t
the child had better be sent to the work-house--and that had frightened
her. Now she wondered whether she had done right or wrong. What if she,
who of all the world had been the one to love Madaline best, had been
her greatest foe?

Thinking of this, she walked along the soft greensward. She thought of
the old life in the pretty cottage at Ashwood, where for so short a time
she had been happy with her handsome, ne'er-do-well husband, whom at
first she had loved so blindly; she thought of the lovely, golden-haired
child which she had loved so wildly, and of the kind, clever doctor, who
had been so suddenly called to his account; and then her thoughts
wandered to the stranger who had intrusted his child to her care. Had
she done wrong in leaving him all these years in such utter ignorance of
his child's welfare? Had she wronged him? Ought she to have waited
patiently until he had returned or sent? If she were ever to meet him
again, would he overwhelm her with reproaches? She thought of his tall,
erect figure, of his handsome face, so sorrowful and sad, of his
mournful eyes, which always looked as though his heart lay buried with
his dead wife.

Suddenly her face grew deathly pale, her lips flew apart with a
terrified cry, her whole frame trembled. She raised her hands as one who
would fain ward off a blow, for, standing just before her, looking down
on her with stern, indignant eyes, was the stranger who had intrusted
his child to her.

For some minutes--how many she never knew--they stood looking at each
other--he stern, indignant, haughty, she trembling, frightened, cowed.

"I recognize you again," he said, at length, in a harsh voice.

Cowed, subdued, she fell on her knees at his feet.

"Woman," he cried, "where is my child?"

She made him no answer, but covered her face with her hands.

"Where is my child?" he repeated. "I intrusted her to you--where is
she?"

The white lips opened, and some feeble answer came which he could not
hear.

"Where is my child?" he demanded. "What have you done with her? For
Heaven's sake, answer me!" he implored.

Again she murmured something he could not catch, and he bent over her.
If ever in his life Lord Mountdean lost his temper, he lost it then. He
could almost, in his impatience, have forgotten that it was a woman who
was kneeling at his feet, and could have shaken her until she spoke
intelligibly. His anger was so great he could have struck her. But he
controlled