“‘It is I who need forgiveness—I who left my poor, motherless little girl for long years to the care of hirelings and eye servants, who betrayed their trust and left her an easy prey to villainy. Yes, it is I who need forgiveness. Elfrida, my child, can you forgive me?’ “‘Oh, father! father! do not speak so to me—to me who sinned against you so grievously—to me who ought to be on my knees at your feet!’ I said. And in the excess of remorse that his patient, forgiving words inspired, I would have kneeled to him, but that he stopped me and drew me again to his bosom. “We spoke no more to each other for a few moments. At last he said, in a broken voice: “‘Did you know—your poor stepmother—was dead, Elfrida?’ “‘I thought so, from your mourning dress, papa. I am very sorry for you,’ I replied. “‘She passed away in the Canaries, five weeks since. I have the comfort of knowing that everything which human power could do was done for her. I devoted the last twelve years of my life solely to her, going with her wherever there was any hope for benefit. And for this cause I left my poor motherless child exposed to the beasts of prey that infest this world.’ “‘Father, dear father, say nothing more of that. I am alive, and since you have forgiven me, I am almost happy again. Dear father, let us live for each other now. I will be the most loving, the most faithful, devoted daughter that ever parent had. I will live for you, father. Only for you—and—and—for my child—my boy.’ “‘Your child, Elfrida!’ he said, staring at me, while a shiver passed through his frame. “‘Yes, the child of my wilful, unfortunate marriage, dear father. I wrote and told you all about my marriage, but I fear you never got my letter.’ “‘No,’ he said, with a visible effort to recover from the shock he had received; ‘no. I heard of your marriage from other sources, and not until I returned to England, three weeks ago, with the remains of my wife for interment in the vault at Enderby Castle. The news met me there—terrible news to meet a father coming home to bury his wife.’ “‘Oh, my father! Oh, my father! Can you forgive me?’ I cried out, at this. “‘I could not forgive myself, child. I never dreamed of blaming you. Does any one blame the bird that is snared?’ he tenderly inquired. “‘You are too merciful to me—too merciful. I do not deserve it,’ I said, covering my face with my hands, for my father’s kind words pierced my heart like poniards. “‘Hush, child; hush. Do not reproach yourself so bitterly. Let me tell you how it was that I did not receive any tidings of your marriage until my return to England.’ “‘I know, dear father. It was because you were far away in the Canaries.’