“Forsaken you?” she whispered. “Oh, my dear, dear father! How could you think it of your child!”
“The world says I am a murderer, and I am in prison.”
“Hush!” she cried, laying her hand upon his lips. “It was only this morning I could get permission to see you.”
She laid her soft white hand upon his lips as she spoke, and then, seeming to make an effort and check her own emotion, she drew him closer to her.
“Ah!” he sighed as he clung to her; “and I always acted so unfairly to you, my child. But tell me—May?”
“She does not know,” said Claire earnestly. “In her weak state it might kill her.”
“Perhaps better it did,” said Denville solemnly. “Poor, weak, erring girl!”
“Hush! Don’t!” cried Claire. “Father, there is hope—there is forgiveness for us all if we show that we are indeed repentant. May is not like others. Always weak and wilful and easily turned aside from what was right. No: we must not despond. I must take you both far, far away, dear. I have come for that now. You must advise with me and help me,” she said quickly. “Tell me what I am to do—what I am to set about. Come, father, quick!”
“What you are to do?” he said sadly. “Trust in heaven, my child: we cannot shape our own paths in life, and when we do try the end is wreck.”
“Father,” she cried impetuously, “do you think I was speaking of myself? I want you to tell me whom to ask for help.”