There was silence a little while after that. She lay quite still with her large, hollow eyes fixed wistfully on her father's pale and troubled face as he bent over her, holding her white and wasted hand in both his own. Everything was very still about the house. The storm outside had spent itself, and only now and then the fitful muttering of the "homeless wind" reminded one of the war of the elements that had raged so fiercely a few hours ago.
Mr. Lyle's voice, hoarse, trembling, agonized, broke strangely upon the utter stillness:
"Queenie, where have you been all this long, dreadful year?"
Queenie turned her face and buried it in the pillow, and a low sob of utter agony answered him only.
Again he repeated the question, this time more firmly and resolutely.
"Oh! papa, must I tell you?" she moaned, without lifting her face from its friendly refuge.
"Yes, Queenie, I must have a full explanation of your mysterious absence, for I fear it covers wrong or guilt. Secrecy is seldom without sin," he answered, in a firm but heart-wrung voice.
His daughter wrung her white hands, moaning and weeping.
"Oh! papa, I cannot, cannot tell you," she exclaimed.
Mr. Lyle took the white hands that were wildly beating the air, and held them firmly in both his own.