n it from thee? A
proper regard for the delicate nerves of a woman! But my rude
nerves of a man feel the need of sharing this knowledge with thy
nerves."

Slowly and emphatically he uttered his words; words which, from
moment to moment, were hissed through his pallid lips, and thus
he concluded:

"Once thy daughter had an interesting conversation with me; a
very interesting conversation about--everything which took place
in our family idyl. The little girl, hidden behind some
furniture, heard the conversation, and became mentally
disordered--oh! temporarily, of course, and this would have
passed, but under its influence she exposed herself to the cold
night air so as to die. Inflammation of the lungs was complicated
by mental disorder. Her death--was suicide."

The last words went out of his straitened throat in a suppressed
whisper, still they were so definite as to be heard in every part
of the great chamber. They were deadened, however, by the
overpowering shriek of the woman and the noise made as her body
fell to the floor. Pani Darvid's knees bent under her, and
dropping, with her face in her hands, her head struck the corner
of the table near which she had been standing. At that moment
Irene shot into the chamber; like a skylark, flying forward to
defend its little ones, she ran to her mother, and surrounding
her bent form with both arms, she raised to her father a face
covered with a flood of tears.

"A needless cruelty, father," cried she. "Ah, how I hid this from
her; how I tried to hide it! This is a needless cruelty! I
thought that a man as wise as thou would do nothing so uncalled
for. But thou hast committed a vileness!"

Darvid made an abrupt movement, but restrained himself, and with
his face toward the window he heard the retreating footsteps of
the two women. There was a second of time during which he turned
his head, and his lips moved as if some word, a name was to
escape from him. At that moment the two women, holding to each
other, moved slowly through the next drawing-room, advanced in
the increasing darkness, and vanished. He uttered no word. What
was his feeling when she shrieked and struck her head against the
edge of the table? Was it pity? Perhaps. Was it a quiver of
sorrow for that past which had left him forever, and for that
daughter who went out with the word "vileness" hanging on her
lips? Perhaps. But he said nothing; he uttered no name. He
remained alone. It was silent around