ard her with the stern impassiveness that he ever could
summon in any dread emergency. He had that species of courage that can
surmount every peril, only let its full extent be known; and although
it was true that the announcement of the loss of all he was worth in the
world would have been lighter tidings than those he now listened to, he
heard her to the end without interruption. There was that in his calm,
cold face which smote her to the very heart; the very way he drew back
his hand, as she tried to grasp it in her own, was a shock to her;
and ere she finished her sad story, her voice was broken, and her lips
tremulous.

Terrible conflict was it between father and child! between two natures
each proud as the other,--each bold, stern, and unforgiving!

"The date of this event?" asked he, as she concluded.

"The ninth of October."

"Where?"

"At a chapel in Cullenswood Avenue."

"Who witnessed it?"

"Raper."

"Any other?"

"No other."

"The ninth of October fell on a Tuesday; it was then, or the day after,
that I gave you a diamond clasp, a present?"

"It was."

"Who performed this ceremony?"

"A priest, but I am not at liberty to tell his name,--at least, without
the assurance of your forgiveness."

"Then do not tell it! The man is still living?"

"I believe so."

"And your husband,--where is he?"

"In the city. He is waiting but to be received by you ere he return to
France to arrange his affairs in that country."

"He need not long delay his departure, then: tell him so."

"You forgive us, then?" cried she, almost bursting with gratitude.

"No!--never!"

"Not forgive us!--not acknowledge us!"

"Never! never!" reiterated he, with a thick utterance that sounded like
the very concentration of passion. The words seemed to have a spell in
them to conjure up a feeling in her who heard, as deeply powerful as in
him who spoke them.

"Am I no longer your daughter, sir?" asked she, rising and drawing
herself to her full height before him.

"You are a Countess, madam," said he, with a scornful irony; "I am but
an humble man, of obscure station and low habits. I know nothing of
nobility, nor of its ways."

"I ask again, do you disown me?" said she, with a voice as calm and
collected as his own.

"For ever and ever," said he, waving his hand, as though the gesture was
to be one of adieu. "You are mine no longer,--you had ceased to be so
ere I knew it. Go to your home, if you have one; here,