‘O, do not speak of him!’ she cried. ‘Remember, how ever dark his guilt may be, I once loved him—once, and O, so long, believed in him; hoped that he was only unfortunate, and not wicked; clung to the thought that he was the victim of circumstances. Lucius, have some pity upon me. Since that night when you first spoke of your dreadful fear—first suggested that some one was trying to poison my poor old grandfather—I have lived in a horrible dream. Nothing has seemed clear to me. Life has been all terror and confusion. Tell me once for all, is it true that some one tried to poison him—is it true?’ Words failed her. She stopped, stifled by sobs. ‘Lucille, do not speak of these things,’ said Lucius, drawing the too fragile form to his breast, smoothing the loose hair on the pale forehead. ‘Is it not enough to know that the danger is past? That fatal blindness—the fatal delusion which made you cling to the memory of a bad man—has been dispelled. You will never admit Ferdinand Sivewright to this house again.’ He looked at the pale face resting on his shoulder as he made this straight assertion. There was no indignant denial, not even surprise in the look of those plaintive eyes which were slowly lifted to meet his own—a beseeching look, as of one who asked forgiveness for a great wrong. ‘I have been more than foolish,’ she said, with a shudder, as if at some terrible memory. ‘I have been very wicked. If my grandfather had died, I should have been an unconscious accomplice in his murder. But he _is_ my father; and when he came to me, after so many years of separation, shelterless, hopeless, only pleading for a refuge, and the opportunity to win his father’s pardon—O Lucius, I can never tell you how he pleaded, by the memory of his old love for me—’ ‘His love for you! I trust you may soon know, dearest, what that love was worth.’ ‘Heaven grant I may never see his face or hear his name again, Lucius. The memory of him is all horror.’ ‘You shall not be troubled by him any more if I can help it,’ answered her lover tenderly. ‘But you will never again keep a secret from me, will you, dearest?’ ‘Never, Lucius. I have suffered too much from this one sin against your love. But if you knew how he pleaded, you would forgive me. You would not even wonder that I was so weak. Think, Lucius; a repentant son pleading for admission to his father’s house, without a roof to cover him, and longing for a reconciliation with the father he had offended.’ ‘My poor confiding child, you were made the dupe of a villain. Tell me no more than you like to tell; but if it is any relief to you to speak—’