“He is happy now,” he thought, “and perhaps it will be a blessing to him if he never again awakens to his misery—the misery that I have heard was driving him from his home. It was my duty to warn his friends of his whereabouts, but I dared not do it. I should have brought ruin upon myself and child.”
Sir Harold nodded brightly to him as he left the room and strolled into the garden. And such a garden it was—of blossom and perfume! It seemed to be scented by many millions of flowers.
As he wandered about he whistled merrily. He did not dream that he was being watched by loving, anxious eyes. He knew of nothing but the happy present.
Then John Hamilton called Theresa to him, and bade her sing the songs in which Sir Harold had been so interested on that fatal day a month ago.
“Oh, father,” she whispered, “must I?” Her lips quivered.
“Yes,” he said, sternly. “His memory must be awakened. He cannot stay here forever.”
She seated herself at the window, while her father played an accompaniment, and sang in her matchless tones the scoffing words of Moore:
“Away, away! You’re all the same—
A fluttering, smiling, jilting throng!
Oh, by my soul, I burn with shame