“Oh, Laurence!” she began, “I have something to tell you. Come into the music-room; it is sure to be empty.” And then, in a few hurried sentences, she unfolded her discovery and placed Mrs. Kane’s nice little letter in his hands. “Of course, now I shall speak. Of course, I seem a miserably mean, cowardly creature! It is only when forced by circumstances that I open my lips at last. Mrs. Leach has long guessed that I had a secret and a _past_--but, strive as she would, she could never find out anything definite.” “This is very definite,” said Laurence, dryly. “It is, indeed. I could not understand her intense scorn for me latterly. Laurence, I meant to have told my father immediately after--after last June, but I was ill; and then, as I used to lie thinking, thinking, I said to myself, I may as well carry the secret to the grave, for now the child is gone, and Laurence is gone, what is the use of speaking?” “But you see that Laurence is not gone!” he exclaimed expressively; “and we will let bygones be bygones instead. I am before both you and Mrs. Leach. I told your father last night. He took it, on the whole, surprisingly well! I have not seen him this morning, though. He won’t allude to it at present. Board ship is no place for scenes, he says; and I am entirely of his opinion; so, my dear, you need not look so ghastly. Now, come along on deck. We shall soon sight Tarifa. Ah! here is Mr. West at last.” The music-room was pretty full as the little man came slowly towards the pair, who sat apart on a couch at the end of it. He looked unusually solemn, and he had discarded his ordinary blue bird’s-eye tie for a black one. He avoided his daughter’s glance, and fixed his attention on her mourning-gown, as he said-- “Well, how are you to-day, Madeline, my love?” “I feel better--much better.” “That is good news! Then come on deck and see the Spanish coast?” He sat next to her--their steamer chairs placed closely side by side--in silence for a long time, smoking, and apparently buried in thought; then, as he suddenly noticed Wynne’s signet-ring on her wedding finger, he leant forward, took her fragile hand in his--it trembled, for he held it long and contemplated it intently--and at last released it with surprising gentleness. “Madeline,” he said, “I _know_ you’ve had enough trouble. I’m not going to say one word; but I’m greatly cut up about what happened--last summer;” and Madeline drew her veil over her face to hide her streaming tears. * * * * *