"Oh, no, no," she said, excitedly. "But I must not mention names. Mamma wishes ours kept secret, for she is very proud. Papa is an officer, and as I remember him first, he was so handsome, even as mamma was beautiful. We used to live in a pretty cottage, just outside town, and papa was so kind. But how it came about I never knew, he gradually grew cold, and hard, and stern, so that I was afraid of him when he came to see us, and he used to be angry to mamma, and then stay away for weeks together, then months, till at last we rarely saw him. The pretty cottage was sold, with everything in it--even my presents; and mamma and I lived in lodgings. And then trouble used to come about money; for poor mamma would be half distracted when none was sent her, and this dreadful neglected state went on, till mamma said she could bear it no more. Then she used to go out and give lessons; but that was terribly precarious work, and soon after she used to work with her needle." "And your father?" said Richard. "Never came," said Netta--"at least, very rarely. But I ought not to tell you more." "Can you not trust me?" he said, with a smile. "Oh, yes, yes, yes," cried the girl, impetuously, and she nestled closer to him. "I can trust you. It was like this:--Papa was a Roman Catholic, and mamma had always brought me up in her own Protestant religion; and by degrees I found out he had made a point of that, and had told mamma that their marriage was void, as it had only been performed according to one church. He used to write and tell her that he was free, and that if she would give up every claim on him, and promise to write to that effect, he would settle a regular income upon her." "And your mamma?" "I heard her say once to herself that it would be disgracing me, and that she would sooner we starved. That is why we have worked so hard, and had to live in such dreadful places," said the girl, shuddering. "My poor child!" he said, tenderly. "Yours has been a hard life, and you so delicate." "I shall grow strong now," she said, half shyly; "but why do you call me child?" She looked up in his face with a smile, half playful, half tender--a look that made him shiver. "You are not cross with me?" she said, gazing at him piteously. "Cross? No," he said, gently. And he once more took her hand, trying hard to begin that which he had brought her there to tell, but as far off as ever. At the end of a minute, though, she gave him the opportunity, by saying naively-- "You have never told me anything about yourself. Mamma wondered what you were--so different to everybody we meet." "Let me tell you, Netta," he said, earnestly. "And promise me this-- that we are still to be great friends." She looked at him wonderingly. "Yes, of course," she said. "Why should we not be? You have always been so kind."