“Iris!” he again ejaculated hoarsely; but when Chester sprang to his side in alarm he waved him back authoritatively. “It is nothing,” he cried, with quick, gasping breaths, “I am subject to these sudden spasms of pain--around my heart--and it is so natural for me to call on--Iris--there! it is over now, but I would like to be alone. Come to-morrow, St. John, and Iris will give you her answer.” Chester was not in the least offended by this abrupt dismissal, having no suspicion that the pain of which Mr. Hilton had complained was purely imaginary, and that there was a deeper cause for that ashen, pale face and those trembling hands. He bade Iris’ father good night with many expressions of regret, promising to call for Iris’ answer on the morrow, and taking his departure at last with such a look of hope upon his face that one might have guessed what he expected the girl’s answer to be. CHAPTER XLIII. THE OUTCAST. “Iris! Iris! My God, have I killed her?” The words came from the lips of Oscar Hilton with a cry of unutterable fear, as he bent over the rigid and senseless form of his young daughter, on the morning following his interview with Chester St. John. “I have killed her!” the man reiterated; but even as he lifted the girl’s head from the floor, her lips trembled slightly, and the lids were lifted slowly from the beautiful blue eyes that looked purple now, as Iris awakened to the consciousness of a sorrow tenfold more bitter than death. “It cannot--oh, it cannot be true!” she moaned, drawing herself away from the touch of his hands with an irrepressible shudder. “You say that Chester St. John loves me, and will ask me to be his wife, and I--loving him with every pulse of my heart--must give him up. Nay! more--that I must tell him I have no love for him--must send him from me with the bitter thought that I am a false and heartless coquette. No! no! Oh, dear Heaven! I can do anything but that.” Oscar Hilton had been terrified when it seemed to him that Iris lay dead at his feet, but at the moment when her voice fell again upon his ear, his voice grew stern and cold, and he spoke to her now with a sneer. “Do you think Chester St. John would ask you to be his wife if he knew the true story of your life? He is very proud of his fine old name; do you think he would care to give it to the child of a----” The word he would have spoken died on his lips unuttered, for Iris had lifted her eyes quickly to his own, with an intangible something in their expression that daunted him.