“Oh, sir,” she cried, her eyes beginning once more to flow, her speech interrupted by little sobs.  “Maybe I did wrong to speak of a claim.  I’m not educated to argue with a gentleman.  Maybe we have no claim.  But if it’s not by right, oh, Mr. Canning, won’t you let your heart be touched by pity?  She don’t know what I’m saying, poor dear.  She’s not one to beg and pray for herself, as I’m doing for her.  Oh, sir, she’s so young!  She’s so lone in this world,—­not a friend to stand by her, nor a house to take her in!  You are the nearest to her of any one that’s left in this world.  She hasn’t a relation,—­not one so near as you,—­oh!” she cried, with a sudden thought, turning quickly round upon me, “this gentleman’s your son!  Now I think of it, it’s not your relation she is, but his, through his mother!  That’s nearer, nearer!  Oh, sir! you’re young; your heart should be more tender.  Here is my young lady that has no one in the world to look to her.  Your own flesh and blood; your mother’s cousin,—­your mother’s—­”

My father called to her to stop, with a voice of thunder.  “Philip, leave us at once.  It is not a matter to be discussed with you.”

And then in a moment it became clear to me what it was.  It had been with difficulty that I had kept myself still.  My breast was laboring with the fever of an impulse poured into me, more than I could contain.  And now for the first time I knew why.  I hurried towards him, and took his hand, though he resisted, into mine.  Mine were burning, but his like ice:  their touch burnt me with its chill, like fire.  “This is what it is?” I cried.  “I had no knowledge before.  I don’t know now what is being asked of you.  But, father, understand!  You know, and I know now, that some one sends me,—­some one—­who has a right to interfere.”

He pushed me away with all his might.  “You are mad,” he cried.  “What right have you to think—?  Oh, you are mad—­mad!  I have seen it coming on—­”

The woman, the petitioner, had grown silent, watching this brief conflict with the terror and interest with which women watch a struggle between men.  She started and fell back when she heard what he said, but did not take her eyes off me, following every movement I made.  When I turned to go away, a cry of indescribable disappointment and remonstrance burst from her, and even my father raised himself up and stared at my withdrawal, astonished to find that he had overcome me so soon and easily.  I paused for a moment, and looked back on them, seeing them large and vague through the mist of fever.  “I am not going away,” I said.  “I am going for another messenger,—­one you can’t gainsay.”

My father rose.  He called out to me threateningly, “I will have nothing touched that is hers.  Nothing that is hers shall be profaned—­”