“Let me have time to think,” the girl pleaded piteously; “let me have only a little time to think, father.  And you do believe that I’m sorry for you, don’t you?” she asked, kneeling beside him and clasping his unwilling hand.  “O father, I hope you believe that!”

“I shall know what to believe when I know what you’re going to do,” the bailiff answered moodily; and his daughter knew him too well to hope for any more gracious speech than this.

She bade him good-night, and went slowly up to her own room to spend the weary wakeful hours in a bitter struggle, praying that she might be enlightened as to what she ought to do; praying that she might die rather than become the wife of Stephen Whitelaw.

When she and her father met at breakfast in the dull gray January morning, his aspect was even darker than it had been on the previous night; but he did not ask her if she had arrived at any conclusion.  He took his meal in sullen silence, and left her without a word.

They met again a little before noon, at which hour it was Mr. Carley’s habit to consume a solid luncheon.  He took his seat in the same gloomy silence that he had preserved at breakfast-time, but flung an open letter across the table towards his daughter.

“Am I to read this?” she asked gently.

“Yes, read it, and see what I’ve got to look to.”

The letter was from Sir David Forster; an angry one, revealing strong suspicions of his agent’s dishonesty, and announcing that he should be at the Grange on the fifth of the month, to make a close investigation of all matters connected with the bailiff’s administration.  It was a letter that gave little hope of mercy, and Ellen Carley felt that it was so.  She saw that there were no two sides to the question:  she must save her father by the utter sacrifice of her own feelings, or suffer him to perish.

She sat for some minutes in silence, with Sir David’s letter in her hand, staring blankly at the lines in a kind of stupor; while her father ate cold roast-beef and pickled-cabbage—­she wondered how he could eat at such a time—­looking up at her furtively every now and then.

At last she laid down the letter, and lifted her eyes to his face.  A deadly whiteness and despair had come over the bright soubrette beauty, and even William Carley’s hard nature was moved a little by the altered expression of his daughter’s countenance.

“It must be as you wish, father,” she said slowly; “there is no help for it; I cannot see you brought to disgrace.  Stephen Whitelaw must have the price he asks for his money.”

“That’s a good lass,” cried the bailiff, springing up and clasping his daughter in his arms, a most unusual display of affection on his part; “that’s bravely spoken, Nell, and you never need repent the choice that’ll make you mistress of Wyncomb Farm, with a good home to give your father in his old age.”

The girl drew herself hastily from his embrace, and turned away from him with a shudder.  He was her father, and there was something horrible in the idea of his disgrace; but there was very little affection for him in her mind.  He was willing to sell her into bondage in order to save himself.  It was in this light she regarded the transaction with Stephen Whitelaw.