you. If he won't do
that, he won't do much for you."

"I am not ashamed of his name," said Cynthia, with a little tremor in
her voice.

"Well, perhaps not; but I'd rather it was so. I don't think I'm
unreasonable, my dear. 'Lepel' isn't a common name, and it's too well
known. As 'Mrs. Hubert Westwood' you will escape remark much more easily
than as 'Mrs. Hubert Lepel.' I don't think it is too much to ask; and
it's the one condition I make before I give my consent to his marrying
you."

"I will tell him, father. Perhaps he will not mind."

"If he minds, he won't be worthy of you--that's all I've got to say,"
said Westwood, rising to his feet and preparing to leave the room.

But Cynthia intercepted him:

"Father, if he consents, you will forgive him, will you not?" she said
putting her hands on his shoulder and looking anxiously into his eyes.

"Forgive him, my dear? Well, I suppose I have done that, or I shouldn't
say that he might marry you at all."

"And you will forget the past, and love him a little for my sake?"

"I'm bound to love the people you love, Cynthy," said the old man
stooping to kiss the beautiful face, and patting her cheek with his roll
of plans; "and I don't think you've got any call to feel afraid."

CHAPTER LII.

The newspapers had cried out that Hubert Lepel's two years were a
miserably insufficient punishment for the crime of which he had been
guilty; but to Cynthia it seemed as if those two years were an eternity.
She did not talk about him to any one; she interested herself apparently
in the affairs of her father's house; she made a thousand occupations
for herself in the new land to which she had gone. Occasionally she had
a letter--which she dearly prized--from Enid Vane, and in these letters
she heard a little now and then about Hubert; but, after Enid's
marriage, the letters became less frequent, and at last ceased
altogether. And then she knew that the two years were over, and that
Hubert must be free.

Free--or dead! She sometimes had a keen darting fear that she would
never see his face again. His health had suffered very much in
confinement, she had learnt from Enid's letters; and she knew that he
had seemed very weak and ill during those terrible days of his trial for
manslaughter. She could never think of them without a shiver. How had
the two years ended for him? Was he a wreck, without hope without
energy, without strength, coming out of prison only to die? Cy