CHAPTER XI.
My father had always been kind to me—he had never used a harsh word to me. My heart was full—it was almost bursting—when I went to him. The shame, the degradation, the horror, were full upon me. Surely he would hear reason. I dared not stop to think. I hastened to him. I flung my arms round his neck and hid my face upon his breast. My passionate sobs frightened him at first.
"My dearest Laura, what is the matter?" he asked.
"Papa, send Miss Reinhart away," I cried; "do send her away. We were so happy before she came, and mamma was happy. Can you not see there is a black shadow hanging over the house? Send it away—be as you were before she came. Oh, papa, she has taken you from us."
When I told him what I had heard he looked shocked and horrified.
"My poor child! I had no idea of this."
He laid me on the couch while he walked up and down the room.
"Horrible!" I heard him say. "Frightful! Poor child! Alice shall go at once!"
He rang the bell when he had compelled me to repeat every word I had overheard, and sent for the housekeeper. I heard the whispering, but not the words—there was a long, angry conversation. I heard Sir Roland say "that Alice and every one else who had shared in those kind of conversations should leave." Then he kissed me.