"Read your daughter's letter; give me your answer, and let us cut
short an interview--which, if disagreeable to you, is almost
unendurable to me."

Turning away, she began to walk slowly up and down the floor; and
smothering an oath under his heavy mustache, the old man sank back
in his chair, and opened the letter.




CHAPTER III.


Holding in leash the painful emotions that struggled for utterance,
Beryl was unconscious of the lapse of time, and when her averted
eyes returned reluctantly to her grandfather's face, he was slowly
tearing into shreds the tear-stained letter, freighted with
passionate prayers for pardon, and for succor. Rolling the strips
into a ball, he threw it into the waste-paper basket under the
table; then filled a glass with sherry, drank it, and dropped his
head wearily on his hand. Five leaden minutes crawled away, and a
long, heavy sigh quivered through Gen'l Darrington's gaunt frame.
Seizing the decanter, he poured the contents into two glasses, and
as he raised one to his lips, held the other toward his visitor.

"You must be weary from your journey; let me insist that you drink
some sherry."

"Thank you, I neither wish nor require it."