lips with feverish red, at her set mouth and desperate eyes. The
story of her connection with the Gordon tragedy had not penetrated to
his study, neither did he know how Burr had forsaken her for his
Dorothy; but he saw something was amiss with her, although he was not
well versed in the signs of a woman's face. Parson Fair, moreover,
felt somewhat of interest in this Madelon Hautville, for he had a
decorously restrained passion for sweet sounds which she had often
gratified. Many a Sabbath day had he sat in his beetling pulpit and
striven to keep his mind fixed upon the spirit of the hymn alone, in
spite of his leaping pulses, when Madelon's great voice filled the
meeting-house. It was probable that he also, notwithstanding his
Christian grace, shared somewhat the popular sentiments towards these
musical and Bohemian Hautvilles; yet he looked with a dignified
kindness at the girl.

"I trust you are not ill," he said, without answering her question as
to whether she might see Dorothy.

Madelon did not act as if she heard what he said. "Can I see your
daughter, sir?" she repeated. She cast an anxious glance over her
shoulder for fear Eugene might appear in the road.

Parson Fair still eyed her with perplexity. "I believe Dorothy is ill
in her chamber," he said, hesitatingly. "I do not know--"

Madelon gave a dry sob. "I beg you to let me see her for a minute,
sir," she gasped out, "for the love of God. It is life and death!"

Parson Fair looked shocked and half alarmed. He had not had to do
with women like this, who spoke with such fervor of passion. His