She spoke hurriedly in French.
"Papa, papa, it is not true." "No, my child," he responded, "I am sure it is not true: I am sure it is all false; but why do I find you out of bed so late, little bird?
The night is nearly gone." He laid his hand upon her cheek.
"Ah, papa, I cannot deceive you.

I thought Manuel would tell you something of this kind, and I listened." The father's face immediately betrayed a new and deeper distress.
"Pauline, my child," he said with tremulous voice, "if Manuel's story is all false, in the name of Heaven how could you think he was going to tell it ?" He unconsciously clasped his hands.

The good child had one trait which she could not have inherited from her father; she was quick-witted and discerning; yet now she stood confounded.
"Speak, my child," cried the alarmed old man; "speak! let me live, and not die." "Oh, papa," she cried, "I do not know!" The old man groaned.
"Papa, papa," she cried again, "I felt it; I know not how; something told me." "Alas!" exclaimed the old man, "if it was your conscience!" "No, no, no, papa," cried Pauline, "but I was afraid of Manuel Mazaro, and I think he hates him--and I think he will hurt him in any way he can--and I _know_ he will even try to kill him.

Oh! my God!" She struck her hands together above her head, and burst into a flood of tears.

Her father looked upon her with such sad sternness as his tender nature was capable of.