It was to satisfy himself that Randall McLean was that enviable somebody that he had sought this interview; and, though she had admitted nothing and he had not questioned, he had read in her tears and blushes a truth that only recently had she tremblingly admitted to herself. Now he saw his way clearly to the end. But to Bayard the abrupt close of the murmured interview meant a possibility that filled him with double dismay. That one hope should be dashed to earth this morning was an evil sufficient unto the day. That it should be followed by the conviction that his daughter had utterly declined to consider this wealthy and most estimable gentleman as a suitor for her hand was a bitter, bitter disappointment; but that she should have refused Roswell Holmes, with all his advantages, because of Randall McLean--with what?--was more than he could bear. Just as she was hurrying to her room, still weeping, he interposed. "My little Nell!--my precious!" he cried, in tenderest tones, as he folded her in his arms. "Is it so hopeless as this? Is it possible that my little daughter's heart has been stolen away--right under my eyes--and I never saw it?" For an answer she only clung to him, hiding her bonny face, weeping the more violently. Speak she could not. "Nell! Nellie!" he pleaded, "try and tell me, dear. You don't know what it means to me! You don't know what fears your silence causes me! My child--tell me--that it isn't Mr. McLean." No answer--only closer nestling; only added tears. "Nell, my own little one! If you knew with what awful dread I waited! If you knew what this meant to me--to you--to us all! Speak to me, daughter. Tell me it isn't that unhappy young man." And now, startled, shocked, she lifts her brimming eyes in wonderment to her father's face, gazing at him through the mist of tears. "Why unhappy?" she almost gasps. "Why--why not Mr. McLean, papa?" For a moment Bayard stands as though stunned. Then slowly relaxes the clasp of his arms and turns drearily away, covering his face with his hands. "My God!" he moans. "This is retribution, this is punishment! Blinder than the veriest mole have I been through it all. Nellie!" he cries, turning suddenly toward her again as she stands there trembling at his melodramatic misery. "There is no engagement! There has been nothing said, has there? Tell me!" "Not a word,--from me," she whispers low. "He sent me a little note yesterday through Jeannie. Indeed, you can see it, papa; but I have not answered. It doesn't ask anything." "Then promise me no word shall go, my child! Promise me! I cannot tell you why just yet, but he is not the man to whom I could ever consent to give you. My child! my child! his name is clouded; his honor is tarnished; he stands accused of crime. Nellie--my God! you must hear it sooner or later." But now she draws away from him and leans upon the balusters, looking into his face as though she doubted his sanity.