ared that he would
fall into a fit; but the old giant was too strong for that! For one
short moment he stood thus, and in a terrible voice he asked:

"Young man, did you--did you know--the shame that you dashed into my
face with the name of that woman?"

"Sir, I know nothing but that she is the best and dearest of her sex!"
exclaimed Herbert, beyond all measure amazed at what he heard and saw.

"Best and dearest!" thundered the old man. "Oh, idiot; is she still a
siren, and are you a dupe? But that cannot be! No, sir! it is I whom you
both would dupe! Ah, I see it all now! This is why you artfully
concealed her name from me until you had won my promise! It shall not
serve either you or her, sir! I break my promise thus!" bending and
snapping his own cane and flinging the fragments behind his back.
"There, sir! when you can make those ends of dry cedar grow together
again and bear green leaves, you may hope to reconcile Ira Warfield and
Marah Rocke! I break my promise, sir, as she broke----"

The old man suddenly sank back into the nearest chair, dropped his
shaggy head and face into his hands and remained trembling from head to
foot, while the convulsive heaving of his chest and the rising and
falling of his huge shoulders betrayed that his heart was nearly
bursting with such suppressed sobs as only can be forced from manhood by
the fiercest anguish.

The young people looked on in wonder, awe and pity; and then their eyes
met--those of Herbert silently inquired:

"What can all this mean?" Those of Capitola mutely answered:

"Heaven only knows!"

In his deep pity for the old man's terrible anguish, Herbert could feel
no shame or resentment for the false accusation made upon himself.
Indeed, his noble and candid nature easily explained all as the ravings
of some heartrending remembrance. Waiting, therefore, until the violent
convulsions of the old man's frame had somewhat subsided, Herbert went
to him, and with a low and respectful inflection of voice, said:

"Uncle, if you think that there was any collusion between myself and
Mrs. Rocke you wrong us both. You will remember that when I met you in
New York I had not seen or heard from her for years, nor had I then any
expectation of ever seeing you. The subject of the poor widow came up
between us accidentally, and if it is true that I omitted to call her by
name it must have been because we both then felt too tenderly by her to
call her anything else but 'the po