'No, Blake; you shall know all in good time,' replied Michael, with disarming gentleness. 'If I do not speak out at once, it is because I fear to give you too great a shock.' 'Too great a shock?' 'Yes. Your mother, out of mistaken kindness, has kept her children in ignorance all these years that they have a father living. He was not a father of whom they could be proud, and she tried to keep the fact of his existence from them.' 'Wait a moment!' exclaimed Cyril. The poor fellow had turned very white. 'I must take this in. What are you telling me, Burnett? That my mother--my widowed mother--has a husband living?' 'I am telling you the truth. Are you ready to hear me say more? I will wait any time you like; but it is a long story, and a sad one. Your mother has left me to tell it.' 'Go on! Let me hear every word! Hide nothing--nothing!' Cyril spoke in a dull, stifled voice, as though he felt choking. When Michael began to speak, very slowly and quietly, he almost turned his back to him; and as the story proceeded, Michael noticed how he clutched the carved arms of his chair; but he did not once see his face. Michael afterwards owned that telling that miserable story to Olive O'Brien's son was one of the toughest jobs he had ever done in his life. But he had no idea how well he did it: there was not an unnecessary word. With the utmost care he strove to shield the woman, and to show her conduct in the best light. 'It was for her children's sake she did it,' he said again and again; but there was no answering word from Cyril; if he had been turned to stone, his position could not have been more rigid. 'Have you understood me, Blake? My poor, dear fellow, if you knew how sorry Dr. Ross and I are for you----' Then, as Michael mentioned Dr. Ross's name, Cyril seemed galvanised into sudden life. 'He knows! he knows! For God's sake give me air!' But before Michael could cross the room, Cyril had stumbled to the window and flung it up, and stood there, with the bitter east wind blowing on his face, as though it were a refreshing summer breeze. The chill air made Michael shiver; but he knew by experience how intolerable was that sense of suffocation, and he stood by patiently until that deadly feeling had passed. 'Are you better now, Blake? My poor fellow, can you sit down and speak to me?' Then Cyril turned his face towards him, and Michael was shocked to see how strained and haggard it looked. 'Does she know, too?' 'Not yet; her father will tell her.' Then the poor boy shuddered from head to foot. 'They will make her give me up! O my God! how can I bear it? Burnett, I think I shall go mad! Tell me it is not true--that my mother has not lied to me all these years!' 'At least, she has lied for her son's sake.' But he knew how futile were his words, as he saw the bitter contempt in Cyril's honest eyes. 'I will never forgive her! She has ruined my life! she has made me wish that I were dead! I will never, never----'