s somehow or another, and there was no
nobility of mind or aspiration behind it. In her heart of hearts she
knew it; but it was the last cry of her soul to him, seeking, though in
vain, for what she had never had, could never have.

"What have you been doing?" he added, looking at the desk where she
had sat, glancing round the room. "Has the Duchess left any rags on
the multitude of her acquaintances? I wonder that you can make yourself
contented here with nothing to do. You don't look much stronger. I'm
sure you ought to have a change. My mother was never well here; though,
for the matter of that, she was never very well anywhere. I suppose it's
the laboratory that attracts me here, as it did my father, playing with
the ancient forces of the world in these Arcadian surroundings--Arcady
without beauty or Arcadians." He glanced up at his mother's picture.
"No, she never liked it--a very silent woman, secretive almost."

Suddenly her eyes flared up. Anger possessed her. She choked it down.
Secretive--the poor bruised soul who had gone to her grave with a broken
heart!

"She secretive? No, Eglington," she rejoined gravely, "she was
congealed. She lived in too cold an air. She was not secretive, but yet
she kept a secret--another's."

Again Eglington had the feeling which possessed him when he entered the
room. She had changed. There was something in her tone, a meaning, he
had never heard before. He was startled. He recalled the words of the
Duchess as she went up the staircase.

What was it all about?

"Whose secrets did she keep?" he asked, calmly enough.

"Your father's, yours, mine," she replied, in a whisper almost.

"Secret? What secret? Good Lord, such mystery!" He laughed mirthlessly.

She came close to him. "I am sorry--sorry, Harry," she said with
difficulty. "It will hurt you, shock you so. It will be a blow to you,
but you must bear it."

She tried to speak further, but her heart was beating so violently that
she could not. She turned quickly to the portfolio on the desk, drew
forth the fatal letter, and, turning to the page which contained the
truth concerning David, handed it to him. "It is there," she said.

He had great self-control. Before looking at the page to which she had
directed his attention, he turned the letter over slowly, fingering the
pages one by one. "My mother to my father," he remarked.

Instinctively he knew what it contained. "You have been reading my
mother's correspondence