on caught by a paragraph encircled by a thick blue
pencil mark. It gave from a paper called the _London Satirist_ what
professed to be a long account of you, in which it was said that you
were living in a bungalow in Wales with a Gypsy girl.'

When Winifred said this I forgot my promise not to interrupt her
narrative, and exclaimed,

'And you believed this infamous libel, Winnie?'

'To say that I believed it as a simple statement of fact would of
course be wrong. I never doubted you loved me as a child.'

'As a child! Do you then think that I did not love you that night on
Raxton sands?'

'I did not doubt that you loved me then. But wealth, I had been told,
is so demoralising, and I thought your never coming forward to find
me and protect me in my illness might have something to do with
inconstancy. Anyhow, these thoughts combined with my dread of your
mother to prevent me from writing to you.'

'Winnie, Winnie!' I said, 'these theories of the so-called advanced
thinkers, whom your aunt taught you to believe in--these ideas that
love and wealth cannot exist together, are prejudices as narrow and
as blind as those of an opposite kind which have sapped the natures
of certain members of my own family.'

'The sight of your dear sad face when I first saw it here was proof
enough of that,' she said. 'As your life was said to be that of a
wanderer, I did not care to write to Raxton, and I did not know where
to address you. What I had read in the newspaper, I need not tell
you, troubled me greatly. I cried bitterly, and made but a poor
breakfast. After it was over Mr. D'Arcy entered the room, and shook
me warmly by the hand. He saw that I had been crying, and he stood
silent and seemed to be asking himself the cause. Drawing a chair
towards me, and taking a seat, he said,

'"I fear you have not slept well, Miss Wynne."

'"Not very well," I answered. Then, looking at him, I said, "Mr.
D'Arcy, I have something to say to you, and this is the moment for
saying it."

'He gave a startled look, as though he guessed what I was going to
say.

'"And I have something to say to _you_, Miss Wynne," he said,
smiling, "and this seems the proper time for saying it. Up to the
last few weeks a young gentleman from Oxford has been acting as my
secretary. He has now left me, and I am seeking another. His duties,
I must say, have not been what would generally be called severe. I
write most of my own letters, though not all, and my co