There was an argument, not the first that week, the subject of which I can guess only too well. She'd just finished speaking, and when I entered, tossed her head in that way that she had and turned on her heel. As she strode away, I ventured to say, "Your Grace, my timing is poor. Would you wish me to return at a later time?"

With one hand he bade me stay. I bent on my knee and waited. He raised his voice, a commanding voice, used to being obeyed, and called out, "Rebecca!" She paused and looked back, willful and proud, an unbridled beauty.

As he looked at her, the frustration bottled within was plainly evident. Seconds ticked by, seemingly forboding and long. But instead of renewed fireworks, his look softened. In a gentle voice not often heard, he said only, "Fare you well, daughter."

In reply, one eyebrow arced, like the wing of a bird about to take flight. Her voice, lilting, carried across the hall to us, "And you as well, father." Then she turned away and in two strides was gone. We did not see her again for three years.