Cynthia thought of the fall that she had heard as she left the room.
"Yes," she answered almost inaudibly; "he has been very ill, and he is not strong yet."
"And you've left him all the same?" said her father, regarding her curiously. "There must have been something serious—eh, my lass?"
"Oh, father, don't ask me!"
"Don't you care for him now then, my girl?" said Westwood, with more tenderness than he usually showed.
"I don't know—I don't know! I think I—I hate him; but I cannot be sure."
"It's his fault then? He's done something bad?"
"Very bad!" cried poor Cynthia, hiding her face.
"And you can't forgive him?"
"Not—not till he has made amends!" said the girl, with a passionate sob.