‘Her name—as I told you, her assumed name—is Montmorency. George can give you her address; but I think, on the whole, you had better not see her.’
‘I must,’ replied Alma, firmly.
Sir George glanced at his son, who thereupon took out a notebook and wrote on one of the leaves, which he tore out and handed to his father.
‘Here is the address,’ said the baronet, passing the paper on to Alma.
She took it without looking at it, and threw it on the mantelpiece.
‘Now pray leave me. But, before you go, promise to do nothing—to keep this matter secret—until you hear from me. I must first ascertain that what you say is true.’
‘We will do as you desire, Alma,’ returned Sir George; ‘only I think it would be better—much better—to let us act for you.’
‘No; I only am concerned. I am not a child, and am able to protect myself.’
‘Very well,’ said her uncle. ‘But try, my child, to remember that you have friends who are waiting to serve you. I am heart-broken—George is heart-broken—at this sad affair. Do nothing rash, I beseech you; and do not forget, in this hour of humiliation, that there is One above Who can give you comfort, if you will turn humbly and reverently to Him!’
With this parting homily the worthy baronet approached his niece, drew her to him, and kissed her benignantly on the forehead. But she shrank away quickly, with a low cry of distress.