"Certainly it appears so. All these years the dog was not worth even a simple note of thanks; now all the banks in Gotham cannot buy him."

The chill irony of his tone painfully embarra.s.sed her.

"You positively refuse to sell him to me?"

"Yes, sir."

"Because you love him?"

"Because I love him more than I can ever make you comprehend."

"You regard me as a dullard in comprehending canine qualities?"

"I did not say so."

"Do you really find yourself possessed of any sentiment of grat.i.tude toward me? If so, will you do me a favour?"

"Certainly, if I can."

"Thank you. I shall always feel exceedingly obliged. Pray do not look so uneasy, and grow so white; it is a small matter. I gave you the dog years ago, little dreaming that I was thereby providing future discord for my own hearthstone. With a degree of flattering delicacy, which I a.s.sure you I appreciate, you decline to sell what was a friendly gift; and now I simply appeal to your generosity, and ask you please to give him back to me."

She recoiled a step, and her fingers clutched each other.

"Oh, Mr. Palma! Don't ask me. I cannot give up my Hero. I would give you anything, everything else that I own."

"Rash little girl! What else have you to give? Yourself?"

He was smiling now, and the unbending of his lips, and glitter of his remarkably fine teeth, gave a strange charm to his countenance, generally so grave.

"You would give yourself away, sooner than that unlucky dog?"

"I belong to my mother. But he belongs to me, and I never, never will part with him!"

"_Jacta est alea!_" muttered the lawyer, still smiling.

"Mr. Palma, I hope you will excuse me. It may seem very selfish and obstinate in me, and perhaps it really is so, but I can't help it. I am so lonely now, and Hero is all that I have left to comfort me.

Still I know as well as you or any one else, that it would be very wrong and unkind to force him into a house where dogs are particularly disliked; and therefore we will annoy no one here,--we will go away."

"Will you? Where?"

He rose, and they stood side by side.

Her face wore its old childish look of patient pain, reminding him of the time when she stood with the cl.u.s.ter of lilies drooping against her heart. He saw that tears had gathered in her eyes, tendering them larger, more wistful.

"I do not know yet. Anywhere that you think best, until we can write and get mother's permission for me to go to her. Will you not please use your influence with her?"

"To send you from the shelter of my roof? That would be eminently courteous and hospitable on my part. Besides your mother does not want you."

Observing how sharply the words wounded her, he added:

"I mean, that at present she prefers to keep you here, because it is best for your own interests; and in all that she does, I believe your future welfare is her chief aim. You understand me, do you not?"

"I do not understand why or how it can be best for a poor girl to be separated from her mother, and thrown about the world, burdening strangers. Still, whatever my mother does must be right."

"Do you think you burden me?"

"I believe, sir, that you are willing for mother's sake to do all you can for me, and I thank you very much; but I must not bring trouble or annoyance into your family. Can't you place me at school? Mrs.

Lindsay has a dear friend--the widow of a minister--living in New York, and perhaps she would take me to board in her house? I have a letter to her. Do help me to go away from here."

He turned quickly, muttering something that sounded very like a half-smothered oath, and took her little trembling hand, folding it gently between his soft warm palms.

"Little girl, be patient; and in time all things will be conquered.

As long as I have a home, I intend to keep you, or until your mother sends for you. She trusts me fully, and you must try to do so, even though sometimes I may appear harsh,--possibly unjust. Of course Hero cannot remain here at present, but I will take him down to my office, and have him carefully attended to; and as often as you like you shall come and see him, and take him to ramble with you through the parks. As soon as I can arrange matters, you shall have him with you again."

"Please, Mr. Palma! send me to a boarding school; or take me back to the convent."

"Never!"

He spoke sternly, and his face suddenly hardened, while his fingers tightened over hers like a glove of steel.

"I shall never be contented here."

"That remains to be seen."

"Mrs. Palma does not wish me to reside here."

"It is my house, and in future you will find no cause to doubt your welcome."

She knew that she might as efficaciously appeal to an iron column, and her features settled into an expression that could never have been called resignation,--that plainly meant hopeless endurance. She attempted twice to withdraw her hand, but his clasp tightened.

Bending his haughty head, he asked:

"Will you be reasonable?"

A heavy sigh broke over her compressed mouth, and she answered in a low, but almost defiant tone:

"It seems I cannot help myself."

"Then yield gracefully to the inevitable, and you will learn that when struggles end, peace quickly follows."

She chose neither to argue, nor acquiesce, and slowly shook her head.

"Regina."

She merely lifted her eyes.

"I want you to be happy in my house."

"Thank you, sir."