"Dear to me? It is my son. The rest are gone. It is Robert."
And he began to tremble.
"Yes, it is Robert," said she, very softly; then turning her eyes away from him, lest his emotion should overcome her, she said-- "He has laid me and my father under deep obligations."
She dragged her father in; for it was essential not to show Mr. Penfold she was in love with Robert.
"Obligations to my Robert? Ah, madam, it is very kind of you to say that, and cheer a desolate father's heart with praise of his lost son! But how could a poor unfortunate man in his position serve a lady like you?"
"He defended me against robbers, single-handed."
"Ah," said the old man, glowing with pride, and looking more beautiful than ever, "he was always as brave as a lion."
"That is nothing; he saved my life again, and again, and again."
"God bless him for it! and God bless you for coming and telling me of it!
Oh, madam, he was always brave, and gentle, and just, and good; so noble, so unfortunate."
And the old man began to cry.
Helen's bosom heaved, and it cost her a bitter struggle not to throw her arms around the dear old man's neck and cry with him. But she came prepared for a sore trial of her feelings, and she clinched her hands and teeth, and would not give way an inch.
"Tell me how he saved your life, madam."
"He was in the ship, and in the boat, with me."
"Ah, madam," said Michael, "that must have been some other Robert Penfold; not my son. He could not come home. His time was not up, you know."
"It was Robert Penfold, son of Michael Penfold."
"Excuse me a moment," said Michael; and he went to a drawer, and brought her a photograph of Robert. "Was it this Robert Penfold?"
The girl took the photograph, and eyed it, and lowered her head over it.
"Yes," she murmured.
"And he was coming home in the ship with you. Is he mad? More trouble! more trouble!"
"Do not alarm yourself," said Helen; "he will not land in England for years"--here she stifled a sob--"and long ere that we shall have restored him to society."
Michael stared at that, and shook his head.
"Never," said he; "that is impossible."
"Why impossible?"
"They all say he is a felon."
"They all _shall_ say that he is a martyr."
"And so he is; but how can that ever be proved?"
"I don't know. But I am sure the truth can always be proved, if people have patience and perseverance."
"My sweet young lady," said Michael sadly, "you don't know the world."
"I am learning it fast, though. It may take me a few years, perhaps, to make powerful friends, to grope my way among forgers, and spies, and wicked, dishonest people of all sorts, but so surely as you sit there I'll clear Robert Penfold before I die."
The good feeble old man gazed on her with admiration and astonishment.
She subdued her flashing eye, and said with a smile: "And you shall help me. Mr. Penfold, let me ask you a question. I called here before; but you were gone to Edinburgh. Then I wrote to you at the office, begging you to let me know the moment you returned. Now, do not think I am angry; but pray tell me why you would not answer my letter."
