impulse which brought me here. And here I am! You tell me that my
presence will cause your ruin; if it is so, tell me what to do; I feel I
am dying; but find some expedient and I am ready to do anything, even to
lay my life down, rather than be the cause of your ruin."

But she wept more bitterly than ever.

Her position was so sad that I thought it worse even than mine, although
I could almost fancy I saw ruin before me despite my innocence.

"Let me," I said, "conduct you to your father; I feel sure of obtaining
your pardon."

But my proposal only enhanced her fears.

"I am lost," she exclaimed; "I know my father. Ah! reverend sir, turn me
out into the street, and abandon me to my miserable fate."

No doubt I ought to have done so, and I would have done it if the
consciousness of what was due to my own interest had been stronger than
my feeling of pity. But her tears! I have often said it, and those
amongst my readers who have experienced it, must be of the same opinion;
there is nothing on earth more irresistible than two beautiful eyes
shedding tears, when the owner of those eyes is handsome, honest, and
unhappy. I found myself physically unable to send her away.

"My poor girl," I said at last, "when daylight comes, and that will not
be long, for it is past midnight, what do you intend to do?"

"I must leave the palace," she replied, sobbing. "In this disguise no one