e indeed!" the busybodies said. "Who
ever heard of such a revolting position? Has her father cast her off?
What a grief it must be to him! It is like a terrible old Greek
tragedy!"

And, when the busybodies heard that Westwood had not objected to his
child's marriage with Hubert Lepel, and had actually appeared to be
friendly with him, they concluded that all parties concerned must be
equally devoid of the finer qualities of human nature, and that a
painful revelation of baseness and secret vice had just been made.

But, in spite of public indignation, it was not possible for Hubert
Lepel to receive very severe punishment from the arm of the law. He had
never been examined at Westwood's trial--and the law does not compel a
man to inculpate himself. He was held to have committed manslaughter,
and he was condemned to two years' imprisonment. And Westwood received a
"free pardon" from the Queen--which Cynthia thought a very inadequate
way of testifying to his innocence; and he walked through London streets
a free man once more, and might have been made into a hero had he
chosen, especially when it became known that he was very well off, and
that he had a daughter so beautiful and gifted as the young lady who had
previously been known to the general public as Cynthia West.

Cynthia was entreated to sing again and again, and was assured that
people would flock to hear her and to see her more than ever. But she
steadily refused to sing in any public place. She could not overcome the
feeling that her audience only came to stare at her as Westwood's
daughter, and not to hear her sing. She withdrew therefore from the
musical profession, and lived a quiet life in London with her father,
who had postponed his departure for a few weeks. He would not return to
America until the close of Hubert Lepel's trial.

The General's sad death, caused chiefly by excitement, was felt, when
the shock was passed, to be almost a relief for his friends. They all
felt that it would have been sad indeed if the old man had lived to see
himself desolate, his name dragged through the mud, his wife branded
with shame, the boy that he had loved not only laid in the grave, but
known to be no kin to him at all. He could not have borne it; his life
would have been a misery to him; and it was perhaps well that he should
die. His will had been unsigned, and the property therefore passed to
Enid, with the usual "half" to his widow.

Flossy found herself be