condemn the accused, and the innocent may suffer. Edith Dalton," she
continued, with solemn earnestness, "I believe that your father was as
innocent as you are. Remember that! Cling to that! Never give up that
belief, no matter what you may hear. There was too much haste and blind
passion and prejudice in that court where he was tried, and appearances
were dark, and there was foul treachery somewhere; and so it was that
Frederick Dalton was done to ruin and his wife done to death. And now,
my darling, you have to make yourself acquainted not with a father's
crimes, but with a father's sufferings. You are old enough now to hear
that story, and you have sufficient independence of character to judge
for yourself, dear. There is no reason why you should be overwhelmed
when you hear it--unless, indeed, you are overcome by pity for the
innocent and indignation against his judges. Even if society considers
your father's name a stained and dishonored one, there is no reason why
his daughter should feel shame, for you may take your stand on his own
declaration of innocence, and hold up your head proudly before the
world."

Miss Plympton spoke this with vehement emotion, and her words brought
some consolation to Edith. The horrible thought that had at first come
was that her father had been a convict in some penal settlement, but
this solemn assurance of his innocence mitigated the horror of the
thought, and changed it into pity. She said not a word, however, for her
feelings were still too strong, nor could she find voice for any words.
She sat, therefore, in silence, and waited for Miss Plympton to tell the
whole story.

Miss Plympton surveyed Edith anxiously for a few moments, and then
rising, went over to an escritoire. This she unlocked, and taking from
it a parcel, she returned to her seat.