"Oh, father, mercy!"
His fingers were on the door, and the key grated in the lock.
"The sea-air makes one famish," said a gay voice outside.
"It's lucky," laughed another, "for there is sure to be nothing for dinner but the inevitable ham and eggs."
In another instant the final barrier between herself and public shame would have been withdrawn by that relentless hand.
"I promise—I promise—spare me!" cried the unhappy girl, and fell fainting on the floor.
The old man drew a long, deep breath, and wiped his forehead. His victory had not been lightly won. He lifted his daughter up and carried her to the sofa; then raised the little clumsy window, rarely opened, and propped it with a stick, so that the breeze might blow upon her tear-stained cheek. How white and worn and emptied of all joy it looked! As he gazed upon her, a touch of pity stole into her father's face. He poured out a little spirits in a glass, and put it to her lips. "Take a sup of this, and you'll be better, child."
She opened her heavy eyes, and shook her head.
"You said you would have mercy, father, if I promised?"
"Yes, yes; all shall be forgotten. We will not even speak of it to one another."