“Oh, papa!” exclaimed the lovely girl, sharply.  “I will not believe it.  Pray, pray try what medical advice will do for you.”

“Hush, my child,” Mr. Abbot returned, deeply moved.  “I did not mean to refer to this again, but you force me to do so; nothing short of a miracle could give me a sound pair of lungs again.”

“Then let us try change of air—­anything so that I may keep you with me,” Virgie pleaded, yet knowing, as she did so, that there was no place on earth that held so much attraction for her now as the humble home which heretofore had seemed so lonely and isolated.

A subtle charm seemed suddenly to have fallen upon it; everything looked brighter; all things surrounding it had become dearer.

“No, dear; no air will be so good for me as this pure, bracing mountain atmosphere,” her father replied, gently.  “I would shrink from going to any place where we should be likely to find familiar faces—­nothing would break me down so quickly.  Be patient, Virgie for a little longer, and then you shall go back to the world, where you ought long ago to have been with people of your own age.”

“Oh, papa!  I care nothing for the world nor for society without you,” she sobbed, realizing more fully than she ever had done, that she would soon be fatherless.

“But it is not right that you should spend your life in such a place as this,” responded Mr. Abbot.  “I have written to Mr. Bancroft, and if anything happens to me suddenly you will find the letter in my desk, and must send it to him immediately.  I would mail it now, only—­I cannot feel reconciled to having any one learn of our hiding-place while I live.  One thing more I must speak of.  I should have done so the other night if we had not been interrupted.  When I am gone I want you to lay my body here, under the shadow of the old pine tree.”

“Papa, papa! you will break my heart!  Surely you would wish to lie beside my mother!” Virgie cried, the tears raining over her cheeks.

Mr. Abbot’s face was almost convulsed with pain for a moment.

“Yes, if that were possible,” he said, at length, “but no one must ever know the fate of Abbot Al—­Ha!  Virgie, I had nearly uttered the dishonored name!” he panted.

“Papa, you shall not talk so,” the girl cried, wiping her tears and turning on him almost indignantly.

“I would not pain you, my darling,” he answered, gently; “but if there were no cloud hanging over us, I should be only too glad to go back to our old home to die and be laid beside my loved ones.  It cannot be, however,” he concluded, sighing wearily.

“But, dear papa, the dreadful past was caused by no fault of your own, and it is not right that you should suffer as if it had been,” Virgie said, passionately.

A cynical smile curled the lips of the sick man.

“The world would tell a far different story if it should ferret out my grave and see my name blazoned above it; and as long as its poisonous tongues continue to speak slightingly of me, it must never know aught about me.  So do as I bid you; promise that you will obey me, Virgie.”