“I swear it, Captain Hunsden!  It will be my bliss and my honor to make her my happy wife.”

“I believe you.  And now go—­go both, and leave me alone, for I am very tired.”

Sir Everard arose, but Harrie grasped her father’s cold hand in terror.

“No, no, papa!  I will not leave you.  Let me stay.  I will be very quiet—­I shall not disturb you.”

“As you like, my dear.  She will call you, Kingsland, by and by.”

The young man left the room.  Then Harriet lifted a pale, reproachful face to her father.

“Papa, how could you?”

“My dear, you are not sorry?  You will love this young man very dearly, and he loves you.”

“But his mother, Lady Kingsland, detests me.  And, I want to enter no man’s house unwelcome.”

“My dear, don’t be hasty.  How do you know Lady Kingsland detests you?  That is impossible, I think.  She will be a kind mother to my little motherless girl.  Ah, pitiful Heaven! that agony is to come yet!”

A spasm of pain convulsed his features, his brows knit, his eyes gleamed.

“Harrie,” he said, hoarsely, grasping her hands, “I have a secret to tell you—­a horrible secret of guilt and disgrace!  It has blighted my life, blasted every hope, turned the whole world into a black and festering mass of corruption!  And, oh! worst of all, you must bear it—­your life must be darkened, too.  But not until the grave has closed over me.  My child, look here.”

He drew out, with a painful effort, something from beneath his pillow and handed it to her.  It was a letter, addressed to herself, and tightly sealed.

“My secret is there,” he whispered—­“the secret it would blister my lips to tell you.  When you are safe with Madame Beaufort, in Paris, open and read this—­not before.  You promise, Harrie?”

“Anything, papa—­everything!” She hid it away in her bosom.  “And now try to sleep; you are talking a great deal too much.”

“Sing for me, then.”

She obeyed the strange request—­he had always loved to hear her sing.  She commenced a plaintive little song, and before it was finished he was asleep.

All night long she watched by his bedside.  Now he slept, now he woke up fitfully, now he fell into a lethargic repose.  The doctor and Sir Everard kept watch in an adjoining chamber, within sight of that girlish form.

Once, in the small hours, the sick man looked at her clearly, and spoke aloud: 

“Wake me at day-dawn, Harrie.”

“Yes, papa.”

And then he slept again.  The slow hours dragged away—­morning was near.  She walked to the window, drew the curtain and looked out.  Dimly the pearly light was creeping over the sky, lighting the purple, sleeping sea, brightening and brightening with every passing second.

She would not disobey him.  She left the window and bent over the bed.  How still he lay!