"Gertrude," her husband cried out at the sound of her voice, and she knelt down by him weeping wildly. "Oh, Richard, who is it that has killed you and your child?" she sobbed in anguish. "It is John Glenalvan's dreadful work," he replied, then he looked into her face with dim, yearning eyes. "Gertrude! I believe I am dying," he said faintly. "Will you forgive me before I die?" "Forgive you?" she said. "Ah, Richard, do not think that I blamed you. You sinned ignorantly." "Yes, ignorantly," he echoed, and a spasm of pain crossed his face an instant, then he said sadly: "But I did not mean _that_, Gertrude. I meant you must forgive me that I was careless and blind, that I did not prize your true heart more." She put her white hand to her heart, and a look of pain came into the large, blue eyes, then she said with mournful pathos: "For all the heartaches I have borne. Richard, I freely forgive you." "Thank you," he murmured, then his eyes dwelt on her gratefully. "It was so noble in you to care for my poor child," he murmured, "but Gertrude, I repented in an hour. I came back to tell her so, and she was gone, both were gone. I sought you everywhere, my heart nearly broke; I fell ill, and lay for weary weeks fevered and maddened by my impatience and anxiety. At last I grew better and came here!" "Have you found _her_?" she murmured, anxiously, while the red blood suffused her fair cheeks. He shook his head mournfully, and his eyes closed languidly. She believed that he was dead, and started up with a cry of woe, but when the physician came a little later he decided that he was only in a deep swoon. Golden recovered consciousness, and the hapless father and daughter were removed to adjoining rooms, the physician veering anxiously from one room to another. He believed that Mr. Leith's life might be saved by his medical skill, but he shook his head ominously over the beautiful, golden-haired child, whose shrill wails of agony pierced every heart, for in the agitation of her mind, and the fearful shock of her heavy fall, the pangs of premature motherhood had came upon her. * * * * * John Glenalvan had fled from the scene of his villainy with a speed to which sudden fear and remorse had lent wings. He believed that he had killed Richard Leith and his unfortunate child, and in the fear of punishment for his crime he did not even stop to apprise his family of what had occurred, but hurried away to seek a hiding-place for himself. Too late he regretted the blind rage that had forced him into the commission of such a desperate deed. The cries of his victims seemed to pursue him in his hurried flight. His son reported his cowardly deeds to his mother and sister, and they remained lost in fear and wonder.