"Child," he groaned, "I would give much to see you in good health again."

"I shall never be better, dearest; never. I know now that I cannot--that I sha'n't--"

His hand covered her lips.

"If you want to break my heart, Teola," he cried, unnerved, "then say what you were going to. I can't, and won't, bear it! You are not yet eighteen. You've always been well until these past few weeks.... Oh, I wish your mother and I had never gone abroad--or that you had gone with us.... But you begged so hard to stay at home!"

Teola had coveted the chance to tell him of the little human link between Dan Jordan's life and hers. She raised herself on her pillow, the long hair mantling her shoulders and aureoling the death-like face.

"Father," she gasped. "Father! Let me tell you something about Tessibel Skinner. No! Don't put your fingers over my lips! Don't! Don't! Listen."

"Teola," interjected Graves gravely, "if you want to displease me--"

"She's so lonely," broke in the girl, her courage ebbing away under the bent brows of her father. "I thought--you--might help her."

"Go to sleep," replied the minister, "there's a good girl!... Good-night."

For a moment, Teola lay panting nervously. She had been so near the confession, so near telling her father about the little babe in the shanty. She slipped out of bed to the window. The wind still flung the dead leaves, whirling them to and fro in the orchard like willful spirits. The night had darkened until, to Teola, shivering and ill, it seemed alive with shadowy goblins which mocked at her.