"Oh, what shall I do!" cried Daisy, wringing her hands. "I am driven to the very verge of madness! Heaven pity me--the bitter consequence must fall upon your own head." She turned away with a low, bitter cry, as the maid slammed the heavy oaken door in her face. "There is no other way for me to do," she told herself, despairingly, "but to see Rex. I do not know how I am going to live through the ordeal of entering his presence--listening to his voice--knowing I bring him such a burden of woe--spoiling his life for the second time." She did not hear the door quietly reopen. "I have heard all that has just passed, young lady," said a kind voice close beside her. "I am extremely sorry for you--your case seems a pitiful one. I am sorry my daughter refused to see you; perhaps I can be of some assistance to you. I am Miss Hurlhurst's father." CHAPTER XXXVII. For a moment Daisy stood irresolute. "Follow me into my study, and tell me your trouble. You say it concerns my daughter. Perhaps I can advise you." Ah, yes! he above all others could help her--he was Pluma's father--he could stop the fatal marriage. She would not be obliged to face Rex. Without another word Daisy turned and followed him. Although Daisy had lived the greater portion of her life at John Brooks' cottage on the Hurlhurst plantation, this was the first time she had ever gazed upon the face of the recluse master of Whitestone Hall. He had spent those years abroad; and poor Daisy's banishment dated from the time the lawn fête had been given in honor of their return. Daisy glanced shyly up through her veil with a strange feeling of awe at the noble face, with the deep lines of suffering around the mouth, as he opened his study door, and, with a stately inclination of the head, bade her enter. "His face is not like Pluma's," she thought, with a strange flutter at her heart. "He looks good and kind. I am sure I can trust him." Daisy was quite confused as she took the seat he indicated. Mr. Hurlhurst drew up his arm-chair opposite her, and waited with the utmost patience for her to commence. She arose and stood before him, clasping her trembling little white hands together supplicatingly. He could not see her face, for she stood in the shadow, and the room was dimly lighted; but he knew that the sweet, pathetic voice was like the sound of silvery bells chiming some half-forgotten strain. "I have come to tell you this wedding can not--must not--go on to-night!" she cried, excitedly. Basil Hurlhurst certainly thought the young girl standing before him must be mad. "I do not understand," he said, slowly, yet gently. "Why do you, a stranger, come to me on my daughter's wedding-night with such words as these? What reason can you offer why this marriage should not proceed?"