“No, not exactly—­not like you do.”

He shook his head.

“The harm that has come to yer soul!” he replied.  “It’s plain to me, daughter, that somethin’ terrible has happened to ye.  This man has ruined ye, body and soul.  Somethin’ must be done.  I don’t want to be hard on ye, but ye must leave Philadelphy.  Ye can’t stay here.  I can’t permit ye.  Ye can go to Europe, or ye can go to yer aunt’s in New Orleans; but ye must go somewhere.  I can’t have ye stayin’ here—­it’s too dangerous.  It’s sure to be comin’ out.  The papers’ll be havin’ it next.  Ye’re young yet.  Yer life is before you.  I tremble for yer soul; but so long as ye’re young and alive ye may come to yer senses.  It’s me duty to be hard.  It’s my obligation to you and the Church.  Ye must quit this life.  Ye must lave this man.  Ye must never see him any more.  I can’t permit ye.  He’s no good.  He has no intintion of marrying ye, and it would be a crime against God and man if he did.  No, no!  Never that!  The man’s a bankrupt, a scoundrel, a thafe.  If ye had him, ye’d soon be the unhappiest woman in the world.  He wouldn’t be faithful to ye.  No, he couldn’t.  He’s not that kind.”  He paused, sick to the depths of his soul.  “Ye must go away.  I say it once and for all.  I mane it kindly, but I want it.  I have yer best interests at heart.  I love ye; but ye must.  I’m sorry to see ye go—­I’d rather have ye here.  No one will be sorrier; but ye must.  Ye must make it all seem natcheral and ordinary to yer mother; but ye must go—­d’ye hear?  Ye must.”

He paused, looking sadly but firmly at Aileen under his shaggy eyebrows.  She knew he meant this.  It was his most solemn, his most religious expression.  But she did not answer.  She could not.  What was the use?  Only she was not going.  She knew that—­and so she stood there white and tense.

“Now get all the clothes ye want,” went on Butler, by no means grasping her true mood.  “Fix yourself up in any way you plase.  Say where ye want to go, but get ready.”

“But I won’t, father,” finally replied Aileen, equally solemnly, equally determinedly.  “I won’t go!  I won’t leave Philadelphia.”

“Ye don’t mane to say ye will deliberately disobey me when I’m asking ye to do somethin’ that’s intended for yer own good, will ye daughter?”

“Yes, I will,” replied Aileen, determinedly.  “I won’t go!  I’m sorry, but I won’t!”

“Ye really mane that, do ye?” asked Butler, sadly but grimly.

“Yes, I do,” replied Aileen, grimly, in return.

“Then I’ll have to see what I can do, daughter,” replied the old man.  “Ye’re still my daughter, whatever ye are, and I’ll not see ye come to wreck and ruin for want of doin’ what I know to be my solemn duty.  I’ll give ye a few more days to think this over, but go ye must.  There’s an end of that.  There are laws in this land still.  There are things that can be done to those who won’t obey the law.  I found ye this time—­much as