take my hand, and let us go look at the old place."
"Ay. But you must wait till I get on my new hat and feather."
"Nay, nay; art pretty enough bare-headed."
"O papa! but I must, for decency. You are company now; you know."
"Dull company, sweetheart, thou 'lt find me."
"I don't mean that: I mean, when you were here always, you were only papa; but now you come once in an age, you're company. I won't budge without 'em; so there, now."
"Well, little one, I do submit to thy hat and feather; only be quick, or I shall go forth without thee."
"If you dare," said Rose impetuously; "for I won't be half a moment."
She ran and extorted from Ryder the new hat and feather, which by rights she was not to have worn until next month.
Griffith and his little girl went all over the well-known premises, he sad and moody, she excited and chattering, and nodding her head down, and cocking her eye up every now and then, to get a glimpse of her feather.
"And don't you go away again, dear papa. It tis so dull without you. Nobody comes here. Mamma won't let 'em."
"Nobody except Father Leonard," said Griffith, bitterly.
"Father Leonard? Why, he never comes here. Leonard! That is the beautiful priest that used to pat me on the head, and bid me love and honor my parents. And so I do. Only mamma is always crying, and you keep away; so how can I love and honor you, when I never see you, and they keep telling me you are good for nothing, and dead."
"My young mistress, when did you see Father Leonard last?" said Griffith, gnawing his lip.
"How can I tell? Why, it was miles ago; when I was a mere girl. You know he went away before you did."
"I know nothing of the kind. Tell me the truth now. He has visited here since I went away."
"Nay, papa."
"That is strange. She visits him, then?"
"What, mamma? She seldom stirs out; and never beyond the village. We keep no carriage now. Mamma is turned such a miser. She is afraid you will be poor; so she puts it all by for you. But now you are come, we shall have carriages and things again. O, by the by, Father Leonard! I heard them say he had left England, so I did."
"When was that?"
"Well, I think that was a little bit after you went away."
"That is strange," said Griffith, thoughtfully.
He led his little girl by the hand, but scarcely listened to her prattle; he was so surprised and puzzled by the information he had elicited from her.
Upon the whole, however, he concluded that his wife and the priest had perhaps been smitten with remorse, and had parted—when it was too late.
This, and the peace of mind he had found elsewhere, somewhat softened his feelings towards them. "So," thought he, "they were not hardened creatures after all. Poor Kate!"
As these milder feelings gained on him, Rose suddenly uttered a joyful cry; and, looking up, he saw Mrs. Gaunt coming towards him, and Ryder behind her. Both were in gay colors, which, in fact, was what had so delighted Rose.
They came up, and Mrs. Gaunt seemed a changed woman. She looked young and beautiful, and bent a look of angelic affection on her daughter; and said to Griffith, "Is she not grown? Is she not lovely? Sure you will never desert her again."
"'T was not her I deserted, but her mother; and she had played me false with her dd priest," was Griffith's reply.
Mrs. Gaunt drew back with horror. "This, before my girl?" she cried. "Griffith Gaunt, you lie!"
And this time it was the woman who menaced the man. She rose to six feet
