The head which had fallen on her breast, rose as at the call of a clarion. “And is it at the noblest moment of your life that you would shut me away from your side? No, no. Heaven does not send us a great and mighty love for trivial purposes. The simple country maid whom you have sometimes declared was as the bringer of good news to you, shall not fail you now.” Then slowly and with solemn assurance, “If you go to Mr. Stuyvesant’s to-morrow, and you will, for that is your duty, you shall not go alone; Paula Fairchild accompanies you.” XLIV. IN MR. STUYVESANT’S PARLORS. “Was I deceived, or did a sable cloud Turn forth her silver lining on the night?” —COMUS. “Unworthy?” “Yes.” Cicely stared at her father with wide-open and incredulous eyes. “I cannot believe it,” she murmured; “no, I cannot believe it.” Her father drew up a chair to her side. “My daughter,” said he, with unusual tenderness, “I have hesitated to tell you this, fearing to wound you; but my discretion will allow me to keep silence no longer. Bertram Sylvester is not an honest man, and the sooner you make up your mind to forget him, the better.” “Not honest?” You would scarcely have recognized Cicely’s voice. Her father’s hand trembled as he drew her back to his side. “It is a hard revelation for me to make to you, after testifying my approval of the young man. I sympathize with you, my child, but none the less I expect you to meet this disappointment bravely. A theft has been committed in our bank—” “You do not accuse him of theft! Oh father, father!” “No,” he stammered. “I do not accuse him, but facts look very strongly against some one in our trust, and—” “But that is not sufficient,” she cried, rising in spite of his detaining hand till she stood erect before him. “You surely would not allow any mere circumstantial evidence to stand against a character as unblemished as his, even if he were not the man whom your daughter—” He would not let her continue. “I admit that I should be careful how I breathed suspicion against a man whose record was unimpeached,” he assented, “but Bertram Sylvester does not enjoy that position. Indeed, I have just received a communication which goes to show, that he once actually acknowledged to having perpetrated an act of questionable integrity. Now a man as young as he, who—” “But I cannot believe it,” she moaned. “It is impossible, clearly impossible. How could he look me in the face with such a sin on his conscience! He could not, simply could not. Why, father, his brow is as open as the day, his glance clear and unwavering as the sunlight. It is some dreadful mistake. It is not Bertram of whom you are speaking!” Her father sighed. “Of whom else should it be? Come my child, do you want to read the communication which I received last night? Do you want to be convinced?”