"you do not know how
important it is for me to understand."

"My dear mother," said Lady Arleigh, gently clasping her arms round her
mother's neck; "do not let that idea make you uneasy. All minor lights
cease to shine, you know, in the presence of greater ones. The world
bows down to Lord Arleigh; very few, I think, know what his wife's name
was. Be quite happy about me, mother. I am sure that no one who has seen
me since my marriage knows anything about my father."

"I shall be quite happy, now that I know that," she observed.

More than once during that visit Margaret debated within herself whether
she would tell Lady Arleigh her story or not; but the same weak fear
that had caused her to run away with the child, lest she should lose her
now, made her refrain from speaking, lest Madaline, on knowing the
truth, should be angry with her and forsake her.

If Mrs. Dornham had known the harm that her silence was doing she would
quickly have broken it.

Lady Arleigh returned home, taking her silent sorrow with her. If
possible, she was kinder then ever afterward to her mother, sending her
constantly baskets of fruit and game--presents of every kind. If it had
not been for the memory of her convict husband, Mrs. Dornham would for
the first time in her life have been quite happy.

Then it was that Lady Arleigh began slowly to droop, then it was that
her desolate life became utterly intolerable--that her sorrow became
greater than she could bear. She must have some one near her, she
felt--some one with whom she could speak--or she should go mad. She
longed for her mother. It was true Margaret Dornham was not an educated
woman, but in her way she was refined. She was gentle, tender-hearted,
thoughtful, patient, above all, Madaline believed she was her
mother--and she had never longed for her mother's love and care as she
did now, when health, strength, and life seemed to be failing her.

By good fortune she happened to see in the daily papers that Lord
Arleigh was staying at Meurice's Hotel, in Paris. She wrote to him
there, and told him that she had a great longing to have her mother with
her. She told him that she had desired this for a long time, but that
she had refrained[6] from expressing the wish lest it should be
displeasing to him.

"Do not scruple to refuse me," she said, "if you do not approve. I
hardly venture to hope that you will give your consent. If you do, I
will thank you for it. If you should think