“I believe I can, Will; I truly desire the spirit of forgiveness even for the great wrong that she has been guilty of; and, since nothing can ever again mar our trust in each other, I do not wish to cherish bitterness toward anyone. I am truly grieved for Lillian; she is not accountable for her mother’s faults, and I have suffered too much, in believing another had usurped my place in your heart, not to feel a deep sympathy for her in losing Rupert.” Sir William sighed. He regretted Lillian’s unhappiness too, for he was very fond of her. She was a bright, beautiful girl, and for years had been the light of his home; and he believed, away from her mother’s influence, she would make a noble woman. Still it was a matter for rejoicing with him that the young man whom he loved as a son would soon become a son indeed. Virgie’s meeting with her father was quite touching. Her mother had never told her who he was. She had shrunk more and more from the ordeal as the time drew near when it must be revealed. She had intended telling her the morning following Lady Dunforth’s reception when she had so unexpectedly learned that Sir William was Rupert’s guardian, and she would have done so but for Mr. Thurston’s visit, his startling revelation of her relationship to Lord Norton, and their sudden departure from London. She was glad now that she had delayed the communication, for when she now made it, she could soften the otherwise shocking intelligence by telling her that all the past had been but a cruel mistake, which at last had been explained and rectified—that her father was a true and noble man. Virgie came in from her walk just as her father and mother were speaking of Lillian. “There comes Virgie,” said her mother, starting up. “I must go to prepare her for her meeting with you.” “How much does she know?” Sir William asked, paling a trifle. “Dear Will, she does not yet even know her own name, nor who her father is. I _could_ not tell her, although I had promised to do so soon,” Virgie explained, with quivering lips. The baronet bent and touched them softly. “I am glad, my beloved, that you have not told her; the shock will not be so severe now. Go, dear, but send her to me as quickly as possible, for my heart yearns for her. I know now why her presence affected me so strangely the other evening.” He released her, and she glided from the room to meet her daughter just outside the door; another moment and she would have entered. “Mamma, what is it?” the young girl exclaimed, as she read in her expressive face something of the great change that had come to her during the last hour. “Come with me, dear; I have something to tell you,” her mother said, and she slipped her arm about her waist and drew her into a small room opposite. In as few words as possible she told her all that had occurred, and the name of her father—the name which she had so long withheld from her.