“No, Finette, I am not ill. It is worse--far worse! My honor is assailed! We are charged--you and I--with being the parties who abducted that child from Verelands a week ago!” “Oh, miladi!” recoiling in amazement. “Do you not understand, Finette? My husband employed a detective to find the child. He succeeded in doing so, and now declares that you were the abductor, and that you were doing my bidding. Speak, Finette; tell our accusers that we are innocent.” Her burning hazel eyes seemed to shoot red lights of indignation and fury, and clever Finette caught the clew at once. “Oh, my mistress! who has dared accuse you?” she exclaimed, calculating rapidly that if she cleared her mistress from this charge, unlimited opportunities of blackmail lay before her in the future. She assumed an appearance of virtuous indignation, and went on: “I will confess all, miladi! I took the child away, indeed, but I swear it was not done at your bidding. You suspected nothing; but Finette, in her devotion to her mistress, took on herself the responsibility of the abduction. Alas! it has failed, and I am _désolé_. You will never forgive me--you will drive me from you!” “Yes, Finette, I will send you away to-morrow. Your sin is too great for me to pardon. Oh! how could you think to please me by so vile a deed?” Camille exclaimed, angrily. “Miladi, I beg ten thousand pardons! It was a mistake. I thought to serve you, but I erred. I will go to-night. But, sir”--turning to her master--“Mrs. de Vere had nothing to do with that--I swear it. Punish me, but not her; she is innocent.” He turned to Camille, and saw tears standing thick in her lovely eyes. “You wronged me,” she said, sadly, reproachfully. He stood undecided, doubting, and she went on, in the same sad voice: “I am innocent, Norman. To prove it, I bid you bring the child back here to Verelands, and no mother could be kinder to her child than I will be to your pretty little protégée. I was mad with jealousy that night, and scarce knew what I said. Whatever wild words I uttered, I take them all back and crave your pardon.” Her sweet humility, her tender yielding, did what all her defiance had failed in--they melted the ice about his heart. One moment he gazed in silence, then, springing to her side, clasped her closely to his breast, exclaiming, gladly: “Forgive me, darling, for my unjust suspicions! I will atone for them by deeper devotion than in the past.” CHAPTER XI. Norman de Vere did not dream of the depths of duplicity hidden in his wife’s nature. He believed that she was honest in the repentance she professed, and accordingly he had Little Sweetheart brought back the next day to the home from which she had been so rudely torn by the wily French maid, whom Mrs. de Vere had now sent into brief exile to carry out the plot by which she had saved her guilty mistress.