eyes large and clear like a child's, a white throat, a well-poised head,
and light-chestnut hair dressed low with a large black bow, she
presented the picture of happy, careless youth, her features soft and
refined, her half-bare arms well moulded, and hands delicate and white.
She wore only one ornament--upon her left hand was a small signet-ring
with her monogram engraved, a gift from one of her governesses when a
child, and now worn upon the little finger.

That face was strikingly beautiful, it had been remarked more than once
in London; but any admiration only called forth the covert sneers of
Lady Heyburn.

"Why don't you tell me?" urged the blind man. "Why don't you tell me the
truth?" he protested.

Her countenance changed when she heard his words. In her blue eyes was a
look of abject fear. Her left hand was tightly clenched and her mouth
set hard, as though in resolution.

"I really don't know what you mean, dad," she responded with a hollow
laugh. "You have such strange fancies nowadays."

"Strange fancies, child!" echoed the afflicted man, lifting his grey,
expressionless face to hers. "A blind man has always vague, suspicious,
and black forebodings engendered by the darkness and loneliness of his
life. I am no exception," he sighed. "I think ever of the
might-have-beens."

"No, dear," exclaimed the girl, bending until her lips touched his white
brow softly. "Forget it all, dear old dad. Surely your days here, with