"Papa, it is the only thing I must keep from you--that hated name! What matters it? Is he not beyond the reach of your vengeance?" "True, true," he answered with a strong shudder. "Oh, Queenie, my poor child, would to God I had died before this terrible thing came upon me!" She crept nearer him and rested her bowed head on his knee, all her glorious, golden tresses sweeping to the floor. His heart ached as he saw that bright head lying there bowed low with shame and disgrace. "Papa," she whispered, in a voice like saddest music, "papa, do you _condemn_ me?" He was silent a moment, struggling with the keenest agony he had ever known. Then he answered very gently: "My poor Queenie, I forgive you." Then added in the words of the great Teacher of men: "Let him that is without sin cast the first stone." And the first beams of the newly risen day shone into the room and crowned his gray head like a halo of light. CHAPTER VII. "Yes, Queenie was quite sick for more than a month after we returned from abroad. She is not strong yet, but she has promised to come down into the drawing-room for a little while this evening." It was Mrs. Lyle who spoke, in the calmest, most composed tone in the world. She was leaning back in her chair, richly dressed in silk and lace and fluttering her fan as she talked to Captain Ernscliffe who leaned over the back of her chair, tall, handsome and stately, the most distinguished-looking man in the room. Mrs. Lyle was giving a small reception after her return, and had bidden the _creme de la creme_ of society only, to welcome her home. There were beautiful women in plenty present, and none but had a flattering smile for Captain Ernscliffe, but though he smiled and chatted with all, he still kept looking over even the fairest heads toward the door for one absent face while his heart thrilled with anxiety and expectation. She came at last, and though he had been watching for her so long he scarcely knew her when she entered. He had expected to see a little, fairy-like creature, with a sunny smile and falling ringlets, and cheeks like pinkest rose leaves. Instead, there entered a tall, pale, graceful girl, clad in a dress of white lace ornamented with knots of purple, golden-hearted pansies. The crimson lips were set in a proud curve instead of a smile, and the dark fringe of her lashes swept so low that they almost shadowed her cheeks. Her golden hair was confined in a thick braid and wound about her head like a coronet, making her seem as stately as a young princess. She was changed, greatly changed, from a year ago, and yet none who looked at the fair, calm face, with pride sitting regnant on the broad, white brow, would have dreamed that the pathos and pain of a terrible tragedy had been wrought into her life and had seared her heart and soul as with fire.