"I am delighted to think you are satisfied, Sir, as there remains for me but to ask a plain question;--there is nothing like plain, direct dealing between gentlemen. I am on my way to town, and somewhat pressed for time. I have called to know whether George Thornton, of Thornton House, will or will not receive his little grand-daughter." There was no evading a question so distinctly stated. Mr. Thornton looked at me with a darkening brow. "Sir," he morosely replied, "George Thornton had once a daughter of his own, whom he liked after his own way. He took a liking, too, to a young Irish physician, who settled in these parts, and who, I can't help saying it was a very clever fellow, and had, for his years, a wonderful knowledge of chemistry. 'I'll give Margaret to that man,' thought George Thornton; and, whilst he was thinking about it, the Irish physician quietly stole his daughter one evening. George Thornton made no outcry; he simply said he would never forgive either one or the other, and he never did." "Your daughter's child is innocent," pleaded Cornelius. "She is her father's child,--and his image, too; but no matter! I believe you are on your way to town, Sir?" "Yes, Sir, I am." "And you called--?" "To leave the child: such was my errand." "Your errand is fulfilled, Sir; you may leave the child; I shall provide for her." "The late Doctor Burns has left some property--" "I will have nothing to do with the property of the late Doctor Burns." Mr. Thornton was anything but gracious, now; but, without heeding this. Cornelius turned to me; he laid his hand on my head: "Good bye! child," he said in a moved tone, "God bless you!" He turned away; but I clung to him. "Take me with you!" I exclaimed; "take me with you!" "I cannot, Margaret," gently replied Cornelius, striving to disengage his hand from mine. "I won't stay here," I cried indignantly. "You must," he quietly answered. I dropped his hand, and burst into tears. He looked pained; but his resolve did not alter. "It cannot be helped," he said. "Good bye! I shall come and see you." He held out his hand to me; but I felt forsaken and betrayed, and turned away resentfully. He bent over me. "Will you not bid me good-bye?" he asked. I flung my arms round his neck; and, sobbing bitterly, I exclaimed, "Oh! why then won't you take me with you?" He did not answer, gave me a quiet kiss, untwined my arms from around his neck, exchanged a formal adieu with my grandfather, and left me as unconcernedly as if, little more than an hour before, he had not taken me in his arms, and cherished me in that lonely garden, where I, so foolishly mistaking pity for fondness, had given him an affection he evidently did not prize, and which, as I now began to feel, had no home save the grave of the dead. CHAPTER IV.