"I hardly think," he said, with a meaning smile, "that you would really like me to speak before a third party." "I really care nothing," was her answer. "And I cannot see why you seek me here. When one is hopeless, as I am, one becomes callous of what the future may bring." "Hopeless! Yes," he said in a changed voice, "I know that; living in this dismal hole, Gabrielle, you must be hopeless. I know that your exile here, away from all your friends and those you love, must be soul-killing. Don't think that I have not reflected upon it a hundred times." "Ah, then you have at last experienced remorse!" she cried bitterly, looking straight into the man's face. "You have estranged me from my father, and tried to ruin him! You lied to him--lied in order to save yourself!" The man laughed. "My dear child," he exclaimed, "you really misjudge me entirely. I am here for two reasons: to ask your forgiveness for making that allegation which was imperative; and, secondly, to assure you that, if you will allow me, I will yet be your friend." "Friend!" she echoed in a hollow voice. "You--my friend!" "Yes. I know that you mistrust me," he replied; "but I want to prove that my intentions towards you are those of real friendship." "And you, who ever since my girlhood days have been my worst enemy, ask me now to trust you!" she exclaimed with indignation. "No; go back to Lady Heyburn and tell her that I refuse to accept the olive-branch which you and she hold out to me." "My dear girl, you don't follow me," he exclaimed impatiently. "This has nothing whatever to do with Lady Heyburn. I have come to you from purely personal motives. My sole desire is to effect your return to Glencardine." "For your own ends, Mr. Flockart, without a doubt!" she said bitterly. "Ah! there you are quite mistaken. Though you assert that I am your father's enemy, I am, I tell you, his friend. He is ever thinking of you with regret. You were his right hand. Would it not be far better if he invited you to return?" She sighed at the thought of the blind man whom she regarded with such entire devotion, but answered, "No, I shall never return to Glencardine." "Why?" he asked. "Was it anything more than natural that, believing you had been prying into his affairs, your father, in a moment of anger, condemned you to this life of appalling monotony?" "No, not more natural than that you, the culprit, should have made me the scapegoat for the second time," was her defiant reply. "Have I not already told you that the reason I'm here is to crave your forgiveness? I admit that my actions have been the reverse of honourable; but--well, there were circumstances which compelled me to act as I did."