She walked up and down the little room.

Her hands were clenched, her eyes flashing.
"To tell me that he was dead--to let him live out the rest of his poor life in exile and alone! Did they think that I didn't care?
Cecil," she exclaimed, suddenly turning and facing him, "I always loved my father! You may think that I was too young to remember him--I wasn't, I loved him always.

When I grew up and they told me of his disgrace I was bitterly sorry, for I loved his memory--but it made no difference.
And all the time it was a weak, silly lie! They let him come out, poor father, without a friend to speak to him and they hustled him out of the country.

And I, whose place was there with him, never knew!" "You were only a child, Ernestine.

It was twelve years ago." "Child! I may have been only a child, but I should have been old enough to know where my place was.