"Then I remembered papa, whom I had loved truly and tenderly as you did, Irene. In my extremity and despair I wrote to him. He came, the dear father I had deserted and forgotten in the flush of my wifely happiness. He pitied and forgave me. "Mamma and Bertha would not forgive, but they plotted to save the family honor. The affair had never been publicly known. We went abroad, and among strangers, where in a few months you were born, my poor wronged Irene. When we came home mamma claimed my child for her own, and by her stern command I took my place in society and played my part as calmly as if my heart were not broken. Now, Irene, you know the full extent of your mother's sin. I have been wronged as well as you, my darling. You are nameless, but not through sin of mine." Her faltering voice died into silence. Irene made no answer. She had dropped her face in her small white hands. Guy Kenmore felt the slight form trembling against his arm. "I was mistaken in my first estimate of her," he thought. "She has more depth, more character than I thought." Then he turned to Elaine. "You have indeed been wronged bitterly," he said. "The fault is not yours, save through your disobedience to your parents." "Yes, I was willful and thoughtless, and I have been most terribly punished for my fault," she replied, sorrowfully. "Is there no possibility that you have been deceived by your husband's father? Such things have been," said Mr. Kenmore, thoughtfully. "There was no deception. He was armed with every proof, even the newspaper, with the marriage of his son to the wealthy heiress whom his family had chosen for him," answered Elaine, blushing crimson for her unmerited shame and disgrace. "Then your lover was a villain unworthy the name of man. He deserved death," exclaimed Guy Kenmore. Elaine's angelic face grew pale as death. She sighed heavily, but made no answer. Suddenly Irene sprang to her feet, with blazing eyes. "His name!" she cried, wildly, "his name!" "My poor child, why would you know it?" faltered Elaine. "That I may hunt him down!" Irene blazed out. "That I may punish him for your wrongs and mine!" "Alas, my darling, vengeance belongs to Heaven," sighed the martyred Elaine. "It belongs to you and to me," cried Irene. "His name, his name!" "I cannot tell you, dear," wept the wronged woman. "Then I will go to Bertha," flashed the maddened girl. "Bertha is bound by an oath never to reveal that fatal name," Elaine answered. The door opened, Mrs. Brooke entered, stern and pale. She glanced scornfully at Irene, then turned to her daughter: "Elaine, I am sorry this has happened," she said. "I could not keep Bertha from betraying you. The poor girl was driven mad by her wrongs. If Irene had remained away from the ball to-night, as I bade her do, you would have been spared all this. Her disobedience has caused it all." Old Faith put her head, with its flaring cap-ruffles, inside the door before Elaine could speak.