"Have you a grief, and under the shelter of my father's roof,--a grief
that you will not tell to me? Cruel!" cried Harley, with inexpressible
tenderness of reproach in his soft tones.

Violante could not trust herself to reply. Ashamed of her self-betrayal,
softened yet more by his pleading voice, she could have prayed to the
earth to swallow her. At length, checking her tears by an heroic effort,
she said, almost calmly, "Noble friend, forgive me. I have no grief,
believe me, which--which I can tell to you. I was but thinking of my
poor father when you came up; alarming myself about him, it may be, with
vain, superstitious fears; and so--even a slight surprise--your abrupt
appearance has sufficed to make me thus weak and foolish; but I wish to
see my father!--to go home--home!"

"Your father is well, believe me, and pleased that you are here. No
danger threatens him; and you, here, are safe." "I safe--and from what?"

Harley mused irresolute. He inclined to confide to her the danger which
her father had concealed; but had he the right to do so against her
father's will?

"Give me," he said, "time to reflect, and to obtain permission to intrust
you with a secret which, in my judgment, you should know. Meanwhile,
this much I may say, that rather than you should incur the danger that I
believe he exaggerates, your father would have given you a protector--
even in Randal Leslie."

Violante started.