“Has—has Frank Burnett been?” whispered her father, looking timidly at Claire.
She shook her head sadly.
“No,” said Denville; “he will not come. He would not even if she were to die. She must get better; and we will do as you have often said: go right away, where we are not known, and where we shall be safe.”
In spite of herself, Claire darted at him a horrified look, which he saw and winced at, as he rose feebly, and began to pace the room, stopping at length before the window to gaze out at the sunlit sea.
“Strange!” he murmured; “the world so beautiful, and my life one dreary course of agony and pain. Claire, what do the doctors really think—that she will live?”
“I pray God they do!” said Claire solemnly.
“Yes; she must live and repent. There is pardon for those who suffer and repent, my child. Don’t look at me like that; you do not know. Claire, is this my punishment? Surely no worse suffering can befall me now.”
“Dear father,” whispered Claire; “let the past be dead.”
“Hush!” he cried, grasping her hand; “Don’t talk of death, girl—here. She must live, and we will go away before—before it is too late. Has Morton been?”
Claire shook her head mournfully.