"Una, listen to me. All my life I have had but one aim, one purpose, your happiness and welfare. For your sake I left the world and an honored name----" he stopped suddenly, warned by the gentle wonder of her gaze, and with a faint color in his face hurried on--"for your sake, and yours only. Do you think that it is by choice that I have kept you hidden from the world? No, but of necessity. Una, between the world and you yawns a wide gulf. On this side are peace, and innocence, and happiness; on the other," and his voice grew grave and solemn, "lie misery and--shame." White and wondering, she gazed at him, and the innocent wonder in the beautiful face recalled him to himself. "Enough! You can trust me, Una; it is no idle, meaningless warning. Remember what I have said, when your thoughts turn to the world beyond the forest, when you grow weary and impatient with the quiet life which, though it may seem sad and weary, is the only one you can ever know without passing that gulf of which I have spoken." "And now I want you to give me a promise, Una." "A promise, father?" she echoed, in a low voice. "Yes; I want you to promise me that if this--this young man should come, as he has threatened to do--that if he should come to you, and speak to you, you will not listen, will not speak to him." An impatient frown knitted Gideon Rolfe's brow. "Is this so much to ask you?" he said, in a low voice. "Is it so grave a thing to demand of you that you should avoid a man whom you have seen but twice in your life, one whom you know to be wicked and worthless?" "Girl," he exclaimed, in low, harsh accents, "has the curse fallen upon you--already? Has he bewitched you? Speak? Why do you not speak? Has all the careful guarding of years been set at naught and rendered of no avail by the mere sight of one of his race, by a few idle words spoken by one of his hateful kin?" He grasped her shoulder; instantly, with a revulsion of feeling, he withdrew his hand, and bent his head with a gesture almost of humility. "Una, forgive me. You see how this unmans me--can you not understand how great must be the danger from which I wish to save you? Promise me what I ask you, for your own sake--ay, and for his." "For his?" she murmured. "Yes, for his. Let him but attempt to cross your path again, and I will not hold my hand. I held it once--would to Heaven I had not! I say, for his sake, promise that you will hold no speech with him!" "Father, what has he done to make you hate him so?" she asked. "I cannot, I will not tell you more than this: His race has ruined my life and yours--ruined it beyond all reparation here and hereafter. No more. I wait for your promise." "I promise," she said. "Good," he said. "I can trust you, child." "Yes, you can trust me," she said, in a low voice; then with slow, listless steps she crossed the room and stole up-stairs. CHAPTER XI.