely,” said he.
“I—I—”

“Upon my word!” exclaimed the doctor, with another
burst of laughter. “Sixty—a New Yorker—and
modest! Why, it's the most natural thing in the world
to love a woman at any age, but it's only the boys that
are shy about it. Excuse me, Mr. Kilgore, but it's my
way; we all have our ways, you know. Ha! ha!
ha!”

Mr. Kilgore thought the doctor had very queer
ways, and his opinion was agreed to by Aunt Catharine
and Mary, who were listening to the conversation at the
head of the stairs. They had never heard him go on so,
and they wondered what he was driving at. Mr. Kilgore
rose and walked to the window, to hide his vexation;
and then Dr. Gilbert said: “By the way, Mr.
Kilgore, who is this woman?”

Mr. Kilgore returned, and resumed his seat with an
air of suffering but polite and patient dignity. “Her
name is Hammett—Mary Hammett,” said he.

“A very excellent person,” said the doctor. “I

know her well. She has been a teacher here, and if you
have any serious designs with relation to her, I have
only to say that you may go the world all over without
finding her superior. Everybody loves her in Crampton.
I hope you have no intention of taking her away from
us at once. Eh?”

Mr. Kilgore's tongue would not move. His throat
was dry, and he tried to swallow something which
would not go down.

“By the way,” continued the imperturbable doctor,
“there is some mystery about this young woman. She
carries purity and truth in her face, but we know very
little about her. There is a story that her father is
very cruel, and will not permit her to marry the man
of her choice; but it seems very strange that any man
can drive so good a daughter as she must be from home,
simply because she chooses to marry the man she loves.”

Mr. Kilgore's face and head fired up again. He
looked Dr. Gilbert almost fiercely in the eye, to see if
he was making game of him; but that gentleman's
front bore the scrutiny with obstinate unconsciousness.

“That's a lie, sir—a lie! I know her father well,” said
Mr. Kilgore. “I know all about this matter. She
wanted to marry her father's understrapper—a sneaking
clerk, who took advantage of his position to cheat her
out of her heart. I know him well, sir. He is not
worth a cent—he could not support a wife, if he had
one.”

“Good fellow, though, isn't he?” said the doctor,
interrogatively.

“He don't know his place, sir—he don't know his
place,” responded Mr. Kilgore.

“Well, there are two things in his favor, at least,”
said Dr. Gilbert, decidedly. “He has had the taste to
select one of the best women in the world, and has manifested
qualities that evidently have secured the love of
this woman. I would take that evidence before the certificate
of any man living.”

“You don't know the circumstances, doctor,” said
Mr. Kilgore.

“Well, I perceive that you are evidently not the
man she has chosen, so that my rallying has all been
wild. I hope you will pardon my levity, for I really
feel very much interested in Miss Hammett, and now
that I meet one who knows her father, I wish to secure
his good offices on her behalf. Just think of it now,
Mr. Kilgore. Here is a young woman who has given
her heart to a man—never mind whether he be young
or old. That man may be poor. I was poor once, and
so were you, if I have heard correctly. Now you are
rich, and I am comfortable; and if this man is as industrious
as we have been, he may be as prosperous.
Suppose you, when young, had been placed in his circumstances:
what would you have said of the man who
should deny to you his daughter, because you were
poor? What would you have thought of a man who,
after his daughter had pledged her truth to you, should
drive her from his home because she would not renounce
her pledge, and lose that which was more valuable to
her than all the world besides? I say it would be
brutal, and you would say that it was damnable. Now,
if you know this woman's father, you can make yourself
happy for a lifetime by bringing about a reconciliation
between them. It is really too bad for them to live so.

It's a shame and a disgrace to him. I would not stand
in his shoes, and take his responsibilities, for his wealth
ten times told.”

Dr. Gilbert said all this impetuously, without giving
Mr. Kilgore an opportunity to get in a word. When
he got a chance to speak, his face was almost purple
with his pent-up excitement. “This woman's father,
sir, has been disobeyed, and there is nothing that enrages
him like disobedience. I know him well—well,
sir—well. That daughter can have as good a home
with him as ever daughter had, but her will must come
under, sir—come under. He will not tolerate disobedience
in his dependents.”

“She has arrived at her majority, I believe,” suggested
the doctor.

“But she is a daughter, and a dependent.”

“No, thank God! she is not a dependent. She
takes care of herself, and earns her own living. If I
were to offer her a living to-day, as a companion of my
daughter, she would not accept it, because she will be
independent. No, no! Thank God, she is not a dependent!”

“Well,” said Mr. Kilgore, swallowing intently to
get rid of his rage, “we cannot discuss this matter.
Will you be kind enough to inform me where Miss
Hammett is? I have visited the school-house and her
lodgings, in vain. She seems to have disappeared suddenly.
Do you know where she is?”

“I do, sir.”

“Will you direct me to her?”

“She is in my house.”

“Will you lead me to her room?”

“She does not receive calls in her room. I will tell
her, if you wish, that Mr. Kilgore waits in the parlor to
see her.”

“No, no, for God's sake! don't tell her I am here.
I wish to take her by surprise.”

There was a rustle at the head of the stairs, and
Aunt Catharine slid down, and came directly into the
parlor, her black eyes flashing with excitement, and a
bright red spot glowing on either cheek. “Miss Hammett
will not see her father,” said Aunt Catharine;
“and if he's half of a man, he will clear out and let her
alone.”

“Catharine! Why, Catharine!” exclaimed the
doctor.

“I don't care a bit—not a single bit. A man that
talks and acts as he does, ought not to have any
daughter.”

Mr. Kilgore turned away from Aunt Catharine in
disgust, and then rose and stood before Dr. Gilbert, so
excited that he shook in every fibre of his frame.
“Her father! eh? Did you know that woman to be
my daughter?”

Dr. Gilbert rose at the question, and answered very
decidedly, “I did, sir.”

“Do you call this courteous treatment?”

“I will call it what I choose. I beg you to take the
same liberty.”

“Well, then, sir, I call it damned uncourteous treatment.”

“Your language is less polite than emphatic, but it
harms nobody.”

Mr. Kilgore started to leave the room. Dr. Gilbert

passed out before him, and arrested him at the foot of
the stairs.

“Will you allow me to see my daughter, sir?” said
Mr. Kilgore, savagely.

“No, sir, I will not;” and Dr. Gilbert planted
himself firmly before the enraged father, and waved him
back.

Mr. Kilgore stood a moment with his hand uplifted,
as if about to strike. The doctor watched his eye,
which suddenly grew bloodshot, while a purple tinge
spread over his features and forehead. The man was
evidently arrested by a strange feeling in his head, for
he suddenly slapped his hand upon his forehead, as if to
dissipate an attack of dizziness; then he staggered, and
fell to the floor like a log.

Mr. Kilgore was in a fit.