"Your father!" she answered. "Do you think I care what your father did? Your honour and your love were enough for me."
"I did not know," he whispered, "and I should have made my way to you, but—" he paused again.
"But what?" she demanded, impatiently.
"Well, it was only fair you should have a chance to meet others, and I thought you were in love with Roberts."
"Roberts! He would have been glad of my love, I can tell you that." She looked up at him. "I have endured much for you, Sidney Trove, and I cannot keep my secret any longer. He says that Darrel is now in prison for your crime."
"And you believe him?" Trove whispered.
"Not that," she answered quickly, "but you know I loved the dear old man; I cannot think him guilty any more than I could think it of you. But there's a deep mystery in it all. It has made me wretched. Every one thinks you know more than you have told about it."
"A beautiful mystery!" the young man whispered. "He thought I should be convicted—who wouldn't? I think he loved me, so that he took the shame and the suffering and the prison to save me."
"He would have died for you," she answered; "but, Sidney, it was dreadful to let them take him away. Couldn't you have done something?"
"Something, dear Polly! and I with a foot in the grave?"