But she lay there, buried in the long folds of her hair, the raven masses that he had so often smoothed and played with, lay there like a thing without sense or motion, save for the prolonged and bitter sobs that burst forth at intervals, as though the very heart was cleft asunder and breathing out its life. And before her stood the stern old man, with his arms crossed upon his broad chest, his pale lip compressed, and rigid as though cast in iron, and his eye turned immovably on that prostrate form. Around him were the evidences of his wealth. The marble fountain that tossed its white spray, and rang forth its silver peel amid the rare and tropical plants, whose perfume stole through the open blinds of the conservatory; the rich drapery of the massive windows; the crimson of the gilded and carved coaches; the deep and glowing dyes of the thick carpets; the soft light of the crystal lamp that swung to and fro from the frescoed ceiling, and the only child of the rich man crouched amid the luxuries that had once been hers, in her mean and faded garb, dusty and toil-worn, unmantled, save for the dark glory of those redundant tresses. Philip Mordaunt gazed, and for a moment his brow relaxed, and his voice softened as he spoke again, “Mabel.” Eagerly she looked up; eagerly upon his stern care-worn face those wild eyes turned, with a half hopeful, half doubting expression, that might have softened a harder heart; but his was steeled against her. “When you left my home and heart for a villain, I cursed you, Mabel Clifdon. But I will unsay my curse; I will drag you from the shame into which you have fallen. See, my arms are opened to receive you.” “But Clifdon,” she murmured gaspingly, still crouching to the earth. “Perdition seize him!” She shuddered but spoke not. “See,” murmured the old man, raising her slight form from the ground and speaking kindly, but with a strange gleam in his eye, that mocked the softness of his tones, “See how I woo you back again. I press you to my heart; I smooth back these bright waves that I may kiss your cheek and forehead as I did of old. Come back to the lone old man, who is dying in the midst of his luxury, and all for lack of one dear heart to lean upon. Sweet Mabel! darling! my own, my only child! hark how your mother from her grave implores you. Return, forsake the villain who has wrought us all this anguish.” “Ah! no! no!” “Then perish!” he said fiercely, dashing her violently to the earth, “Go perish, fool, with all that you would cling to!” Again she lay prostrate and half insensible, but with her breath coming in short quick gasps, and the large tears working their way slowly and painfully from beneath the broad white lids that closed above them.