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"Have you told me all?" he asked, glancing up at the high window with its leaded panes.

The girl, shamefaced, downcast, because of her doubts of her father, flushed and nodded a "yes."

Wilkinson smiled, and leaning across the table, looked her full in the eyes.

"Girlie," he told her, suavely, "you know I'm glad you told me this. I want you to be just as frank in telling me everything else that bothers you—especially about myself. I'm glad you told me this," he repeated, "because, because it's true."

The girl jumped up from her seat, and exclaimed incredulously:

"True! Father, it can't be true!"

He waved her back again to her chair, took a fresh cigar, lighted it, and then said squarely:

"It's the Gospel truth. With just one exception—an immaterial correction that I want to make—what you have said is fact, only you've got the wrong sow by the ear."

"The what!" stammered the girl.

Wilkinson waved a deprecating hand.

"I should have said that your story is all right, but it's told about the wrong man," he explained.