neglected himself in some foolish way. The strongest men are the most
reckless of themselves. In any case, how was it her fault?

One night she woke up suddenly, in the dawn, her heart beating
tumultuously. She had been dreaming of her meeting--her possible
meeting--with Roger. Her face was flushed, her memory confused. She
could not recall the exact words or incidents of the dream, only that
Roger had been in some way terrible and terrifying.

And as she sat up in her berth, trying to compose herself, she recalled
the last time she had seen him at Philadelphia--a painful scene--and his
last broken words to her, as he turned back from the door to speak
them:--

"As to Beatty, I hold you responsible! She is my child, no less than
yours. You shall answer to me! Remember that!"

Answer to him? Beatty was dead--in spite of all that love and science
could do. Involuntarily she began to weep as she remembered the child's
last days; the little choked cry, once or twice, for "Daddy!" followed,
so long as life maintained its struggle, by a childish anger that he did
not come. And then the silencing of the cry, and the last change and
settling in the small face, so instinct already with feeling and
character, so prophetic of the woman to be.

A grief, of course, never to be got over; but for which she, Daphne,
deserved pity and tenderness, not reproaches. She hardened herself to
meet the coming trial.

* * * * *

She arrived in London in the first week of July, and her first act was
to post a letter to Herbert French, addressed to his East-End vicarage,
a letter formally expressed and merely asking him to give the writer
"twenty minutes' conversation on a subject of common interest to us
both." The letter was signed "Daphne Floyd," and a stamped envelope
addressed to "Mrs. Floyd" was enclosed. By return of post she received a
letter from a person unknown to her, the curate, apparently, in charge
of Mr. French's parish. The letter informed her that her own
communication had not been forwarded, as Mr. French had gone away for a
holiday after a threat of nervous breakdown in consequence of overwork;
and business letters and interviews were being spared him as much as
possible. "He is, however, much better, I am glad to say, and if the
subject on which you wish to speak to him is really urgent, his present
address is Prospect House, St. Damian's, Ventnor. But unless it is
urgent it would be a k