It was Preston Cheney himself, at home upon one of his periodical
visits, who sent for the rector, and gravely met him at the door when
he arrived, and escorted him into his study.
"I am very anxious about my daughter," he said. "She has been a
nervous child always, and over-sensitive. I returned yesterday after
an absence of some three months in California, to find Alice in bed,
wasted to a shadow, and constantly weeping. I cannot win her
confidence--she has never confided to me. Perhaps it is my fault;
perhaps I have not been at home enough to make her realise that the
relationship of father and daughter is a sacred one. This morning
when I was urging her to tell me what grieved her, she remarked that
there was but one person to whom she could communicate this sorrow--
her rector. So, my dear Dr Stuart, I have sent for you. I will
conduct you to my child, and I leave her in your hands. Whatever
comfort and consolation you can offer, I know will be given. I hope
she will not bind you to secrecy; I hope you may be able to tell me
what troubles her, and advise me how to help her."
It was more than an hour before the rector returned to the library
where Preston Cheney awaited him. When the senator heard his
approaching step, he looked up, and was startled to see the pallor on
the young man's face.
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