So saying, heedless of the nervous effort she made to detain me, I stumbled down the stairs and walked hastily home. The next morning, while I was in my office, smoking my matutinal cigar, and speculating over the singular character of my acquaintances of last night, the door opened, and Marion Blakelock entered. She had the same look of terror that I had observed the evening before, and she panted as if she had been running fast. “Father has got out of bed,” she gasped out, “and insists on going on with his alchemy. Will it kill him?” “Not exactly,” I answered coldly. “It were better that he kept quiet, so as to avoid the chance of inflammation. However, you need not be alarmed; his burns are not at all dangerous, although painful.” “Thank God! thank God!” she cried, in the most impassioned accents; and, before I was aware of what she was doing, she seized my hand and kissed it. “There, that will do,” I said, withdrawing my hand; “you are under no obligations to me. You had better go back to your father.” “I can’t go,” she answered. “You despise me—is it not so?” I made no reply. “You think me a monster—a criminal. When you went home last night, you were wonderstruck that so vile a creature as I should have so fair a face.” “You embarrass me, madam,” I said, in a most chilling tone. “Pray relieve me from this unpleasant position.” “Wait. I cannot bear that you should think ill of me. You are good and kind, and I desire to possess your esteem. You little know how I love my father.” I could not restrain a bitter smile. “You do not believe that? Well, I will convince you. I have had a hard struggle all last night with myself, but am now resolved. This life of deceit must continue no longer. Will you hear my vindication?” I assented. The wonderful melody of her voice and the purity of her features were charming me once more. I half believed in her innocence already. “My father has told you a portion of his history. But he did not tell you that his continued failures in his search after the secret of metallic transmutation nearly killed him. Two years ago he was on the verge of the grave, working every day at his mad pursuit, and every day growing weaker and more emaciated. I saw that if his mind was not relieved in some way he would die. The thought was madness to me, for I loved him—I love him still, as a daughter never loved a father before. During all these years of poverty I had supported the house with my needle; it was hard work, but I did it—I do it still!” “What?” I cried, startled, “does not—”