ot honestly,
as you may guess."

"And if I am not willing to be reconciled?"

"There was no condition."

"Do you know all the circumstances? Did he tell you?"

"No, he did not tell me. He said that he left you suddenly for a reason,
and when he wished to return you would not have him. That was all. He
never spoke but kindly of you."

"He was a good man."

"He is a good man."

"I will tell you why he left me. He learned, no matter how, that I had not
been married, as I said I had."

She looked up, as if expecting him to speak. He said nothing, but stood
with eyes fixed on the floor.

"I admitted, too, that I kept alive the memory of a man who had played an
evil part in my life; that I believed I cared for him still, more than for
my husband."

"Ida, for God's sake, you do not mean"--

"Yes, I meant you then. But when he went away, when he proved himself so
noble, I changed. I learned to hate the memory of the other man. But he
came back too soon. I said things madly--things I did not mean. He went
again. And then afterward I knew that I loved him."

"I am glad of that, upon my soul!" said Telford, letting go a long breath.

She smiled strangely and with a kind of hardness. "A few days ago I had
determined to find him if I could, and to that end I intended to ask a man
who had proved himself a friend, to learn, if possible, where he was in
America. I came here to see him and my daughter."

"Who is the man?"

"Mr. George Hagar."

A strange light shot from Telford's eyes. "Hagar is a fortunate man," he
said. Then dreamily: "You have a daughter. I wish to God that--that ours
had lived."

"You did not seem to care when I wrote and told you that she was dead."

"I do not think that I cared then. Besides"--

"Besides you loved that other woman, and my child was nothing to you," she
said with low scorn. "I have seen her in London. I am glad--glad that she
hates you. I know she does," she added. "She would never forgive you. She
was too good for you, and you ruined her life."

He was very quiet and spoke in a clear, meditative voice. "You are right.
I think she hates me. But you are wrong, too, for she has forgiven me."

"You have seen her?" She eyed him sharply.

"Yes, to-day." His look wandered to a table whereon was a photograph of
her daughter. He glanced at it keenly. A look of singular excitement
sprang to his eyes. "That is your daughter?"

She inclined her head.

"How old is she?" He picked