a gentleman she esteems and loves, but cannot
marry. A leper may be a saint; but I would rather bury my child than
marry her to a leper. A convict may be a saint; but I'll kill her with my
own hand sooner than she shall marry a convict. And in your heart and
conscience you cannot blame me. Were you a father, you would do the same.
What then remains for her and me but to keep faith? and what can you do
better than leave her, and carry away her everlasting esteem and her
father's gratitude? It is no use being good by halves, or bad by halves.
You must either be a selfish villain, and urge her to abandon all shame,
and live here on this island with you forever, or you must be a brave and
honest man, and bow to a parting that is inevitable. Consider, sir; your
eloquence and her pity have betrayed this young lady into a confession
that separates you. Her enforced residence here with you has been
innocent. It would be innocent no longer, now she has been so mad as to
own she loves you. And I tell you frankly, if, after that confession, you
insist on going on board the steamer with her, I must take you; humanity
requires it; but, if I do, I shall hand you over to the law as a convict
escaped before his time. Perhaps I ought to do so as it is; but that is
not certain; I don't know to what country this island belongs. I may have
no right to capture you in strange dominions; but an English ship is
England--and if you set foot on the _Springbok_ you are lost. Now, then,
you are a man of honor; you love my child truly, and not selfishly--you
have behaved nobly until to-day; go one step farther on the right road;
call worldly honor and the God whose vows you have taken, sir, to your
aid, and do your duty."

"Oh, man, man!" cried Robert Penfold, "you ask more of me than flesh and
blood can bear. What shall I say? What shall I do?"

Helen replied, calmly: "Take my hand, and let us die together, since we
cannot live together with honor."

General Rolleston groaned. "For this, then, I have traversed one ocean,
and searched another, and found my child. I am nothing to her--nothing.
Oh, who would be a father!"

He sat down oppressed with shame and grief, and bowed his stately head in
manly but pathetic silence.

"Oh, papa, papa!" cried Helen, "forgive your ungrateful child!" And she
kneeled and sobbed, with her forehead on his knees.

Then Robert Penfold, in the midst of his own agony, found room in that
great suffering heart of hi