"If I have not done so, dear father," she answered, gently, "it has been
because I knew your secret must be a painful one. I have lain awake
night after night, wondering what was the cause of the blight that has
been upon you and all you have done. But why should I ask you questions
that you could not answer without pain? I have heard people say cruel
things of you; but they have never said them twice in my hearing." Her
eyes flashed through a veil of tears as she spoke. "Oh, father,--dearest
father!" she cried, suddenly throwing aside her work, and dropping on
her knees beside the man's chair, "I do not ask for your confidence if
it is painful to you to give it; I only want your love. But believe
this, father,--always believe this,--that, whether you trust me or not,
there is nothing upon this earth strong enough to turn my heart from
you."

She placed her hand in her father's as she spoke, and he grasped it so
tightly that her pale face grew crimson with the pain.

"Are you sure of that, Madge?" he asked, bending his head to look more
closely in her earnest face.

"I am quite sure, father."

"Nothing can tear your heart from me?"

"Nothing in this world."

"What if I am not worthy of your love?"

"I cannot stop to think of that, father. Love is not mete out in strict
proportion to the merits of those we love. If it were, there would be no