better evidence than the evidence of a dream?
Reasonable as it undoubtedly was, this view left certain doubts still
lingering in my mind. The child's instinct soon discovered that her
mother and I were playfellows who felt no genuine enjoyment of the game.
She dismissed her make-believe guests without ceremony, and went back
with her doll to the favorite play-ground on which I had met her--the
landing outside the door. No persuasion on her mother's part or on mine
succeeded in luring her back to us. We were left together, to face
each other as best we might--with the forbidden subject of Miss Dunross
between us.

CHAPTER XXVIII. LOVE AND MONEY.

FEELING the embarrassment of the moment most painfully on her side, Mrs.
Van Brandt spoke first.

"You have said nothing to me about yourself," she began. "Is your life a
happier one than it was when we last met?"

"I cannot honestly say that it is," I answered.

"Is there any prospect of your being married?"

"My prospect of being married still rests with you."

"Don't say that!" she exclaimed, with an entreating look at me. "Don't
spoil my pleasure in seeing you again by speaking of what can never be!
Have you still to be told how it is that you find me here alone with my
child?"

I forced myself to mention Van Brandt's name, rather than hear it pass
_her_ lips.

"I have been told that Mr. Van Brandt is in prison for debt," I said.
"And I saw for myself last night that he had left you helpless."

"He left me the little money he had with him when he was arrested," she
rejoined, sadly. "His cruel creditors are more to blame than he is for
the poverty that has fallen on us."

Even this negative defense of Van Brandt stung me to the quick.

"I ought to have spoken more guardedly of him," I said, bitterly. "I
ought to have remembered that a woman can forgive almost any wrong that
a man can inflict on her--when he is the man whom she loves."

She put her hand on my mouth, and stopped me before I could say any
more.

"How can you speak so cruelly to me?" she asked. "You know--to my shame
I confessed it to you the last time we met--you know that my heart, in
secret, is all yours. What 'wrong' are you talking of? Is it the wrong I
suffered when Van Brandt married me, with a wife living at the time (and
living still)? Do you think I can ever forget the great misfortune of my
life--the misfortune that has made me unworthy of you? It is no fault of
mine, God knows; but