"It is God's truth," answered the old man. "You told Zaidee Carew a trumped-up story of her husband's falsity, and then--her death followed. Answer me this, madame: Was her death a suicide or--a murder?" She quailed before the stern old man, pale as death, trembling with nervous alarm; but Alpine rose up suddenly and interposed between him and her mother. "How dare you distress my mother so with your shocking hints and suspicions?" she cried, violently. "Get out of here at once, you old wretch, or I will call Jones to throw you out into the street!" "As your mother did poor Kathleen," he sneered. "And served her right," she hissed. Then she rang the bell violently. When Jones appeared, she said: "Take this old beggar and throw him into the street! If you ever admit him again, you will be discharged." Uncle Ben moved toward the door with Jones, but, looking back, asked, pleadingly: "Will _you_ not pay your brother's debt?" "Never! Now go!" she stormed, and the rich curtains fell behind the bent retreating form; but from the hall a strange, exultant laugh came back to them, and Mrs. Carew shuddered. "Heavens! how horribly that laugh sounded like my husband's laugh!" CHAPTER LVIII. "I WILL NEVER HUMBLE MYSELF TO YOU AGAIN." Fare thee well, and if forever, Still forever fare thee well, Even though unforgiving, never 'Gainst thee shall this heart rebel. BYRON. Helen Fox was a very bright girl. She did not tell Kathleen that Ralph Chainey frequently visited the house, nor did she mention to him that Kathleen was to be her guest. Yet she knew very well that the unhappy young lovers were sure to meet under her roof. And, in fact, Kathleen had not been twenty-four hours at Helen's when George Fox encountered Ralph somewhere, and dragged him home with him. Kathleen was playing and singing for Helen. Her back was turned to the door, so she did not know when the two young gentlemen entered and silently seated themselves, obeying a gesture from Helen. The young girl, unconscious of her lover's presence, sung on, sweetly and sadly: "One word is too often profaned, For me to profane it, One feeling too falsely disdained For thee to disdain it. One hope is too like to despair, For prudence to smother, And Pity from thee more dear Than that from another. "I can give not when men call love, But wilt thou accept not-- The worship the heart lifts above And the heavens reject not, The desire of the moth for the star, Of the day for the morrow, The devotion to something afar From the sphere of our sorrow?" The plaintive words rang in sad echoes through her lover's brain: "The desire of the moth for the star, Of the day for the morrow?"