nto the house.

"I called to see you about that fellow Wyckliffe," said Hal, as he sat
down in the library.

"What about him? Are you a friend of his?" snarled the old man.

"No, I am not; and that is my reason for calling on you."

"Curse him, I say. Curse him," added the old man, emphatically.

"You're not the first who has had cause to do that," said Hal, solemnly,
wishing to gain his host's confidence.

"Do you know him then?"

"By reputation, yes; otherwise, no."

"Then why do you call on me?"

"Mr. Goodchild, my errand may seem a strange one, but I have had a
detailed account given me of his blackguardly behaviour to you and your
daughter."

"But what has that to do with you?" he asked, excitedly.

"Stay, Mr. Goodchild. I will tell you all. My friend Morris and I are on
his tracks to revenge a cruel wrong he did." And Hal thereupon told him
the whole story from the beginning. "Now, sir, I come to offer you my
assistance to shew him to your daughter in his true light."

"But she's gone," he burst out.

"Where?" cried Hal, "not with him?"

"God knows, I don't," and the poor old fellow hid his face in his hands,
and sobbed.

"You must tell me all, sir. Tell me all: there is no time to be lost,"
said Hal, excitedly.

"There's not much to tell, sir. He will be able to add another notch to
his stick, for he has literally broken my heart. I never have discussed
my private affairs with anyone, sir, but I will tell you my story, for I
feel you are to be trusted.

"She is my only child. I loved her mother dearly for sixteen years, and
all that time it was our great sorrow that we were childless, and I
fervently thanked God on the day she told me our hopes were to be
realized. Had I known the trouble that child was to cost me, I would
have been less fervent. A little girl was born to us, and a week later
she was motherless."

"Go on," said Hal, encouragingly, as Goody stopped and hesitated.

"Well, it took me a long time to console myself with a little bundle of
flesh like that. But as she grew up I found all my love returning, and
then I had only one thing to live for--my daughter May. I loved her with
a jealous love, and I guarded and watched over her as one might a
precious jewel. She has had the best teachers. She can ride, drive, play
on half-a-dozen instruments. Our one great joy and happiness was to be
together, and I dreaded the day when her hand would be asked in
marriage. We had never been