“Ah!” he exclaimed, springing quickly to his feet. “And that vil—I beg your pardon, Miss Moulton.”
He stopped in confusion, for his mind instantly reverted to the story which Ronald Edgerton had related to him that morning, and he saw at once that he was reviling one who was intimately connected with the fair girl before him.
“Yes, that wicked man is my father, and though my heart almost breaks with the knowledge, yet it is none the less true,” she returned, sadly.
“And did you know that he was present to witness the ceremony this evening?”
“What! here?” she almost shrieked, starting toward him with clasped hands and pale face.
“Yes, my friend, here. Did you not notice that bent, gray-haired man, who came forward as I entered the place? That was Ralph Moulton.”
She shuddered, and covered her white face with her hands. She had noticed that ugly, sinister face, and in her heart she had hated him, though she could not have told why had she been asked.
Fredrich Weimher arose, and taking her by the hand, led her gently to a seat.
“Pardon me,” he said, “for arousing such unpleasant feelings; he may indeed be unfortunately allied to you by blood, but surely the sacred name of ‘father’ can never be breathed by your pure lips to one such as he. You cannot recognize him by any such tie when he has willfully forfeited all such claim.
“Never,” she replied. “Though it is deeply humiliating to me to know that I am indeed the child of one who is so base.”