She kissed him hastily, and seemed to snatch the candle from her sister's hand. "Good-night, Claire," she cried, holding up her face, and clinging tightly to her sister's arm. "I am going with you, dear--as I used to in the old times," said Claire, smiling; and they left the room together. "Without one word to me," said Denville, as he stood with clasped hands gazing at the door. "Well, why should I be surprised? What must I be in her sight? Her father! Yes, but a monster without pity--utterly vile." He heaved a piteous sigh, as he sank into a chair. "No," he said to himself, "I will not influence her in any way. I will not stir. It would be too cruel. But if--if she should lean towards him--who knows?--women have accepted the wealth and position such as he offers. No, I will not stir." He sighed again, walked to the drawing-room window to see that the bar was across the shutter; and, this done, he turned hastily and gazed back into the room that had been Lady Teigne's chamber, and as he did so the dew stood upon his forehead, for he seemed to see the bed with its dragged curtains, the empty casket on the floor, and by it the knife that he had picked up and hidden in his breast. Yes, there it all was, and Claire standing gazing at him with that horrified look of suspicion in her beautiful face, as the thought came which had placed an icy barrier between them ever since. Yes, there she was, staring at him so wildly, and it was like a horrible nightmare, and-- "Father--are you ill?" "Claire! Is it you? No, no; nothing the matter. Tired; wearied out. So long and anxious an evening. Good-night!" She had come in to find him staring back into that room in a half cataleptic state; and the sight of his ghastly face brought all back to her. For a few moments she could not move, but at last, by an effort, she spoke, and he seemed to be snatched back by her voice into life and action. "Good-night, father," she said, trembling as she read the agonies of a conscious-stricken soul in his countenance, and she was moving towards the door, when, with an agonised cry, he turned to her. "Claire, my child, must it be always so?" he cried, as he clasped his hands towards her as if in prayer. "Father!" she said, in a voice almost inaudible from emotion. "Claire, my child," he moaned, as he sank upon his knees before her: "you do not know the burden I have to bear." She did what she had not done for months, as she stood trembling before him; laid one hand upon his head, while her lips parted as if to speak, but they only quivered and no words came. At last, with a sobbing cry, she flung herself upon his neck, and he clasped her in his arms. "Not to me, father," she sobbed, "not to me; I am not your judge." "No," he said softly, as he reverently kissed her brow; "you are not my judge." His lips parted to speak again, but he shook his head, while a sad smile came into and brightened his countenance.