He turned then and saw her for the first time. His narrow eyes dilated with surprise. "Why, you pretty wild-cat, you must be my daughter Alpine! How do you do, my dear? Give your papa a kiss, dear!" "You are not--not----" she choked over the word, and he answered, with sudden gravity: "I am your father, George Harrison, my little girl, and I went to prison for life for killing a man who was once my dearest friend. Why? Well, your mother might tell you if she would. I will spare her for your sake. You seem to love her." He seemed to have grown suddenly sober after the first sight of his daughter's face. "Well, she has prospered, has she not? She is rich and grand, while I have lain in prison all these years, but a few miles from her, my heart burning with hate for her, and aching with love for my boy and girl, Ivan and Alpine, while she taught them to forget that they ever had a father other than Vincent Carew, the proud millionaire. Alpine, speak to me for once; call me father!" A spasm of pain contracted the worn features he raised longingly to her face. Love shone in his eyes, poor convict that he was, and although he had come to curse the mother and extort money from her, the memory of it fled from him now as he gazed imploringly on Alpine's lovely, soulless face. With outstretched hands he besought her kindness. Surely the fiends in hell could have had no more hateful look than the girl turned upon the suppliant as he bowed the knee before her so entreatingly. Angrily she struck at the outstretched, toil-worn hands, exclaiming: "You have no claim on me. I hate you--hate you!" Could a strong man's heart break for so common a thing as a child's hardness and ingratitude? It would seem so, for the escaped felon turned aside with such a look on his face as it might have worn had a dagger pierced his heart. It seemed as if he meant to go. He staggered toward the door, tripped, and fell prostrate. His face quivered with one or two spasms, then he lay still and dead, his white face upturned to their startled gaze. "Dead!" muttered Mrs. Carew, staring down in mingled terror and relief. "Dead!" echoed Alpine, in a sort of awe. And for a few minutes there was a terrible silence. Then Alpine crept to her mother's side. "Mamma, was it true?" "Yes, it was true. There, you have my awful secret. Bury it deep in your heart, Alpine, for no one must ever know. Now we must call the servants to put the body out. We can not have anything so vulgar as a dead tramp lying in the house!" She moved toward the door, but her steps were arrested by a stern voice: "Stay!" She turned with a start and shudder. A man had emerged from behind the curtain. At first sight it seemed to be Uncle Ben Carew, the old man so cordially despised. But with a rapid hand he flung off wig, whiskers, and spectacles, standing revealed in majestic beauty--Vincent Carew! "My God!" she cried, and flew to embrace him. He repulsed her with scorn and loathing.