Stout Colonel Clifford was now a very unhappy man.  The soul of honor himself, he could not fully believe that his own son had been guilty of perfidy and crime.  But how could he escape doubts, and very grave doubts too?  The communication was made by a gentleman who did not seem really to know more about it than he had been told, but then he was a clergyman, with no appearance of heat or partiality.  He had been easily convinced that the lady herself ought to have come and said more about it, and had left an attested copy of the certificate in his (Colonel Clifford’s) hands with a sort of simplicity that looked like one gentleman dealing with another.  One thing, however, puzzled him sore in this certificate—­the witness being William Hope.  William Hope was not a very uncommon name, but still, somehow, that one and the same document should contain the names of Walter Clifford and William Hope, roused a suspicion in his mind that this witness was the William Hope lying in his own house so weak and ill that he did not like to go to him, and enter upon such a terrible discussion as this.  He sent for Mrs. Milton, and asked her if Mrs. Walter Clifford was quite recovered.

Mrs. Milton reported she was quite well, and reading to her father.  The Colonel went upstairs and beckoned her out.

“My child,” said he, “I am sorry to renew an agitating subject, but you are a good girl, and a brave girl, and you mean to confide in me sooner or later.  Can you pity the agitation and distress of a father who for the first time is compelled to doubt his son’s honor?”

“I can,” said Grace.  “Ah, something has happened since we parted; somebody has told you:  that man with a certificate!”

“What, then,” said the Colonel, “is it really true?  Did he really show you that certificate?”

“He did.”

“And warned you not to marry Walter?”

“He did, and told me Walter would be put into prison if I did, and would die in prison, for a gentleman can not live there nowadays.  Oh, sir, don’t let anybody know but you and me and my father.  He won’t hurt him for my sake; he has wronged me cruelly, but I’ll be torn to pieces before I’ll own my marriage, and throw him into a dungeon.”

“Come to my arms, you pearl of goodness and nobility and unselfish love!” cried Colonel Clifford.  “How can I ever part with you now I know you?  There, don’t let us despair, let’s fight to the last.  I have one question to submit to you.  Of course you examined the certificate very carefully?”

“I saw enough to break my heart.  I saw that on a certain day, many years ago, one Lucy Muller had married Walter Clifford.”

“And who witnessed the marriage?” asked the Colonel, eyeing her keenly.

“Oh, I don’t know that,” said Grace.  “When I came to Walter Clifford, everything swam before my eyes; it was all I could do to keep from fainting away.  I tottered into my father’s study, and, as soon as I came to myself, what had I to do?  Why, to creep out again with my broken heart, and face such insults—­All! it is a wonder I did not fall dead at their feet.”