needs the help of a finishing school, my poor little girl!
My will is made. The little I leave will suffice for her wants. Mr.
Green is her guardian--he understands my wishes. Oh, my lad! you will
be very good to my friendless little Harrie! She will have but you in
the wide world."

"I swear it, Captain Hunsden! It will be my bliss and my honor to make
her my happy wife."

"I believe you. And now go--go both, and leave me alone, for I am very
tired."

Sir Everard arose, but Harrie grasped her father's cold hand in terror.

"No, no, papa! I will not leave you. Let me stay. I will be very
quiet--I shall not disturb you."

"As you like, my dear. She will call you, Kingsland, by and by."

The young man left the room. Then Harriet lifted a pale, reproachful
face to her father.

"Papa, how could you?"

"My dear, you are not sorry? You will love this young man very dearly,
and he loves you."

"But his mother, Lady Kingsland, detests me. And, I want to enter no
man's house unwelcome."

"My dear, don't be hasty. How do you know Lady Kingsland detests you?
That is impossible, I think. She will be a kind mother to my little
motherless girl. Ah, pitiful Heaven! that agony is to come yet!"

A spasm of pain convulsed his features, his brows knit, his eyes
gleamed.

"Harrie," he said, hoarsely, grasping her hands, "I have a secret to
tell you--a horrible secret of guilt and disgrace! It has blighted my
life, blasted every hope, turned the whole world into a black and
festering mass of corruption! And, oh! worst of all, you must bear
it--your life must be darkened, too. But not until the grave has
closed over me. My child, look here."

He drew out, with a painful effort, something from beneath his pillow
and handed it to her. It was a letter, addressed to herself, and
tightly sealed.

"My secret is there," he whispered--"the secret it would blister my
lips to tell you. When you are safe with Madame Beaufort, in Paris,
open and read this--not before. You promise, Harrie?"

"Anything, papa--everything!" She hid it away in her bosom. "And now
try to sleep; you are talking a great deal too much."

"Sing for me, then."

She obeyed the strange request--he had always loved to hear her sing.
She commenced a plaintive little song, and before it was finished he
was asleep.

All night long she watched by his bedside. Now he slept, now he woke
up fitfully, now he fell into a lethargic repose. Th