“Father,” cried Dora, “I did not know who she was. She was very ill and wanted me. It was she who used to send me those things. Miss Bethune took me, it was only once, and I--I was there when she died.” The recollection choked her voice, and made her tremble. “Father, she said you would not forgive her, that you were never to be told; but I could not believe,” cried Dora, “that there was any one, ill or sorry, and very, very weak, and in trouble, whom you would not forgive.” Mr. Mannering sat gazing at his child, with his eyes burning in their sockets. At these words he covered his face with his hands. And there was silence, save for a sob of excitement from Dora, excitement so long repressed that it burst forth now with all the greater force. The visitor, for some time, did not say a word. Then suddenly he put forth his hand and touched the elbow which rested like a sharp point on the table. He said softly: “It was the lady you imagine. She is dead. She has led a life of suffering and trouble. She has neither been well nor happy. Her one wish was to see her child before she died. When she was left free, as happened by death some time ago, she came to England for that purpose. I can’t tell you how much or how little the friends knew, who helped her. They thought it, I believe, a family quarrel.” Mr. Mannering uncovered his ghastly countenance. “It is better they should continue to think so.” “That is as you please. For my own part, I think the child at least should know. The request, the prayer that was made on her deathbed in all humility, was that Dora should follow her remains to the grave.” “To what good?” he cried, “to what good?” “To no good. Have you forgotten her, that you ask that? I told her, if she had asked to see you, to get your forgiveness----” “Silence!” cried Mr. Mannering, lifting his thin hand as if with a threat. “But she had not courage. She wanted only, she said, her own flesh and blood to stand by her grave.” Mannering made again a gesture with his hand, but no reply. “She has left everything of which she died possessed--a considerable, I may say a large fortune--to her only child.” “I refuse her fortune!” cried Mannering, bringing down his clenched hand on the table with a feverish force that made the room ring. “You will not be so pitiless,” said the visitor; “you will not pursue an unfortunate woman, who never in her unhappy life meant any harm.” “In her unhappy life!--in her pursuit of a happy life at any cost, that is what you mean.” “I will not argue. She is dead. Say she was thoughtless, fickle. I can’t tell. She did only what she was justified in doing. She meant no harm.” “I will allow no one,” cried Mr. Mannering, “to discuss the question with me. Your client, I understand, is dead,--it was proper, perhaps, that I should know,--and has left a fortune to my daughter. Well, I refuse it. There is no occasion for further parley. I refuse it. Dora, show this gentleman downstairs.”