The Lost Lady of Lone. Emma Dorothy Eliza Nevitte Southworth

why the deuce do you go to them?" demanded the banker.

      His daughter's soft, gray eyes sank beneath his scrutinizing gaze, but she did not answer. How could she confess that she went out into company daily and nightly only in the hope of seeing again the one man to whom she had given her unsought heart, and for whose presence her very soul seemed famishing.

      "What is it that you do care for, then, Salome?" demanded her father, varying his question.

      Her head sank upon her bosom, but still she did not answer. How could she tell him that she cared only for a man who did not care for her.

      "This is unbearable!" burst forth the banker. "Here you are with every indulgence that affection can yield you, every luxury that money can give you, and yet you are not well nor content. What ails you girl? Are you pining after your convent? Set fire to it. Are you pining after your convent, I ask you, Salome?"

      "Indeed, no, papa!"

      "What!" demanded her father, starting up at her reply and gazing with doubt into her pale, earnest face.

      "I am not thinking of the convent, dear papa. Indeed I had forgotten all about it. If it will give you any pleasure to hear it, dear papa, let me tell you that I have quite given up all ideas of entering a convent," added Salome, with a pensive smile.

      "What!" exclaimed the banker, starting up in a sitting position and bending toward his daughter as if in doubt whether to gaze her through and through or to catch her to his heart.

      She met that look and understood her father's love for his only child, and reproached herself for having been so blind to it for these three years past.

      "Dearest papa," she said, with tender earnestness, "I have no longer the slightest wish or intention of ever entering a convent. And I wonder now how I ever could have been so insane as to think I could live all my life contentedly in a convent, or so selfish as to forget that by doing so I should leave my father alone in the world!"

      "My darling child! Is this truly so? Are these really your thoughts?" exclaimed the banker, with such a look of delight as Salome had not believed possible in so aged a face.

      "Really and truly, my father! And does it give you so much pleasure?"

      "Pleasure my daughter! It gives me the greatest joy! Hand me my dressing-gown, my dear. I must get up. I cannot lie here any longer. You have put new life into me!"

      Salome handed him his gown, socks, and slippers, and then went to clear off his big easy-chair, which was burdened with his yesterday's dress suit, and draw it up for his use.

      And in a few minutes the banker, wrapped in his gown, with his feet in his slippers, was seated comfortably in his arm-chair.

      "Now, shall I ring for Potts, papa, dear?" inquired Salome.

      "No, my love, I don't want Potts, I want you. Sit down near me, Salome, and listen to me. You have made me very happy this morning, my darling; and now I wish to make you happy; you are not so now; but I am your father; you are my only child; all that I have will be yours; but in the meantime, you are not happy. What can I do, my beloved child, to make you so?" said the banker, drawing her to his side and kissing her tenderly, and then releasing her.

      "Papa, dear, I should be a most ungrateful daughter if I were not happy," answered the girl.

      "Then you are a very thankless child, my little Salome, for you are very far from happy," said her father, gravely shaking his head, yet looking so tenderly upon her as to take all rebuke from his words.

      Salome dropped her eyes under his searching, loving gaze.

      "My child, I know that I have the power to bless you, if you will only tell me how. Tell me, my dear," persisted her father.

      But still she dropped her eyes and hung her head.

      "If your mother were here, you could confide in her. You cannot confide in your father, my poor, motherless girl, and he cannot blame you," said Sir Lemuel, sadly.

      "Father, dear father, I do love you; and I will confide in you," said Salome, earnestly.

      For just then a mighty power of faith and love arose in her soul, casting out fear, casting out doubt, subduing pride and reserve.

      "What is it, then, my love? Have you formed any attachment of which you have hesitated to tell me? Hesitate no longer, my dearest Salome. Tell me all about it. It is nothing to be ashamed of. Love is natural. Love is holy. Oh, it is your mother that should be telling you all this, my poor girl, not your awkward, blundering old father," suddenly said the banker, breaking off in his discourse as his daughter hid her crimson face upon his shoulder.

      "My dear, gentle father, no mother could be tenderer than you," murmured Salome.

      "Tell me all, then, my darling. It is the first wish of my heart to see you happily married. And no trifling obstacle shall stand in the way of its accomplishment. Who is he, Salome?" he inquired, in a low whisper, as he passed his hand around her neck.

      She did not answer, but she kissed and fondled his hand.

      "You cannot bring yourself to tell me yet? Well, take your own time, my love. You will tell me some time or another," he continued, returning her soft caresses.

      "Yes, I will tell you sometime, dear, good, tender father. But now—when do we leave town papa?"

      "In less than three weeks, my dear."

      "And where do we go?"

      "To Lone Castle, if you like; if not, anywhere you prefer, my dear."

      "Then we will go to Lone, if you please, papa."

      "Certainly, my dear."

      "Papa?"

      "Yes, love."

      "Will you do something for me before we leave town?"

      "I will do anything on earth that you wish me to do for you, my dear," said the banker, looking anxiously toward her.

      She hesitated for a few moments, and then said:

      "Papa, I want you to give just such a semi-political dinner party as that given by the Premier in the beginning of the season."

      "What! my little, pale Salome taking an interest in politics!" exclaimed the banker, in droll surprise.

      "Yes, papa; and turning politician on a small, womanish scale. You will give this semi-political dinner?"

      "Why of course I will! Whom shall we invite?"

      "Papa, the very same party to a man, whom we met at the Premier's dinner."

      "Let me see. Who was there? Oh! there were three members of Parliament and their wives; two city magnates and their daughters; you and myself, Lady Belgrade, and—and the Marquis of—John—Mr. John Scott, I mean."

      "Yes, papa, that was the company. Send the invitations out to-day, for this day week please—if no engagement intervenes to prevent you."

      "Very well, my dear. You see to it. I leave it all in your hands. Now you may ring for Potts, my dear. I have to dress and go down to the House. I am chairman of a committee there, that meets at two. And you, my love, must be off to your flower-show. You must not keep Lady Belgrade waiting."

      Salome touched the bell, and on the entrance of the valet, she kissed her father's hand and retired.

      "Now I wonder," mused the old gentleman, "who it is she wants to meet again, out of that dinner company? It cannot be either of the old M.P.'s or their wives; nor the two elderly city magnates, or their tall daughters; that disposes of ten out of the fourteen invited guests. The remainder included Lady Belgrade, myself, Salome herself, and—Lord, bless my soul, alive!" burst forth the banker, with such a start, that his valet, who was brushing his hair, begged his pardon, and said that he did not mean it.

      "Lord, bless my soul alive," mentally