“Yes, father; and I am very grateful for it,” answered she, submissively.

“No doubt,” sneered the old man; “and the way you show how much you feel it, the way you show your duty and your love to your father in return, is to put a thief—­a lying, cheating thief—­in the road to rob him!”

“You must be mad, father!” exclaimed Harry, in blank amazement.  “I know no thief!”

“You know Richard Yorke, you wicked, wanton wench!” interrupted Trevethick, passionately.  “And how could he have heard of yonder box except through you?  Of course you’ll lie; a lie or two is nothing to one like you.  But here’s the proof.  The padlock has been opened, the money taken.  Who did it?  Who could have done it, except him, or you?”

“As I am a living woman, father, as I hope for heaven,” answered Harry, earnestly, “I did not do it, and I do not know who did.”

“You didn’t, and you don’t!  The thing’s incredible.  Reach here that Bible.”  He still held her by the wrist.  “You shall swear that, and be damned forever!  What! you never told that villain where my money lay?”

“I did tell Mr. Yorke that, father.  Pray, pray, be patient.  It was long ago; we were talking together about I know not what, and it slipped from me that you kept money in a strong-box.  That was all.”

“All,” said the old man, bitterly, and flinging her arm away from him, the wrist all black and bruised with his angry clutch.  “What more, or worse, could you have told than the one secret I had bid you keep?  You told him the exact sum, too, I’ll warrant?  Two thousand pounds!”

“Yes, father, I did.  It was very wrong, and I was very sorry directly I had done it.  But I knew the secret would be safe with a gentleman like Mr. Yorke.”

“A gentleman!  A cheat, an impostor, a common rogue!”

“Oh no, oh no, father!”

“But I say ‘yes.’  To-morrow he will have the handcuffs on him!  What!  Have you tears for him, and none for me, you slut!  Perhaps you showed him where the box was kept, as well as told him!  Did you, did you?”

There was something in Harry’s frightened face that made her father rise and lock the door.

“Speak low!” said he, in an awful voice; “you have something to tell me.  Tell it.”

“Only that I love him, father—­oh, so much!” pleaded Harry, passionately.  “Indeed, indeed, I could not help it!  I tried to love Sol, because you wished it, but it was no use; I felt that even before Richard came.  We walked every day together for weeks and weeks, and he was so different from Sol, so bright and pleasant, and he loved me from the first, he said.  He told me, too, that you had listened with favor to his suit, or, at all events, had not refused to listen—­that there was good hope of your consenting to it, and without that hope he knew he could not win me.  I only promised to be his on that condition.  Speak to me, father; pardon me, father!  Don’t