“Even then, papa, mamma, if I had come home when I found out that it had grown so late all might have been well,” she said. “But the fatal curiosity our common Mother Eve bequeathed us led me on to my fate.” Again they had nothing to say to her. They hung eagerly on her next words. “A bell rang from the house, then, for luncheon, and Mr. Delaney came to ask me to go to share it,” she went on. “It was then that my inexcusable folly began. If I had come back home all would have been well. My foolish curiosity led me to enter the great house of which I had heard so much.” Mrs. Rodney groaned aloud in bitterness of spirit. “I went into the grand dining-room and had my lunch--a delicate, luxurious lunch that appeared to have been spread by invisible hands, for no one appeared except Mr. Delaney and myself. I feasted luxuriously, then came out into the hall to return home, full of sudden dread that the cook had discovered my protracted absence.” “And then?” inquired Mr. Rodney, anxiously. A look of fear and dread and bitter regret came over the white face of the tortured young girl. She answered, slowly: “Then something happened that was the cause of my remaining hidden away wretched and maddened for three long months, that seemed longer to me than all the years of my life that had gone before.” “And that something? You must tell us what it was, Aline,” said her father, sternly. “No, papa, I cannot tell you. I have sworn never to reveal it,” Aline replied, despairingly. CHAPTER XLIV. Again a disappointed and baffled expression crossed Mr. Rodney’s fine face. He was cruelly tortured by this dreadful secret that lay, like a great, inky blot, on the fair fame of his beautiful, beloved daughter. “Aline, did you know that it was wrong for you to take such an oath?” he inquired. A piteous look came over the sweet, pale face. “It was hard for me to do so, but I did not know that it was wrong,” she replied. “I was perfectly ignorant, papa, of the dreadful consequences that would follow upon my silence.” “I wish to Heaven that you had never suffered any one to bind you to such a promise,” he cried. “But, papa, he--I mean, I could never have come home unless I had taken the solemn vow asked of me. At first I refused. I was determined to reveal all when I reached home. I was stubborn in my refusal to submit. But--when I found that I would never be permitted to come back unless I gave way, I yielded. I was so homesick and wretched, papa, that I could not hold out.” He crossed the room to her and took one of the cold, nerveless hands in his. “Aline, forgive me for asking you so hard a question,” he said, “for sometimes I am tempted to believe in your innocence still, in spite of all the circumstantial evidences to the contrary. My daughter, will you swear that you are as innocent and pure as when you left your home that dreadful day?” She lifted her white hand to Heaven and looked at him fearlessly with her bright, clear gaze.