couldn't bear it, Madge, my girl. Perhaps a better man might have
persevered in spite of all till he conquered the world's prejudice. But
_I_ couldn't. I sank under my trials, and fell lower and lower. And for
every disgrace that has ever fallen upon me--for every sorrow I have
ever suffered--for every sin I have ever committed--I look to one man as
the cause."

Margaret Wentworth had risen to her feet. She stood before her father
now, pale and breathless, with her lips parted, and her bosom heaving.

"Tell me his name, father," she whispered; "tell me that man's name."

"Why do you want to know his name, Madge?"

"Never mind why, father. Tell it to me--tell it!"

She stamped her foot in the vehemence of her passion.

"Tell me his name, father," she repeated, impatiently.

"His name is Henry Dunbar," James Wentworth answered, "and he is the son
of a rich banker. I saw his father's death in the paper last March. His
uncle died ten years ago, and he will inherit the fortunes of both
father and uncle. The world has smiled upon him. He has never suffered
for that one false step in life, which brought such ruin upon me. He
will come home from India now, I dare say, and the world will be under
his feet. He will be worth a million of money, I should fancy; curse
him! If my wishes could be accomplished, every guinea he possesses would
be a separate scorpion to sting and to torture him."