“No, it would be premature. Nothing is to be gained by the disclosure but pain; it is enough that I did what I have done under the promptings of my own will. I have taken the consequences, and I am prepared to endure them. I ask nothing of you but to be allowed to depart.” “What language is this? Am I not your father?--have I no title to control your actions. Preposterous notion!--you will find your error and repent it sorely, bitterly.” “I have done so,” she said, with an earnestness which struck him. He paused for a moment, and gazed steadfastly at her. “What means this alteration in you? Why are you so pallid and thin?” he asked, abruptly. “I have been ill.” “Ill?” “Very ill.” “Tell me,” he asked with a choking utterance; “with whom have you dwelt since you left this house?” “A young girl.” “A girl,” he echoed, in surprise. This was a question he had feared to ask, and he anticipated from her a direct refusal to reply. He was amazed at the readiness with which she responded. “Humble, sir,” she continued, in a thoughtful voice, which had a singular tone of sadness pervading it; “but a model of purity, innocence, and faithfulness!” “You have been with her alone, up to the hour you came hither to-night?” “With her alone.” “Will you swear this?” “In the face of Heaven, it is true, sir.” Mr. Grahame paced the room again. There was intense relief afforded to him by her replies, for, heartless and selfish, he cared little what she had suffered during what he considered to be her madly capricious act, so that she had not disgraced his name. He would have looked over even her self-degradation, if he had been sure that the crime was confined alone to her breast and that of the partner of her sin, and it would not interfere with his new-formed scheme. “Helen,” he said, pausing abruptly before her, “you must give me your promise that you will some day explain the mystery which hangs over the interval of your flight from home, if I forbear to urge it now?” “I do, sir,” she replied, in a low tone. Again he took several turns across the room before he could bring out his proposition; but at length he stopped, and recommenced speaking. “Helen,” he said, “you are unmarried.” Had he struck her a blow upon the temple, it would have had less effect. She staggered and clung o the table. “You are ill,” he said, hastily. “No,” she answered, in a hollow tone, “proceed.” “So far as I know,” he said, “you have had no offer for your hand--no suitor, who has distinctly proposed; many intimations, I know, have been made, but I have always turned a cold face upon them; for I would elevate you in rank and surround you with wealth. Such a chance offers itself for your acceptance now.” She uttered a faint cry, and recoiled from him. “Helen,” he said, sternly, “it is for you to repair the past, and the opportunity is within your grasp--beware how you fling it away.” She tried to speak, but her voice failed her.