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GUY KENMORE’S WIFE. 61
cloud of sorrow from the hearts.and lives of a wronged woman
and her child,” exclaimed the lovely girl, fervently.
‘It rests with you, Irene, whether I do so or not,” he replied,
flashing a look of admiration on her beautiful, agitated face..
“With me!” she echoed, blankly.
“You are the daughter of a wealthy, high- born, noble gentle-
man, who would be delighted to claim you if-he knew that you
lived, and who would rejoice to clasp your mother to his de-
voted heart,” said Mr. Revington, watching her closely as he
uttered the words. Her eyes beamed, her face glowed with
joy; then suddenly a'shadow fell en its brightness. -
“You are deceiving me?” she said.
“No, I swear that I am not,” he asseverated. “I can prove
what I say, and I am ready to do so—on one condition!”
“And that?” she asked, innocently.
His shifting gaze fell before that eager, hopeful, unconscious
look, but he answered, boldly:
- “That you be my wife, Irene.”
“T have told you that was impossible,” she answered, growing
suddenly pale to the lips. :
“Why?” he inquired, chagrined at the prompt reply.- .
“T do not love you,” she replied, evasively.
“Granted that you do not,” he said, selfishly, ‘is your hand
too great a price to pay to secure to your mother ease, honor,
and happiness?’’
She had no answer for him only an irrepressible moan of pain
that broke uncontrollably over her white lips. Her thoughts
went back to poor; patient, badgered Elaine; and her hard life
at Bay View—harder now than ever, she guessed, since her
father was dead, and she was left to the tender mercies of her
mother and sister.
“Dear mother, how gladly I would purchase this man’s
knowledge, even at the bitter price he asks, for your dear sake,
if only it were possible,’’ she thought to herself with a pang like
death at her heart, as she recalled her fatal marriage.
Julius Revington, watching the mute anguish:on her speak-
ing face, saw that it was no time to press the question.
“Do not answer me now, Irene,” he said, with ready gentle- '
ness. ‘Take time to think it over, Revolve it in your mind to-
night in soberness and calmness. Ask yourself if you do not
owe this duty to your poor, wronged mother. How. sweet it
‘would be for her child to restore to her all she has lost.”
“You are cruel and calculating,” she said, indignantly. “Why
should you ask such a costly price for doing this kindness to
my poor, martyred mother?”
“Because I love you, and in no other way can I win you,” he
answered, boldly.
Her beautiful eyes flashea scornfully upon him.
“Would you take a reluctant and unloving bride?” she asked.
“T would take you on any terms, Irene,” he replied.
She looked up at him and asked the strangest question that
could possibly fall from a daughter’s lips: a
“Mr. Revington, will you tell me the name of my father?”