sympathy
with each other.

Upon arriving at her hotel Mrs. Stewart led the way directly to her
delightful suite of rooms, where, the moment the door was closed, she
turned and once more gathered Edith into her arms.

"I must hold you--I must feel you, else I shall not be quite sure that
I am not dreaming," she exclaimed. "I find it difficult to realize my
great happiness. Can it be possible that I have my own again, after so
many years! that you were once the tiny baby that I held in my arms in
Rome, and loved better than any other earthly object? It is wonderful!
wonderful! and strangest of all is the fact that your heart turns so
fondly to me! Are you sure, dear, that you can unreservedly accept and
love your mother, in spite of those letters, and what they revealed
regarding my past life?"

And again she searched Edith's face and eyes as if she would read her
inmost thoughts.

She met her glance clearly, unshrinkingly.

"I am sure that you never committed a willful wrong in your life," she
gravely replied. "It was a sad mistake to go away from your home and
parents, as you did; but there is no intent to sin to be laid to your
charge--your soul shines, like a beacon light, through these dear
eyes, and I am sure it is as pure and lovely as your face is
beautiful."

"May He who always judges with divine mercy bless you for your sweet
charity and faith," murmured Isabel Stewart, in tremulous tones, as
she passionately kissed the lips which had just voiced such a blessed
assurance of trust and love.

"Now come," she went on, a moment later, while, with her own hands,
she tenderly removed Edith's hat and wrap, "we will make ourselves
comfortable, then I will tell you all the sad story of my misguided
youth."

Twining her arms about the girl's waist, she led her to a seat, and
sitting beside her, she circumstantially related all that we already
know of her history.

But not once did she mention the name of the man who had so deeply
wronged her; for she had resolved, if it were possible, to keep from
Edith the fact that Gerald Goddard, under whose roof she had lived,
was her father.

The young girl, however, was not satisfied, was not content to be thus
kept in the dark; and, when her mother's story was ended, she
inquired, with grave face and clouded eyes:

"Who was this man?--why have you so persistently retrained from
identifying him? What was the name of that coward to whom--with shame
I say it--I am ind