A sob broke from her. "Oh, it is hard! How can I confess what I have not done?" "Hush!" he said again. "No more of that. The proofs are unhappily too strong." He paused, looking into her agitated face. "It will be better and happier for us both, when you speak out . . . This is a great sorrow to me, greater than you imagine. At least, you can make it possible that I should forgive, that I should take you to my heart again! . . . Wait a moment; do not speak hastily. Think of the sin against God, and of your need that He should forgive. If you do not confess the truth to me, how can you look for His pardon? You will have a hard fight to get back to your old standing, after so grievous a fall. The first step must be full confession. That is absolutely essential. Why put it off? Why not speak out now—at once—looking on me as your father?" "I do—oh, I do!" sobbed Lettice. "You have been—" "Then treat me as a child should treat her father. Tell me freely, openly, how you came to take such a step, and what led up to it." Lettice mastered her distress with a great effort, and lifted to his, her straightforward glance. "But, uncle, I did not take the bank-note. I do not know in the least how it came to be in my box." Dr. Bryant turned, and coldly left the room, without another word. From that day, a barrier of separation divided the two, robbing their intercourse of all its old sweetness. Theodosia was at last satisfied. At last she had obtained her wish. And perhaps in all England no more unhappy woman could be found. Such gratification of the heart's desire carries its own vengeance with it. As wilful injurer to injured, she naturally showed small kindness to Lettice; and but for Keith, the girl would indeed have been solitary. His affection never varied; yet now and then the boy seemed constrained, and not fully himself; while before his mother he was more careful than ever to hide his feeling for Lettice.