"Your father is living. That letter is the last one I have received from him. Read it, my angel." I took it,--it was very brief,--I read it at a glance. It was addressed to my mother, and bore a recent date. These were its contents: "DEAR FRANK: "My sentence expires in two weeks from to-day. Send me some decent clothes, and let me know where I will meet you. Glad to hear that your plans as regards _our daughter_ approach a 'glorious' completion. "Yours as ever, "CHARLES." It was a letter from a convict in Auburn prison,--and that convict was my father! "It is false; my father died years ago," I cried in very agony. "This is not from my father." "It is from your father," answered my mother; "and unless I send him the clothes which he asks for, you will see him, in less than three weeks, in his convict rags." "O, mother! are you human? A mother to taunt her own daughter with her father's shame,--" My temples throbbed madly and my sight failed. All that mortal can endure and be conscious, I had endured. I sank on the floor, and had not my mother caught me in her arms, I would have wounded my forehead against the marble table. All night long, half waking, half delirious, I tossed on my silken couch mingling the name of my convict father and of Ernest in my broken exclamations. Once I was conscious for a moment and looked around with clear eyes. My mother was watching over me. Her face was bathed in tears. She was _human_ after all. That moment past, the delirium returned and I struggled with horrible dreams until morning. CHAPTER XIII. MORPHINE. When I awoke next morning, my mind was clear again, and even as I unclosed my eyes and saw the sunlight shining gayly through the curtains, a fixed purpose took possession of my soul. It was yet early morning. There was no one save myself in the chamber. Perchance worn out by watching, my mother had retired to rest. I quietly arose and dressed myself--not in the splendid attire furnished by my mother, but in the plain white dress, bonnet, and shawl which I had brought with me from my cottage home. "It is early. No one is stirring in the mansion. I can pass from the hall door unobserved. Then it is only sixteen miles to-home,--only sixteen miles, I can walk it." And at the very thought of meeting "father" and Ernest again, my heart leaped in my bosom. Determined to escape from the mansion at all hazards, I drew my vail over my face, my shawl across my shoulders, and hurried to the door. I opened it, my foot was on the threshold, when I found myself confronted by the portly form of Mrs. Jenkins. "Pardon me, Miss," she said, placing herself directly before me; "your mother gave me directions to call her as soon as you awoke." "But I wish to take a short walk and breathe a little of the morning air," I answered, and attempted to pass her.