“Your father—he is Mr. Carson?”
“Yes.”
“It is strange he has never spoken to me of you. I was not aware he had a daughter, although he spoke proudly of his son.”
In an instant Frank regretted his words. A look of anguish swept over the face of the girl, and she fell back a step, one thin hand fluttering up to her bosom.
“No!” she cried, and her voice was like the sob of the wind beneath the leaves of a deserted house; “he never speaks of me! He says I am dead—dead to the world. He is proud of his son, Berlin, my brother; but he is ashamed of his daughter, Blanche.”
Frank began to suspect and understand the truth. This girl had met with some great sorrow, a sorrow that had wrecked her life. Instantly Merry’s heart was overflowing with sympathy, but his situation was most embarrassing, and he knew not what to say. The girl seemed to understand this.
“Don’t think me crazy because I have come here to you in this way,” she entreated. “Don’t think me bold! Oh, if you could know how I have longed for somebody with whom I could talk! I saw you were a gentleman. I knew my father would not introduce me to you, but I resolved to see you, hoping you would talk to me—hoping you would tell me of the things going on in the world.”
“I shall be glad to do so,” said Merry, gently. “But don’t you have any papers, any letters, anything to tell you the things you wish to know?”
“Nothing—nothing! I am dead to the world. You were writing. Have I interrupted you?”
“No; I am through working on my play to-night.”