made them intolerably vivid.

"But they--they will not--" She quivered before him, and seemed to
crouch and lessen.

"They won't tell? I don't feel sure of that. But do you want to trade on
their not telling? Such things are always known."

"Well, I have done wrong. I must suffer for it."

"Who suffers? You--and I. The blow to me is incalculable. I don't
understand it. Your mother's memory--that should have kept you straight.
So far, child--why, you're a liar."

She was, she told herself, the tears streaming over her face. The happy
certainties she had felt with Osmond withdrew into a vague distance. At
last she understood; she had sinned, and she was not forgiven.

"Now!" said MacLeod. His voice had a ring she knew. "Now, we must
consider what is to be done. One thing I have done already. I have taken
passage for you. I will stand by you if you go back to France. I won't
support you here. Nor shall they. Think what you did. A cheap
adventuress could do no more, except persist in it." He was all
breathing indignation.

"Do you mean"--Her voice broke. "Do you mean to take me back to him?"

"The prince? By no means. I mean to take you back to work, to be good
and clean and honest. You must retrieve this step. You shall be
independent of me, if you like. You shall sing. My dear daughter, you
may not think I have shown you much affection,--but your honor is very
dear to me." He looked nobly sincere, and yet she bent her brows upon
him, and tried to read a deeper soul than he displayed.

"Father!" The word was wrung from her. She had not willingly called him
by it for the two years past. "You have persuaded me before. How can I
believe you?"

A melting change came over him. It was evident in his voice, his
suffused look, his whole manner.

"My child," said he, "can't you believe I loved your mother?"

Immediately the tides of her filial being were with him. If she denied
him, she must hurt something to which her very blood bade her be
faithful. The house of life, the father, mother, and their child,--these
were the sacred three, and it might be her high emprise to keep their
union holy.

"Can you be ready to-morrow?" he asked, with that emphasis his followers
knew. "You will stay in town with me until we sail."

"Yes."

"Will you be ready?"

"I will be ready."

He got up and bent to kiss her forehead. But she retreated.

"No," she breathed. "I'll do it, father, but don't be kind to me."

He gave her