“Hush, Virgie!” he continued, as a shuddering sob burst from the breast pressed so closely to his, “you must not give way so.  I did not mean to alarm you unnecessarily by what I have said; I may not leave you for some time yet.  I may be spared for a few months, perhaps until autumn, but I feel that the time has come to arrange some definite plan for your future.  I must, however, give up my work, for I have no longer strength to carry it on; but if there was only some one whom I could trust to take charge of my claim.  I might even yet reap something of benefit from it to add to the hoard that I have been saving for you against this emergency.”

“But, papa, I would much rather that you should spend every dollar that you have, if it would prolong your life; if I lose you, I have not a friend in the world.”

The man heaved a heavy sigh, for too well he realized the truth of her words.

“My dear,” he returned, with tender pathos, “if it were possible for me to regain my health, at any sacrifice, I would gladly make it for your sake.  But I know that it cannot be, and my care now must be to make the best provision that I can for you.”

“I have been very successful since coming here,” he went on, speaking more cheerfully, “more so than I ever dared to hope, and the claim promises much for the future and ought to bring a good price if sold; so you will have quite a snug little fortune, my Virgie, and I trust that your lot in life will yet be happy, in spite of the dark cloud that has so shadowed it in the beginning.  What say you to writing to my old friend, Laurence Bancroft, of New York, confiding you to his care after——­”

“Oh, my father, you make me utterly wretched,” cried the young girl, reaching up her arms and clasping them convulsively about his neck, while she lifted her tear-stained face appealingly to him.

He bent forward and kissed her white forehead softly with his trembling lips.

“Bear with me a little longer, my daughter, and then we will never mention this again while I live,” he returned, huskily.  “Laurence Bancroft, as you know, was a dear friend of my early life.  He has a cultivated wife, and two daughters about your own age; he will believe me when I tell him the truth regarding our misfortunes, and will, no doubt, give you a home in his own family, and care for your interests until—­woman’s best gift—­the love of some true man comes to you, and you have a home of your own.  New York is almost on the other side of the world, and no evil breath of the past will be likely to touch you there.  What do you say, Virgie?—­may I write to my friend, giving you to his care?”

“Yes, papa,” Virgie said, wearily assenting to his project, more to put an end to the painful conversation than because she had any choice in the matter, “you may do whatever your judgment tells you is best, and I will be guided entirely by your wishes.”

Mr. Abbot looked intensely relieved.