ome in, Loo?" said a low voice from the half-opened doorway. It
was her father, asking for the third time before she heard him.

She uttered a faint "Yes," and tried to rise; but her strength failing,
she laid her head down again between her hands.

[Illustration: 580]

"What is this, darling?" he said, stooping down over her. "What bad
tidings have you got there? Tell me, Loo, for I may be able to lighten
your sorrow for you."

"No," said she, calmly, "that you cannot, for you cannot make me unlive
the past! Read that."

"Well, I see nothing very formidable in this, dear. I can't suppose that
it is the loss of such a lover afflicts you. He has read them. Be it so.
They are now in your own hands, and neither he nor any other will ever
read them again. It would have been more interesting had he told us how
he came by them; that was something really worth knowing; for remember,
Loo,--and it is, after all, the great point,--these are documents you
were ready and willing to have bought up at a thousand pounds, or even
more. Paten often swore he 'd have three thousand for them, and there
they are now, safe in your own keeping, and not costing you one
shilling. Stay," said he, laughing, "the postage was about
one-and-sixpence."

"And is it nothing to cost me open shame and ignominy? Is it nothing
that, instead of one man, two now have read the dark tracings of my
degraded heart? Oh, father, even _you_ might feel for the misery of
exposure!"

"But it is not exposure: it is the very opposite; it is, of all
things, the most secret and secure. When these letters are burned, what
accusation remains against you? The memory of two loose men about town.
But who 'll believe them, or who cares if they be believed? Bethink you
that every one in this world is maligned by somebody, and finds
somebody else to credit the scandal. Give me a bishop to blacken
to-morrow, and see if I won't have a public to adopt the libel. No, no,
Loo; it's a small affliction, believe me, that one is able to dispose
of with a lucifer-match. Here, girl, give them to me, and never waste
another thought on them."

"No," said she, resolutely, "I 'll not burn them. Whatever I may ask of
the world to think of me, I do not mean to play the hypocrite to myself.
Lend me your hand, and fetch me a glass of water. I cannot meet these
people tonight You must go over to the inn, and say that I am ill,--call
it a headache,--and add that I hope by to-morrow I shall