w confronted him; and Beverly going up to her stood
beside her as if to protect his wife.

"Why did you tell me he was dead?" demanded Helene. Stanton was silent.

"You must tell her, sir," said Beverly. "It is necessary for her peace
of mind!"

"It is necessary for her peace of mind that I remain silent," said
Stanton.

"But she is suffering!" cried Beverly.

"She'll suffer more if I tell her the truth," and Stanton turned to go.

"One moment, sir," and Beverly laid his hand gently on Mr. Stanton's
arm; "you must answer, this uncertainty and suspense must come to an
end."

"What is he to me? Tell me!" entreated Helene. "Father, father,
won't you tell me? for God's sake tell me!" and Helene clasped him by
the arm.

"Tell her, sir," said Beverly in a commanding voice.

"I--I cannot," faltered Stanton; "it's impossible!"

"Then I'll find out from him," cried Helene. Stanton realised that he
was cornered.

"Find out what you please, from whom you please," he said harshly.

"We'll go to him; he'll tell us. We should have done that at first,"
and Helene turned to Beverly.

"I warn you, you'll bring untold misery on your head!" shouted Stanton.
He was infuriated at the idea of his authority being ignored.

"We want the truth, the truth!" cried Helene.

Stanton was now beside himself with rage. "Then have it; have it!"
The words came in short gasps. "And pay the price for it! The man is
your father! Now you know the truth; you can get the details from
him!" and Stanton went out slamming the door behind him, the same door
through which Von Barwig had gone out in despair the day that Helene
dismissed him.

"Herr Von Barwig my father! My father!" Helene sank on her knees and
clasped her hands. She was trembling with joy. "Thank God! Thank
God! Thank God!"

* * * * * *

As Von Barwig partially awoke from his sleep he became dimly conscious
that he was not alone. Without opening his eyes he realised where he
was, and that he was still sitting by the stove, for he felt the glare
of the fire on his face, and his immediate surroundings were familiar.
The snow on the glass roof above, the portmanteau outside his bedroom
door, packed and ready to go; the broken balustrade at the back of the
hallway, the sink in the corner, the shelf with the lamps on it; all
these familiar objects seemed to be present without his looking
directly at them. But there was something e