"No," cried Fran, scarcely knowing what she said, "I will not get up till you grant my prayer. I'm not asking for the full rich love a child has the right to expect—but give me a crust, to keep me alive— father, give me my daily bread. You needn't think God is going to answer your prayers, if you refuse mine."
Hamilton Gregory took her in his arms and held her to his breast. "Fran," he said brokenly, "my unfortunate child…my daughter—oh, why were you born?"
"Yes," sobbed Fran, resting her head upon his bosom, "yes, why was I born?"
"You break my heart," he sobbed with her.
"Fran, say the word, and I will tell everything; I will acknowledge you as my daughter, and if my wife—"
Fran shook her head. "You owe no more to my mother than to her," she said, catching her breath. "No, the secret must be kept—always. Nothing belongs to us but the future, since even the present belongs to the past. Father—I must never call you that except when we are alone—I must always whisper it, like a prayer—father, let me be your secretary."
It was strange that this request should surround Fran with the chill atmosphere of a tomb. His embrace relaxed insensibly. His moment of self-abnegation had passed, and life appeared suddenly at the level. He looked at his daughter in frightened bewilderment, as if afraid she had drawn him too far from his security for further hiding. During the silence, she awaited his decision.
It was because of her tumultuous emotions that she failed to hear advancing footsteps.
"Some one is coming," he exclaimed, with ill-concealed relief. "We mustn't be seen thus—we would be misunderstood." He strode to the window, and pretended to look out. His face cleared momentarily.
The door opened, and Grace Noir started in, then paused significantly.
"Am I interrupting?" she asked, in quietest accent.