In Mr. Stuyvesant’s Parlors
“Was I deceived, or did a sable cloud Turn forth her silver lining on the night?”
“Unworthy?”
“Yes.”
Cicely stared at her father with wide-open and incredulous eyes. “I cannot believe it,” she murmured; “no, I cannot believe it.”
Her father drew up a chair to her side. “My daughter,” said he, with unusual tenderness, “I have hesitated to tell you this, fearing to wound you; but my discretion will allow me to keep silence no longer. Bertram Sylvester is not an honest man, and the sooner you make up your mind to forget him, the better.”
“Not honest?” You would scarcely have recognized Cicely’s voice. Her father’s hand trembled as he drew her back to his side.
“It is a hard revelation for me to make to you, after testifying my approval of the young man. I sympathize with you, my child, but nonetheless I expect you to meet this disappointment bravely. A theft has been committed in our bank—”
“You do not accuse him of theft! Oh father, father!”
“No,” he stammered. “I do not accuse him, but facts look very strongly against someone in our trust, and—”
“But that is not sufficient,” she cried, rising in spite of his detaining hand till she stood erect before him. “You surely would not allow any