made an expression of surprise.

"Yes, it seems strange I should come across her in that fashion, doesn't
it? The sight of her has touched old sores."

Philip Waldron's eyes gleamed as he fixed them on the doctor's face.

"I will tell you something of my story--if you wish it."

"Say on."

"As a young man at home I was greatly under my father's influence.
Perhaps because of his indifference I was the more anxious to please
him. At all events, urged by him, but with secret reluctance, I proposed
and was accepted by that lady whose carriage I stopped to-night. She was
rich, beautiful, but I did not love her. I know my conduct was weak, it
was ignoble--but I did her no wrong. For me she had not one spark of
affection. My prospective wealth was the bait."

Waldron paused, and drew his hand across his eyes. "Then--then I met the
girl who in the end became my wife. That she was poor was an
insurmountable barrier in my father's eyes. I sought freedom from my
hateful engagement in vain. I need not trouble you with all the story.
Suffice it that I left home and married the woman I loved. My father's
anger was overwhelming. We were never forgiven. When my brother died I
hoped for some sign from my father, but he made none. And now my wife
also is dead."

"And you are alone in the world?" asked the doctor, who had followed his
story with interest.

Philip Waldron's face lit up with a rarely winning smile.

"No," he said, "I have a little girl." Then the smile faded, as he
added, "She is a cripple."

"And have you never appealed to your father?"

[Sidenote: Unopened Letters]

"While my wife lived--many times. For her sake I threw pride aside, but
my letters were always returned unopened."

The doctor sat silent for some time. Then steadfastly regarding the
young man, he said--

"My name is Norman. I have known and attended your father now for a good
many years. I was at your brother's death-bed. I never heard him mention
a second son."

Philip sighed. "No, I suppose not. I am as dead to him now."

"You are indifferent?"

"Pardon me; not indifferent, only hopeless. Had there been any chance
for me, it came when my brother died."

"For the sake of your child will you not appeal once more?"

Philip's face softened. "For my child I would do much. Thank God,"
glancing at his left hand, "my right is uninjured. My city work is safe.
Singing is not my profession, you know," he added, with a dreary smile.
"I only si