"Have you any children, madam?" she asked, suddenly, and Mrs. Leith answered: "No," rather shortly, but added a minute later: "And I am glad of it, for I do not love children. But Mr. Leith does, and is rather sorry that we have none." "He is justly punished for his sin," thought his unknown daughter, while she secretly wondered why he had never claimed the child his wife had heartlessly deserted to return to him. "Perhaps she told him I was dead," thought Golden, looking at the beautiful woman with a strange thrill of repulsion. "Perhaps he would have loved me and cared for me, had he known I lived." A thrill of pity, half mixed with tenderness, stirred her heart for the father who had been cheated of the child he would have loved. She became conscious of a burning desire to meet her father--the man who had wronged her mother, and who had been wronged in turn, in that he had never beheld the face of his child. There was a manly step at the door, and it opened, admitting a tall, handsome man in the prime of life. Golden's heart gave a quick, wild throb, then sank heavily in her breast. She retreated hastily to the shade of a window-curtain, where she could observe the new-comer, herself unobserved. Richard Leith was tall, dark, and very handsome, though there were iron-gray threads in his dark, waving hair, and in the long, magnificent beard that rippled down upon his breast. He looked like a man who had known trouble and sorrow. His face was both sad and stern, and his dark eyes were cold and gloomy. Mrs. Leith looked up at him carelessly, and his grave face did not brighten at the sight of her beauty, enhanced as it was by the rich, blue silk, and becoming white lace bonnet with its garland of roses. "Are you ready for your drive, Mrs. Leith?" he inquired, with punctilious politeness. "Yes, I am just ready," she replied, carelessly. "You see I have a new maid; she is rather awkward, but I shall keep her until I can do better." Mr. Leith gave an indifferent nod toward the gray gown and white cap that was dimly visible at the furthest corner of the room, then he went out with his wife, and Golden sank down upon the carpet and wept some bitter, bitter tears, that seemed to lift a little bit of the load of grief from her oppressed bosom. After all, she had found her father and mother, and it was possible that she might bring them to see the wickedness of their course, and to seek reformation. She determined not to reveal her identity just yet. She would stay with them a little and learn more of them before she made her strong appeal to them in behalf of truth. She would not reproach them just yet for the blight they had cast on her innocent life. She would patiently bide her time. It was a strange position to be placed in. Under the roof of her own parents, unknown and unacknowledged, with her whole life laid bare and desolate through their sin.