down at Beechfield--eh, Cynthy?
Because if you believe it, you know, you and me had better part without
more words about it. Least said, soonest mended."

"I do not believe it--I never did!" said Cynthia proudly.

"On your word and honor and Bible-oath, Cynthia?"

"On my word and honor and on my Bible-oath, father," she said, repeating
the words, because she saw that he attached especial importance to the
formula. "I never believed and never will believe that you were guilty
of Sydney Vane's murder! My father"--she said it as proudly as if he had
been a Royal Prince--"was never capable of a base and wicked deed!"

"It's her mother's voice," murmured the man, raising his hand to his
eyes, as if to shut out the sight of the young girl's face, and to
abstract himself from everything but the sound, "and it's her mother's
trust in me! Cynthia, my dear, what do you know o' your father to make
you so ready to stand by him?" There was a great and an unaccustomed
tenderness in his tone. "I'm a common man, and I've spent years of my
life in gaol, and I was a tramp and a poacher--I won't deny it--in the
olden days; and before that--well, before that, I was a gamekeeper on a
big estate--turned away in disgrace, my dear, because my master's
daughter fell in love with me. You never heard that before, did
you?--though any one would guess that you didn't come of a common stock!
Wetheral was her name--Cynthia Wetheral of Bingley Park, in
Gloucestershire. There are relatives of hers living there still; but
they don't acknowledge us--they won't have anything to do with you,
Cynthia, my girl. I married her and took her away wi' me; and for twelve
blessed months we were as happy as the day was long; and then she died."
He paused a little, and caressed Cynthia's head with his hand.

"You're like her, my dear. But I'm only a low common sort o' man that
sunk lower and lower since the day she died; and you've no call to trust
me unless you feel inclined--no call in the very least. If you say you
don't quite believe my word, my pretty, I'll not cut up rough--I'll just
go away quiet, and never trouble you any more."

"Father," said Cynthia, "listen to me one moment. We were separated when
I was only eleven years old; but don't you think that in eleven years I
could learn something of your real disposition--your true nature? I
remember how you used to care for me, how tender and kind you were to
me, although you might perhaps seem gloomy and