he should tell the story of his life, as he knew it was only right he
should do, Sir William Heath would no longer care to make his daughter his
wife, and her heart would be broken.

Sir William looked up, startled at this question, his own face paling
suddenly.

"Surely, Mr. Abbot, you cannot mean anything so bad as that," he replied,
in a low, pained tone.

"I will tell you all about it," said the sick man, "and then you must
decide for yourself whether you are still willing to wed the daughter of a
dishonored man. Of course you have seen from the beginning of your
acquaintance with us that no pleasure or profit that might accrue to us
from this kind of a life could ever reconcile us to it; that only some
terrible misfortune could have driven me and my beautiful darling into
such a wild and desolate region as this."

"Yes; I have felt that there was something mysterious in your being
here--some secret reason why you should have shut yourselves away from all
comfort and civilization," Sir William admitted, as his companion paused
for strength to go on. "But I have never attributed it to any willful
wrong on your part."

"Thank you for your faith in me," returned Mr. Abbot, gratefully. "I only
wish the world at large was as charitable; if it had been, I need not have
been here now, on the verge of the grave, nor been obliged to doom my
lonely child to a life of exile, when everything should be at the
brightest for her; neither should we have been obliged to disown a name
which, until recently had always been an honored and respected one".