“No, friends, go your way. With ourselves alone we must conduct this mighty strife. If we should fail, all I ask is that, when we have shuffled off this mortal coil, paint us as we really were, not as biting tongues, tinged with malice, have told the story of our sin.” “Come, Mr. Connors,” said Olivia, “it would be sinful, upon the rough rack of this world, to longer vex the proud spirit of our friends.” “Good-bye, dear friends,” said Connors, almost with affection, “and as we say au revoir, let me breathe the earnest prayer, that the Supreme Intelligence will lift you out of the valley of the shadow of grief, so that from the hill tops, you may behold the dawn of a new and nobler life.” They left Ouida together, admiring, yet regretting, that marble pride which prevented Ouida from accepting their proffered sympathy and aid. But a contemplation of the history of Ouida and Horatio, drew them closer together, though no word of love was spoken between the two. Their mutual interest in the fate of their friends provided a bond of sympathy between the two, that bid fair to develop into a deeper and holier connection. CHAPTER XXIII. LAWYER SALMON MEETS DEFEAT. The day on which Doane and the two sweet friends visited Ouida was a fateful one. On that same day Lawyer Salmon had a most eventful conversation with his daughter Marie. They also met near Ouida’s place. “My dear child,” said he, “it is foolish for you to pine your young life away in grief over Milton.” “Father,” said she, “it is easy for you to speak thus, but I cannot root out of my soul the love and faith therein enshrined.” “He has forgotten you.” “I will not believe it,” said she stoutly. “How long,” persisted the father, “has it been since you have heard from him?” “About six months, but he may be ill. There must be some cause,” said Marie, fighting every inch of ground. “Stuff and nonsense,” said he, “why don’t you admit to yourself the truth. He has abandoned you. I always thought you had more pride than to throw yourself into the arms of a man who seems so utterly to have forgotten you.” “Father,” said Marie, a tremor in her voice, “you wrong Milton. I fear you do not love me, or you would not so wound me.” “There, daughter, you are unjust to me. You may deem me hard, cold, unromantic, but I know these Royles. His father was as treacherous as an Indian, and I believe in heredity.” “And I in love,” said Marie. “And I shall be silent henceforth on the subject. Stern though I seem, I love you, my darling child, and your happiness is my one aim in life.” “Then withdraw your opposition to Milton, for I will only be completely happy when you shall admit him to your heart as a son.” “Ah, well,” said Salmon with a sigh, thinking of the girl’s dead mother, “I will think upon it. I must now go in to see Ouida. I will not be long detained. Remain without until I return.”