“Let me see my mother--I am ill--dying, I think--and I--I have no one else in all the world,” she said faintly, holding to the back of a chair for support as she arose from the couch on which Peter had laid her. “I cannot grant your request, Iris,” he said coldly. “By your own conduct you have forfeited your right to hold any manner of intercourse with my wife. If you are ill I will give you some money, and send Peter to take you to your lodgings, but this is all I can promise--ah, Isabel, my daughter, why did you follow me here? Go back to your guests.” The bright head of Iris had drooped lower and lower while Hilton spoke until it rested on the back of the chair, but as he addressed Isabel, she--Iris--raised her eyes, with the vague hope that the girl whom she had loved as a sister would say some word in her favor. “Isabel, I have only asked to see my mother,” she faltered, but Isabel retorted coldly: “I fully agree with papa that it is impossible. How could you come here to-night, Iris, when you know how the world is talking of your disgraceful conduct. You must go away quietly----” “Isabel!” The voice that had spoken the name proceeded from the doorway, where Chester St. John was standing, gazing into the room with eyes that were dark with scorn and anger, and a face white as that of Iris herself. “Chester,” Isabel exclaimed, with an air of injured innocence and a reproachful glance toward the motionless figure in the doorway, “you think we are cruel and harsh to Iris; but you cannot understand that in denying her request to-night we were seeking to spare her the bitter knowledge that her own mother absolutely refuses to admit her, or to speak to her if she were dying. Is not this the truth, papa?” “It is certainly true, St. John,” he answered. “I would have spared this unfortunate girl, had such a thing been at all possible; but my wife positively declines to have anything to do with her daughter now, or at any time in the future. Mrs. Hilton is even weaker to-night than usual, and--but,” with a sudden assumption of pride and offended dignity, “I do not really know why I am making these explanations to you, St. John; as my daughter’s accepted suitor, the affairs of this girl cannot concern you; and I think you will do me the justice to confess that I, who have fed and clothed and sheltered Iris Tresilian until she left my home of her own accord, and for what purpose you know--am fully capable of dealing justly with her now.” “I understand your reproof, sir, and while I acknowledge that I have no right to dictate to you in this matter, I will still beg leave to say a word in the interests of common humanity. Had I never looked upon Iris Tresilian’s face I should still protest against a young creature like her being sent out on such a night, unprotected and alone. If she has sinned----”