"Alf—Alf—Alfred," wept Capitola.
"Alfred whom?"
"Alfred Blen—Blen—Blenheim!"
"Miserable girl! how often have you met this miscreant in the forest?"
"I—don't—know!" sobbed Capitola.
"Where is the wretch to be found now?"
"Oh, please don't hurt him, sir! Please don't! He—he—he's hid in the closet in my room."
A groan that seemed to have rent his heart in twain burst from the bosom of the minister, as he repeated in deepest horror:
"In your room! (Well, I must prevent murder being done!) Did you not know, you poor child, the danger you ran by giving this young man private interviews; and, above all, admitting him to your apartment? Wretched girl! better you'd never been born than ever so to have received a man!"
"Man! man! man!—I'd like to know what you mean by that, Mr. Goodwin!" exclaimed Capitola, lifting her eyes flashing through their tears.