Madelaine clung to him, with the tears gathering in her eyes. From her earliest childhood she had looked up to him as to some near relative, who had treated her as he had treated his own child--her companion, Louise; and now as she saw the agony depicted in his face, she suffered with him, and in her womanly sympathy her tears still fell fast. "But, dear Mr Vine," she whispered, "forgive me for pressing you at such a time, but there is some mistake." "Yes," he said sternly; and she shivered as she saw how he was changed, and heard how harsh his voice had grown. "Yes, Madelaine, my child, there has been a terrible mistake made by a weak, infatuated man, who acted on impulse, and never let his mind stray from the hobby he pursued--mine." "Mr Vine!" "Hush, my child, I know. You are going to say words that I could not bear to hear now. I know what I have done, I see it too plainly now. In my desire to play a kindly brother's part, I let that of a father lapse, and my punishment has come--doubly come." "If you would only let me speak," she whispered. "Not now--not now. I want strength first to bear my punishment, to bear it patiently as a man." It seemed to be no time to argue and plead her friend's cause, but she still clung to him. "Bear with me," he whispered. "I am not going to reproach you for what you have said. There, my dear, leave me now." Madelaine sighed, and with her brow wrinkled by the lines of care, she stood watching the old man as he bent over his microscope once more, and then softly left the room. "Well?" said Uncle Luke eagerly, as she joined him in the hall. "What does he say?" "That he will not see her. That he could not trust himself to meet her now." "Ah!" Madelaine started, and turned sharply round as a piteous wail fell upon her ears. Aunt Marguerite was standing within the dining-room door, wringing her hands, and looking wild and strange. "I can't bear it," she cried. "I can't bear it. He thinks it is my fault. Go in and tell him, Luke. He must not, he shall not blame me." "Let him alone for a bit," said Luke, coldly. "But he thinks it is all my fault. I want to tell him--I want him to know that it is no fault of mine." "Can't convince him of impossibilities," said Uncle Luke coldly. "And you think it, too!" cried Aunt Marguerite passionately. "I will see him." "Go up to your room and wait a bit. That's the best advice I can give you." "But George will--" "Say things to you that will be rather startling to your vain old brain, Madge, if you force yourself upon him, and I'll take care that you do not." "And this is my brother!" cried Aunt Marguerite indignantly. "Uncle Luke is right," said Madelaine quietly, speaking of him as in the old girlish days. "If I might advise you, Miss Vine." "Miss Margue--No, no," cried the old lady, hastily. "Miss Vine; yes, Miss Vine. You will help me, my child. I want my brother to know that it is not my fault."