“What can I do for you?” he inquired blandly, wondering the while if the man had escaped from Weston. Mr. Somerville, still on fire with excitement, answered almost imploringly: “I have just read the article in the _Sentinel_, and found it of such absorbing interest that I should like to read or hear the rest.” “Ask me any questions you please,” was the reply. “Who was this Eva Somerville?” “The daughter of Nellie Groves, who married a rich New Yorker named Somerville, and afterward left him, returning home to die of a broken heart.” The deserted husband’s anger was terrible, but he calmed himself with a violent effort, asking simply: “Are you sure?” “Of my facts? Yes. I went down into the neighborhood and wrote up the story.” “The girl’s father--where was he?” “I heard nothing of him, except that the Groves family, resenting his treatment of their daughter, had kept him in ignorance of his child’s existence.” “Curses on them!” he muttered hoarsely, thus betraying his identity. “You are----” “Clyde Somerville, the deserted husband of poor, willful Nell, and father of little Eva--the wronged, unhappy girl!” “Great heavens! The third installment of the tragedy!” exclaimed the startled reporter. “Yes, and you may write it up for your paper if you choose,” was the answer. “You may say that I was parted from my beloved wife by the wicked machinations of my proud relations, and her loss has ever been a thorn that rankles ceaselessly within my heart. After she ran away I was a long time ill and helpless. When I grew better and was about to sacrifice pride to love, and follow her to her old home, begging her return, they wrote me she was dead, but naught of the child.” “And little Eva?” asked the eager reporter. “You may say that I left for Weston within the hour to claim my child!” CHAPTER XXIV. FATHER AND DAUGHTER. It was enough to unbalance Eva’s mind again, the terrible shock of her interrupted marriage, declared all her friends. So they watched her anxiously to see how it would end--that terrible apathy of mind that settled on her after the first outbreak of frenzied despair, when she had rashly tried to end her fevered existence by swallowing poison. Fortunately Doctor Bertrand had not left the house, and her vigorous dosing soon put the wretched girl out of danger, though her bitter reproaches were heart-rending. “You should have let me die! Life is too cruel!” They could not scold her. They could only pity her for the awful shock she had sustained. Only once had any one dared to name the lover who had deceived her so fatally. “Can you not forgive him? He loved you so, and you seemed to be made for each other!” said Ada Winton gently. The great dark eyes lifted to hers with a sombre flash, and Eva answered solemnly: “My cousin’s blood flows like a crimson sea eternally between our hearts. Let no one ever name him to me again!”