"Poor child!" she said. "You are too ill and weary to seek for anyone now. Leave that sorrowful quest to your father, and place yourself in my care." The tears brimmed over in Golden's beautiful eyes at the kindly spoken words of her step-mother. "Oh, madam," she cried, "you offer to befriend me. Then you do not believe that I am the lost and guilty creature they would fain make me out." Mrs. Leith's beautiful face beamed with sympathy as she answered: "No, Golden, I do not believe you are a sinner. I have a strong conviction that you are a deserted or discarded wife, and I will care for you in your forlorn situation with the tenderness of your own mother." CHAPTER XXXVII. Richard Leith went down to his office, and threw himself heavily into a chair, bowing his gray head dejectedly on his hands. His brain was almost crazed with the agony of the last hour's discovery. The sealed book of the past had been roughly torn open again, and in agony of soul he repented the selfish course he had pursued with the fair, young wife he had stolen from her home and friends. Where was she now, his beautiful, golden-haired darling? What fate had kept her from her home and friends, and from the little child that had come to such bitter grief in the absence of the mother-love that might have shielded her from harm? He sprang from his chair, and paced impatiently up and down the floor, while he hurriedly settled his plans. He would leave for the south that night. He would seek out John Glenalvan, and charge him with his sin. He would force him to unfold the mystery of little Golden's disappearance. Perhaps, oh, God, the villain had murdered her. If he had, he should suffer the dire punishment the law meted out for such wretched criminals. "But before I go," he said to himself, grimly, "I will go and see Desmond. If he has lied to me heretofore, woe be unto him. The base betrayer of my poor child's innocence shall receive no mercy at my hands." He threw on his hat and directed his steps to the hotel where Mr. Desmond was staying in preference to the grand, deserted dwelling, which was closed and left in the solitary care of the housekeeper during the absence of the family. Mr. Desmond was smoking in his luxurious parlor, carelessly habited in dressing-gown and slippers. His handsome, debonair face looked pale and worn, and melancholy. A hopeful gleam came into the listless eyes as his visitor was admitted. "Ah, Leith, so glad to see you," he cried, throwing away his cigar, and eagerly advancing. "You bring me news--Edith has relented?" "There is nothing more unlikely," Mr. Leith returned, with grim truthfulness; then he broke out with fiery impetuosity: "Desmond, for God's sake tell me the truth. Have you deceived me as well as your wife? Are you guilty of this monstrous sin?" Mr. Desmond was startled by the almost agonizing entreaty of the lawyer's look and voice.