“Queenie, are you here?” the voice said again, and she replied, “Yes, father,” while he continued: “I meant to have told you when we reached New York, but cannot now, I am too weak. It is too late, forever too late. Oh Queenie—oh, Margaret, forgive!” “Is it of mother you wish to tell me?” Reinette asked bending forward eagerly, and fixing her great dark eyes upon him. “Your mother, child—your mother. Yes—no—don’t speak that name aloud. We’ve left _her_ way over there, or I thought we had. That’s why I was going home—to get away from it, and—if——Queenie, where are you? I can’t see you, child. You are surely here? You are listening?” “Yes, yes, father, I am here. I am listening,” and the girl’s rigid face and fixed, wide-open eyes showed how intently she was listening. “Yes, child, that’s right; listen so close that nobody else can hear. We are all alone?” “Yes, father, all alone; only Pierre is outside, and he understands English so little. What is it, father? What are you going to tell me?” There was silence for a moment, while Mr. Hetherton regarded his daughter fixedly, and with an expression in his eyes which made her uneasy and half afraid of him. “What is it?” he said, at last. “I don’t know; it comes and goes, as she did. Ah! now I have it: Queenie, remember how much I love you, and if you ever meet your mother, remember it was my fault, and do not blame her too much.” “Oh, poor father! his mind is wandering,” Reinette thought; but she said to him, soothingly: “Mother is dead; she died in Rome when I was born.” Again the eyes regarded her wistfully as the dying man replied: “Yes, I know; but she’s here, or she was over there in the corner just now, laughing at my pain. Oh, Queenie! do the torments of the lost begin before they die? I’m sorry—oh, I am so sorry! It’s too late now—too late. I can’t think how it was, or tell you if I could.” He was quiet a moment, and seemed to be himself again, as his hands caressed the shining hair of the head bowed down so near to him. “Too late, Queenie. I ought to have told you before, but it’s my nature to put off; and now when they claim you in Merrivale, accept it; try to like everybody and be pleased with everything. America is very different from France. Trust Mr. Beresford; he is my friend. He comes of a good race. Tell him everything. Go to him for everything necessary, but don’t trouble any one when you can help yourself. Don’t cry before people; it bothers and distresses them. Be a woman; learn to care for yourself. Govern your temper; nobody will bear with it as I have. Be patient with Pierre—and—and—Queenie, child, where are you? It’s getting so dark. I can’t see you anywhere, nor feel you either. Have you left me, too? and Margaret is gone now.” “No, no; I’m here!” Reinette cried, in an agony of fear; and her father continued: “Remember, when it comes to you, as it may, that you promised to forgive.”