Maltravers turned, and his face was now calm and serene save by its
extreme and almost ghastly paleness, no trace of the hell within him
could be discovered.

"Pardon me," said he, gently, "I know not this morning what I say or do;
think not of it, think not of me,--it will pass away when I hear your
voice."

"Shall I sing to you the words I spoke of last night? See, I have them
ready; I know them by heart, but I thought you might like to read them,
they are so full of simple but deep feeling."

Maltravers took the song from her hands, and bent over the paper; at
first, the letters seemed dim and indistinct, for there was a mist before
his eyes; but at last a chord of memory was struck,--he recalled the
words: they were some of those he had composed for Alice in the first
days of their delicious intercourse,--links of the golden chain, in which
he had sought to bind the spirit of knowledge to that of love.

"And from whom," said he, in a faint voice, as he calmly put down the
verses,--"from whom did your mother learn these words?"

"I know not; some dear friend, years ago, composed and gave them to her.
It must have been one very dear to her, to judge by the effect they still
produce."

"Think you," said Maltravers, in a hollow voice, "think you IT WAS YOUR
FATHER?"