“Once,--only once, and very long ago, I did, and I asked the governess if the name were common in England, and she said, 'Yes.' I remember the paragraph that attracted me to this very hour. It was the case of a young man--I forget the name--who shot himself in despair, after some losses at play, and the narrative was headed, 'More of Grog Davis!'” Davis started back, and, in a voice thick and hoarse with passion, cried out,-- “And then? What next?” The words were uttered in a voice so fearfully wild that Lizzy stood in a sort of stupefied terror, and unable to reply. “Don't you hear me, girl?” cried he. “I asked you what came next.” “There was an account of an inquest,--some investigation as to how the poor fellow had met his death. I remember little about that. I was only curious to learn who this Grog Davis might be--” “And they could n't tell you, it seems!” “No; they had never heard of him.” “Then I 'll tell you, girl. Here he stands before you.” “You! papa--you--dearest pa! Oh, no, no!” cried she, imploringly, as she threw herself on his neck and sobbed bitterly,--“oh no! I 'll not believe it.” “And why not believe it? What was there in that same story that should prejudice _me_? There, there, girl, if you give way thus, it will offend me,--ay, Lizzy, offend me.” She raised her head from his shoulder, dried her eyes, and stood calm and unmoved before him. Her pale face, paler in the bright moonlight, now showed not a trace of passion or emotion. Davis would have given his right hand at that moment that she had been led into some burst of excitement, some outbreak of passionate feeling, which, in rebuking, might have carried him away from all thoughts about himself; but she was cold and still and silent, like one who has heard some terrible tidings, but yet has summoned up courage for the trial. There was that in her calm, impassive stare that cut him to the very heart; nor could any words have reproached him so bitterly as that steadfast look. “If you don't know who we are, you know what we are, girl. Is that not so?” cried he, in a thick and passionate tone. “I meant to have told it you fifty times. There was n't a week in the last two years that I did n't, at least, begin a letter to you about it I did more: I cut all the things out of the newspapers and made a collection of them, and intended, some day or other, you should read them. Indeed, it was only because you seemed so happy there that, I spared you. I felt the day must come, though. Know it you must, sooner or later, and better from me than another I mean better for the other; for, by heaven! I 'd have shot him who told you. Why don't you speak to me, girl? What's passing in your mind?” “I scarcely know,” said she, in a hollow voice. “I don't quite feel sure I am awake!”