"Trust!" repeated Riccabocca, startled and conscience-stricken; "why do you say 'trust?' In what have I distrusted you? I am sure," he continued, with the artful volubility of guilt, "that I never doubted your fidelity--hook-nosed, long-visaged foreigner though I be; never pried into your letters; never inquired into your solitary walks; never heeded your flirtations with that good-looking Parson Dale; never kept the money; and never looked into the account-books!" Mrs. Riccabocca refused even a smile of contempt at these revolting evasions; nay, she seemed scarcely to hear them. "Can you think," she resumed, pressing her hand on her heart to still its struggles for relief in sobs--"can you think that I could have watched, and thought, and tasked my poor mind so constantly, to conjecture what might best soothe or please you, and not seen, long since, that you have secrets known to your daughter--your servant--not to me? Fear not--the secrets can not be evil, or you would not tell them to your innocent child. Besides, do I not know your nature? and do I not love you because I know it?--it is for something connected with these secrets that you leave your home. You think that I should be incautious--imprudent. You will not take me with you. Be it so. I go to prepare for your departure. Forgive me if I have displeased you, husband." Mrs. Riccabocca turned away; but a soft hand touched the Italian's arm. "O father, can you resist this? Trust her!--trust her! I am a woman like her! I answer for her woman's faith. Be yourself--ever nobler than all others, my own father." "_Diavolo!_ Never one door shuts but another opens," groaned Riccabocca. "Are you a fool, child? Don't you see that it was for your sake only I feared--and would be cautious?" "For mine! O then, do not make me deem myself mean, and the cause of meanness. For mine! Am I not your daughter--the descendant of men who never feared?" Violante looked sublime while she spoke; and as she ended she led her father gently on toward the door, which his wife had now gained. "Jemima--wife--mine!--pardon, pardon," cried the Italian, whose heart had been yearning to repay such tenderness and devotion--"come back to my breast--it has been long closed--it shall be open to you now and forever." In another moment, the wife was in her right place--on her husband's bosom; and Violante, beautiful peace-maker, stood smiling awhile at both, and then lifted her eyes gratefully to heaven, and stole away. CHAPTER XIII.