sness.

"For my part," he said, with a clumsy effort to hide his own emotion, "I
am beginning to think that the ordinary daily newspapers are unsuitable
reading for young ladies, who had better keep to the magazines and
journals specially devoted to their wants."

There was no word spoken in return, and after another cough, the old man
continued:

"What was that you said about dropping me at the club? By all means,
yes. My leg was rather bad in the night. Don't care so much about
walking as I used."

Still there was no reply, and, as if struck by the notion that he had
been left alone in the room, Sir Mark coughed again nervously, and
slowly moved himself in his chair, to turn the paper slightly aside,
and, as if by accident, so that he could see beyond one side.

He sat there the next moment petrified, and staring at his daughter's
wildly excited face, for, resting one hand on the table, she was leaning
toward him, her hand extended to take the paper, and her eyes
questioning his, while Edie, looking terribly agitated, was also leaning
forward as if to restrain her cousin.

Sir Mark's lips parted and moved, but he made no sound. Then recovering
himself, he hastily closed the paper, doubled it over again, and rose
from his chair.

"Myra, my darling!" he cried, "are you ill?"

Her lips now moved in turn, but without a sound at first; then she threw
back her head, and her eyes grew more dilated as she cried hoarsely:

"That paper--there is news--something about my husband."

"Edie, ring! She is ill," cried Sir Mark.

"No, stop!" cried Myra. "I am not a child now, father. I tell you that
there is news in that paper about my husband. Give it to me. I will
see."

Sir Mark was as agitated now as his child, and with a hurried gesture,
perfectly natural under the circumstances, he thrust the paper behind
him. "No, no, my child," he stammered, with his florid face growing
mottled and strange.

"I say there is, father, and you are deceiving me."

"Well, yes, a little, my darling," he said hastily. "A little. Not for
your ears, dear. Another time when you are cool and calm, you know.
Edie, my dear, come to her; talk to her. Myra, my child, leave it to
me."

Myra's hand went to her throat as if she were stifling, but once more
she forced back her emotion.

"Something about--the prison--my husband?"

"Yes, yes, my dear. Nothing so very particular. Now do--do leave it to
me, and try to be calm.