"She is going to take up her abode with us," replied his father.
"In what capacity?" asked the youth, laughing.
"To every one else," said Lord Avonleigh, "As the daughter of an old friend; to you, as your sister."
"My sister!" exclaimed Albert.
"Your sister. It is a long and mournful history, and one whose repetition I would fain be spared; but we have all our faults and our follies, and, take my word for it, boy, that we pay dearly enough for the latter. She is my daughter—friendless and unprotected; and it were hard that the innocent should suffer for the guilty."
It is odd how easily the common-places of morality or of sentiment glide off in conversation. Well, they are "exceedingly helpful," and so Lord Avonleigh found them.
"Poor girl!" continued he, "she has known much adversity—we must at least be kind to her."
"Indeed we will," exclaimed Albert, eager with all the ready affection of youth; "I have always wished for a sister—I am sure I shall like her so much."
"But remember, Albert," added his father, "I rely on your discretion. To you alone is intrusted the secret of her birth."
