seemed heard. Gradually and, it appeared, painfully life returned. His
first action was to clasp her convulsively to his heart; his next, to
put her gently yet firmly from him, and bury his face in his hands,
and weep.

No sight is more terrible, even to an indifferent spectator, than
to behold tears wrung from the eyes of man--and to his child it was
indeed torture. But she controlled the choking anguish--calmly and
firmly she spoke, and gradually the paroxysm subsided.

"That I have sinned in loving a stranger thus, I have long felt," she
said; "and had I been aware of the nature of these feelings, they
should never have gained ascendency. But I awoke too late--my
very being was enchained. Still I may break from these engrossing
thoughts--I would do so--pain shall be welcome, if it may in time
atone for the involuntary sin of loving the stranger, and the yet
more terrible one of grieving thee. Oh, my father, do what thou wilt,
command me as thou wilt--I am henceforth wholly thine."

"And thou wilt wed Ferdinand, my child?"

"Would he still wish it, father, if he knew the whole? And is it
right, is it just, to wed him, and the truth still unrevealed? Oh, if
he do love me, as you say, how can I requite him by deceit?"

"Tell him not, tell him not," replied Henriquez, again fearfully
agitated; "let none other know what has been. What can it do, save to
grieve him beyond thy power to repair? No, no. Once his, and all these
fearful thoughts will pass away, and their sin be blotted out, in thy
true faithfulness to one who loves thee. His wife, and I know that