w
her sink, half exhausted, half frightened, upon the couch, and he sat
down by her side.

"Madaline," he began, "will you look at me, and see if my face brings
back no dream, no memory to you? Yet how foolish I am to think of such a
thing! How can you remember me when your baby-eyes rested on me for only
a few minutes?"

"I do not remember you," she said, gently--"I have never seen you
before."

"My poor child," he returned, in a tone so full of tenderness and pain
that she was startled by it, "this is hard!"

"You cannot be the gentleman I used to see sometimes in the early home
that I only just remember, who used to amuse me by showing me his watch
and take me out for drives?"

"No. I never saw you. Madeline as a child--I left you when you were
three or four days old. I have never seen you since, although I have
spent a fortune almost in searching for you."

"You have?" she said, wonderingly. "Who then are yon?"

"That is what I want to tell you without startling you, Madaline--dear
Heaven, how strange it seems to utter that name again! You have always
believed that good woman who has just quitted the room to be your
mother?"

"Yes, always," she repeated, wonderingly.

"And that wretched man, the convict, you have always believed to be your
father?"

"Always," she repeated.

"Will it pain or startle you very much to hear that they are not even
distantly related to you--that the woman was simply chosen as your
foster mother because she had just lost her own child?"

"I cannot believe it," she cried, trembling violently. "Who are you who
tells me this?"

"I am Hubert, Earl of Mountdean," he replied, "and, if you will allow
me, I will tell you what else I am."

"Tell me," she said, gently.

"I am your father, Madaline--and the best part of my life has been spent
in looking for you."

"My father," she said, faintly. "Then I am not the daughter of a
convict--my father is an earl?"

"I am your father," he repeated, "and you, child, have you, child, have
your mother's face."

"And she--who has just left us--is nothing to me?"

"Nothing. Do not tremble, my dear child. Listen--try to be brave. Let me
hold your hands in mine while I tell you a true story."

He held her trembling hands while he told her the story of his life, of
his marriage, of the sudden and fatal journey, and her mother's
death--told it in brief, clear words that left no shadow of doubt on her
mind as to its perfect truth.

"Of