“Father, my heart bleeds for you. This is a sorrowful welcome home for the returning soldier.”
“Trouble not yourself about me, my child. Your own wrongs are enough, and more than enough, to engage your thoughts. I know those wrongs, and, by the soul of your mother, they shall be terribly avenged!” said Major Helmstedt, in a low, deep, stern voice of relentless determination.
“Father, oh, God! what do you mean?” exclaimed Margaret, in alarm.
“I mean, my much injured child, that every tear they have caused you to shed, shall be balanced by a drop of heart’s blood, though it should drain the veins of all who bear the name of Houston!”
“Oh, Heaven of heavens, my father!” cried Margaret, wringing her pale hands in the extremity of terror. Then suddenly catching the first hope that came, she said:
“But you cannot war upon women.”
“Upon all men that bear the name of Houston, then! Yet did not they spare to war upon women—or rather worse, upon one poor, defenseless girl! Enough! they shall bitterly repay it!”
“But father! my father! it was not the men; they were ever kind to me. It was the women of the family, and even they were deceived by appearances,” pleaded Margaret.
“It is you who are deceived! Mrs. Houston acted in concert with her husband and his son!”
“Ralph? never, never, my father. My life, my soul, upon Ralph’s fidelity!” exclaimed Margaret, as a warm glow of loving faith flowed into and transfigured to angelic beauty her pale face.