she laughed.

"Yes, yes," he sighed, in pretence of being troubled. "Wilful as always.
And--and," he faltered a moment later, "I often hear your dear dead
mother's voice in yours." Then he was silent, and by the deep lines in
his brow she knew that he was thinking.

Outside, in the high elms beyond the level, well-kept lawn, with its
grey old sundial, the homecoming rooks were cawing prior to settling
down for the night. No other sound broke the stillness of that quiet
sunset hour save the solemn ticking of the long, old-fashioned clock at
the farther end of the big, book-lined room, with its wide fireplace,
great overmantel of carved stone with emblazoned arms, and its three
long windows of old stained glass which gave it a somewhat
ecclesiastical aspect.

"Tell me, child," repeated Sir Henry at length, "what was it that upset
you just now?"

"Nothing, dad--unless--well, perhaps it's the heat. I felt rather unwell
when I went out for my ride this morning," she answered with a frantic
attempt at excuse.

The blind man was well aware that her reply was but a subterfuge.
Little, however, did he dream the cause. Little did he know that a dark
shadow had fallen upon the young girl's life--a shadow of evil.

"Gabrielle," he said in a low, intense voice, "why aren't you open and
frank with me as you once used to be? Remember that you, my daughter,
are my only friend!"

Slim, dainty, and small-waisted, with a sweet, dimpled face, and blue
eyes large and clear like a child's, a white throat, a well-poised head,
and light-chestnut hair dressed low with a large black bow, she
presented the picture of happy, careless youth, her features soft and
refined, her half-bare arms well moulded, and hands delicate and white.
She wore only one ornament--upon her left hand was a small signet-ring
with her monogram engraved, a gift from one of her governesses when a
child, and now worn upon the little finger.

That face was strikingly beautiful, it had been remarked more than once
in London; but any admiration only called forth the covert sneers of
Lady Heyburn.

"Why don't you tell me?" urged the blind man. "Why don't you tell me the
truth?" he protested.

Her countenance changed when she heard his words. In her blue eyes was a
look of abject fear. Her left hand was tightly clenched and her mouth
set hard, as though in resolution.

"I really don't know what you mean, dad," she responded with a hollow
laugh. "You have such str