"The--my--the person
in Scotland was dead then. She was dead, I am thankful to say, before
Maude knew anything of the affair."

Up started the dowager. "Then is the woman dead now? was she dead when
you married _her_?" laying her hand upon Lady Hartledon's arm. "Are her
children different from Maude's?"

"They are. It could not be otherwise."

"Her boy is really Lord Elster?"

She flung Lady Hartledon's arm from her. Her voice rose to a shriek.

"Maude is not Lady Maude?"

Val shook his head sadly.

"And your children are lords and ladies and honourables," darting a look
of consternation at Anne, "whilst my daughter's--"

"Peace, Lady Kirton!" sternly interrupted Val. "Let the child, Maude, be
Lady Maude still to the world; let your daughter's memory be held sacred.
The facts need never come out: I do not fear now that they ever will. I
and my wife and Thomas Carr, will guard the secret safely: take you care
to do so."

"I wish you had been hung before you married Maude!" responded the
aggrieved dowager.

"I wish I had," said he.

"Ugh!" she grunted wrathfully, the ready assent not pleasing her.

"With my poor boy's death the chief difficulty has passed away. How
things would have turned out, or what would have been done, had he lived,
it has well-nigh worn away my brain to dwell upon. Carr knows that it has
nearly killed me: my wife knows it."

"Yes, you could tell her things, and keep the diabolical secret from poor
Maude and from me," she returned, rather inconsistently. "I don't doubt
you and your wife have exulted enough over it."

"I never knew it until to-night," said Anne, gently turning to the
dowager. "It has grieved me deeply. I shall never cease to feel for your
daughter's wrongs; and it will only make me more tender and loving to her
child. The world will never know that she is not Lady Maude."

"And the other name--Elster--because you know she has no right to it,"
was the spiteful retort. "I wish to my heart you had been drowned in your
brother's place, Lord Hartledon; I wished it at the time."

"I know you did."

"You could not then have made fools of me and my dear daughter; and the
darling little cherub in the churchyard would have been the real heir.
There'd have been a good riddance of you."

"It might have been better for me in the long run," said he, quietly,
passing over the inconsistencies of her speech. "Little peace or
happiness have I had in living. Do not let us recrimi