"Oh, papa--"

She stopped in a sort of breathless affright.

Captain Hunsden rose up. He made no apology. He walked to a window
and tore open his letter with passionate haste.

His daughter still stood--pale, breathless.

Suddenly, with a hoarse, dreadful cry, he flung the letter from him,
staggered blindly, and fell down in a fit.

A girl's shrill scream pierced the air. She sprung forward, thrust the
letter into her bosom, knelt beside her father, and lifted his head.
His face was dark purple, the blood oozed in trickling streams from his
mouth and nostrils.

All was confusion. They bore him to his room; a servant was dispatched
in mad haste for a doctor. Harriet bent over him, white as death. The
two young men waited, pale, alarmed, confounded.

It was an hour before the doctor came--another before he left the sick
man's room. As he departed, Harriet Hunsden glided into the apartment
where the young men waited, white as a spirit.

"He is out of danger; he is asleep. Pray leave us now. To-morrow he
will be himself again."

It was quite evident that she was used to these attacks. The young men