me. What al I? The daughter of
a--a--yes, I know well enough now--I did not once, but I do now--
and I am here in your society, amongst you all, on
sufferance."

"You are wrong," answered Graham quickly, scarcely thinking of
what he said. "In the first place, it can make no difference
to any one that knows you who your father was; and then you
are here as Mrs. Treherne's niece----"

"I am my father's daughter!" cried Madelon, blazing up, "and I
must not own it. Yes, yes, I understand it all. As Mrs.
Treherne's niece I may be received; but not as---- Oh, papa,
papa!" her voice suddenly breaking down, "why did you die? why
did you leave me all alone?"

Graham stood silent. He felt so keenly for her; he had so
dreaded for her the time when this knowledge of her father's
true character must come home to her. In his wide sympathy
with everything connected with her, he had regrets of that
poor father also, dead years ago, who in his last hours had so
plainly foreseen some such moment as this, and yet not quite,
either.

"Monsieur Horace," Madelon went on wildly, "I did so love
papa, and he loved me--ah, you cannot imagine how much! When I
think of it now, when I see other fathers with their children,
how little they seem to care for them in comparison, I wonder
at his love for me. He nursed me, he played with me, he took
such care of me, he made me so happy. I think sometimes if I
could only hear his voice once more, and see him smiling at me
as he used to smile--and I must not speak of him, I must not
even mention him. It is unjust, it is cruel. I do not want to
live with people who will not let me think of my father."

"You may speak of him to me, Madelon----"

"To you?" she said, interrupting him; "ah, you knew him--you
know how he loved me. But Aunt Barbara--she will not let me
even mention his name."

"Then she is very wrong and very foolish," Graham answered
hastily. "Listen to me, Madelon. You are making yourself
miserable for nothing. To begin with, if everybody in the room
to-night knew who your father was, and all about him, I don't
suppose it would make the least difference; and as for the
rest, you have no occasion to concern or distress yourself
about anything in your father's life, except what relates to
yourself. Whatever he may have been to others, he was the
kindest and most loving of fathers to you, and that is all you
need think about."

"But Aunt Barbara----"

"Never mind Aunt Barbara. If