Oh, blot me from the race of men,
Kind, pitying Heaven, by death, or worse,
Before I love such things again!”
Sir Harold listened with a smile on his face, and when the singer had finished he stepped toward the window, while Theresa watched like one who was fascinated.
“To whom am I indebted for such sweet music?” asked the young man. Then he paused and bowed gallantly upon observing the figure of Theresa Hamilton, who was half-crouching behind her father.
“This is my daughter, sir,” Mr. Hamilton said. “Do you mean to tell me that you do not remember her?”
Sir Harold smiled.
“If I have ever seen the lady before, the circumstance has quite escaped me,” he replied. “But I hardly think that I could forget any one so lovely.”
A low moan of surprise and fear left Theresa’s pale lips, and her father looked on displeased.
“Sir Harold Annesley,” he said, “I am placed in a desperate position, and I have none to advise me what is best to do. I hoped that you would be off my hands in a few days, and intended demanding that you keep my identity a secret. I think that you understand what I say, though your mind regarding all that is past has become a blank.”