l man. You know his name.
He probably robbed your father of that miniature with other things; but I
can only surmise this. I cannot positively say."

"You speak of my father." Her face was quivering, her eyes entreated.
"Tell me what you know of him, and of"--she kissed the miniature, and
held it to her cheek--"of my mother?"

"Your father," said Saxham, "was an officer and a gentleman. The surname
that you exchanged for mine, poor child! was really his. His Christian
name is engraved there"--he pointed to the inner rim of the band of
brilliants --"with that of the lady who was your mother. She was
beautiful; she was tender and devoted; she loved your father well enough
to give up every social aim and every worldly advantage for his sake. She
died loving him. He died--I should not wonder if he died of sorrow for her
loss. For hearts can break, though the Faculty deny it!"

He swung about to leave the room. She was murmuring over her new-found
treasure.

"'Lucy to Richard' ... '_Richard_' ..." she repeated. A wave of roseate
colour broke over her with the memory of the hand that had touched and the
voice that had spoken to her in her Heaven-sent vision of the previous
morning, when the Beloved had come back from Paradise to lay a charge upon
her child.

"My father knew the Mother?" It was not a question, it was a statement of
the fact. Saxham wondered at the assured tone, as he told her:

"It is true. They had been friends--in the world they both gave up
afterwards--the man for the love that is of earth, the woman for the love
of Heaven."

"She never told me then, but she must have known who I was from the
beginning," Lynette ventured. "She gave me the surname of Mildare because
it belonged to me! Do not you think so too?"

Saxham made no answer. He swung about to leave the room. She slipped the
miniature into her bosom, where his letter had lain, and asked:

"Where are you going?"

He answered, with his eyes avoiding hers:

"You have been travelling all night; you must be tired and hungry. Go to
bed and try to rest, while I forage for you downstairs. You shall not
suffer for lack of attendance. I am quite a good cook, as you shall find
presently. When you have eaten you must sleep, and then we will talk of
your returning home to your friends."

"Are not you my chief friend?" she asked. "Is not this my home?"

He avoided her look, replying awkwardly:

"Hardly, when there are no servants to wait upon you!