t that neither you nor I are to blame for. In
all my sorrow I am sorriest, Henry, for you. Why did I ever cross your
path to make you unhappy when blood lay between your people and mine?
My wretched uncle! I never dreamed he had murder on his soul--and of
all others, that murder! I knew he did wrong--I knew some of his
associates were criminals. But he has been a father and mother to me
since I could creep--I never knew any father or mother."

She stopped, hoping perhaps he would say some little word, that he
would even pat her head, or press her hand, but he sat like one
stunned. "If it could have been anything but this!" she pleaded, low
and sorrowfully. "Oh, why did you not listen to me before we were
engulfed! My dear Henry! You who've given me all the happiness I have
ever had--that the blood of my own should come against you and yours!"
The emotion she struggled with, and fought back with all the strength
of her nature, rose in a resistless tide that swept her on, in the
face of his ominous silence, to despair. She clasped her hands in
silent misery, losing hope with every moment of his stoniness that she
could move him to restraint or pity toward her wretched foster-father.
She recalled the merciless words he had spoken on the mountain when he
told her of his father's death. Her tortured imagination pictured the
horror of the sequel, in which the son of the murdered man should meet
him who had taken his father's life. The fate of it, the hopelessness
of escape from its awful consequence, overcame her. Her breath, no
longer controlled, came brokenly, and her voice trembled.

"You have been very kind to me, Henry--you've been the only man I've
ever known that always, everywhere, thought of me first. I told you I
didn't deserve it, I wasn't worthy of it----"

His hands slipped silently over her hands. He gathered her close into
his arms, and his tears fell on her upturned face.

CHAPTER XXX

HOPE FORLORN

There were hours in that night that each had reason long to remember;
a night that seemed to bring them, in spite of their devotion, to the
end of their dream. They parted late, each trying to soften the blow
as it fell on the other, each professing a courage which, in the face
of the revelation, neither could clearly feel.

In the morning Jeffries brought down to de Spain, who had spent a
sleepless night at the office, a letter from Nan.

De Spain opened it with acute misgivings. Hardly able to be