Poor little innocent Daisy! her own words had convicted her beyond all pardon in the eyes of shrewd, suspicious Mme. Whitney, who guessed, as is usually the case, wide of the mark, as to the cause of the secret Daisy dare not to reveal to her guardian or herself. "My duty is plain in this case," said madame. "I shall read this as a terrible warning to the young ladies of this institution; then I will send for Mr. John Brooks, your guardian, and place this letter in his hands." "Oh, no, madame, in pity's name, no!" sobbed Daisy, wildly, kneeling imploringly at her feet, her heart beating tumultuously, and her hands locked convulsively together. "Do not, madame, I pray you; anything but that; he would cast me out of his heart and home, and I--I could not go to Rex, you see." But madame did not see. She laughed a little hard, metallic laugh that grated, oh, so cruelly, on Daisy's sensitive nerves. When one woman's suspicions are aroused against another, Heaven help the suspected one; there is little mercy shown her. "Man's inhumanity to man" is nothing compared to woman's inhumanity to woman. Mme. Whitney had discovered a capital way to score a hit in the direction of morality. "No," she said, laying the letter down on the table before her. "Arise from your knees, Miss Brooks. Your prayers are useless. I think this will be a life-long lesson to you." "Oh, madame, for the love of Heaven!" cried Daisy, rocking herself to and fro, "spare me, I beseech you! Can nothing alter your purpose?" "Well," said madame, reflectively, "I may not be quite so severe with you if you will confess, unreservedly, the whole truth concerning this terrible secret, and what this young man Rex is to you." "I can not," wailed Daisy, "I can not. Oh, my heart is breaking, yet I dare not." "Very well," said madame, rising, indicating the conversation was at an end, "I shall not press you further on the subject. I will excuse you now, Miss Brooks. You may retire to your room."