“My true name is Vivien Moulton, but——” “Ah!” he exclaimed, springing quickly to his feet. “And that vil—I beg your pardon, Miss Moulton.” He stopped in confusion, for his mind instantly reverted to the story which Ronald Edgerton had related to him that morning, and he saw at once that he was reviling one who was intimately connected with the fair girl before him. “Yes, that wicked man is my father, and though my heart almost breaks with the knowledge, yet it is none the less true,” she returned, sadly. “And did you know that he was present to witness the ceremony this evening?” “What! here?” she almost shrieked, starting toward him with clasped hands and pale face. “Yes, my friend, here. Did you not notice that bent, gray-haired man, who came forward as I entered the place? That was Ralph Moulton.” She shuddered, and covered her white face with her hands. She had noticed that ugly, sinister face, and in her heart she had hated him, though she could not have told why had she been asked. Fredrich Weimher arose, and taking her by the hand, led her gently to a seat. “Pardon me,” he said, “for arousing such unpleasant feelings; he may indeed be unfortunately allied to you by blood, but surely the sacred name of ‘father’ can never be breathed by your pure lips to one such as he. You cannot recognize him by any such tie when he has willfully forfeited all such claim. “Never,” she replied. “Though it is deeply humiliating to me to know that I am indeed the child of one who is so base.” The tears burst passionately from her beautiful eyes as she finished. “Do not weep; he is not worthy that you should shed a tear for him. Believe me, you have my deepest sympathy. I know your history, and before I saw you my heart bled for your sufferings and your wrongs.” His voice had softened to its tenderest accents, and its tones were very sweet and pleasant to the young and almost friendless girl’s ears. She raised her head, and gazed with gratitude for a moment into his expressive eyes; and she saw within them that which made her own droop instantly, while the rich crimson tide again rushed upward, suffusing her whole face. He could not resist giving the delicate hand he held just the least little bit of a pressure, then hastened to relieve her confusion by asking: “Did you not know the young man who officiated as bridegroom in the heartless mockery you have just witnessed? Your words lead me to infer as much.” “No,” she answered. “We were so excited over Miss Dupont’s sufferings, that we never thought to ask who her persecutor was. Our thoughts and sympathies were only for her. Do you know him?” “Yes, I know him well. I met him in New York, where we both first met Miss Dupont.” “And his name?” she asked. “Shall I tell you—can you bear to know it?” “Why not? Oh, yes—quick—your face tells me that it is one in whom I am interested,” she said, breathlessly.