"I am ready to listen, father." "Child, have I not always been a kind father to you?" he said, with sudden emphasis. "Yes, father, though I could have wished that you would let me show my affection more, and not rebuff me as you have often done." "Do not speak of that, child; but tell me if your mother has not been all that a mother could be to you?" "Everything, father, only I wish mother would have let me help her to bear the sorrow I know she carries in her heart. Ah! yes, mother has been ever so loving and kind." "And your brother Herbert, Jennie, what of him?" Jennie sighed and answered after a moment of hesitation. "I fear, father, that Herbert loves himself more than all else in the world. He is a strange being, and one I confess I cannot understand." "Yet you love him devotedly?" eagerly asked Vance Bernard. "I would not be a true woman, father, could I not love my own brother, for he has been good to me, and means well; but why all these questions, father?" "Because I have a secret to tell you." "A secret to tell me?" "Yes, and one that may grieve you deeply, must do so, in fact; but still it is best for you to know it now, especially since that young coxcomb of a lieutenant has been here." "You surely do not refer to Lieutenant Carey as a coxcomb, father?" "I surely do, for what is he but a handsome fool in uniform?" was the angry reply. "His record does not show him to be a fool, father, though handsome, exceedingly so, I admit that he is." "That is just it! I knew he had turned your head with his fine manners, handsome face, and fine form, all of which I grant he possesses." "I admire him, yes, father; but I have met Lieutenant Carey but once, and I have too good sense to make a fool of myself about any man," was the indignant reply. "Well, his coming caused me to tell you the secret I now must do, for I see that otherwise it would end in your crazy regard for him, and matters would not go as I wish, and am determined to have them." "I think, father, that I have ever proven myself an obedient girl to you and to mother." "Oh, yes, I have no complaint to make, Jennie. But now to the secret I have to tell you." "Yes, father." The man seemed deeply confused, and moved as well. His face flushed and paled alternately, and he hesitated in what he had to say in a painful manner, until Jennie became alarmed lest the secret she was to learn was to be something terrible, indeed. "Come, father, you seem deeply moved, so tell me what it is, be it what it may, and, perhaps, I can help you to bear some great sorrow which now I know nothing of," and Jennie arose and stepped toward the man; but he started back, and cried excitedly: "No, no, do not touch me, do not speak kindly to me, child, for I have deceived you." "Deceived me, father?" "I have." "But how?" "That is what I wish to tell you, only I do not know how to begin." "I forgive you beforehand, father, if you have done me a wrong."