ure of the first
syllable by the falsifier. Gwen saw this, and said, quietly but
distinctly:--"Thornton."

The end was gained, for better, for worse. Ruth Thrale gave a sudden
start and cry, uttering almost her mother's words at first sight of the
mill:--"What can this be? What can this be? Tell me, oh, tell me!"

Gwen, hard put to it during suspense, now cool and self-possessed at the
first gunshot, rose and stood by the panic-stricken woman. Nothing could
soften the shock of her amazement now. Pull her through!--that was the
only chance. And the sooner she knew the whole now, the better!

It might have been cruelty to a bad end that made such beauty so pale
and resolute as Gwen's, as she said without faltering:--"The name is
your mother's name--Mrs. Thornton Daverill. Your father's name was
Thornton. Now open the letter and read!"

"Oh--my lady--it makes me afraid!... What can it be?"

"Open the letter and read!" But Ruth Thrale _could_ not; her hand was
too tremulous; her heart was beating too fast. Gwen took the letter from
her, quietly, firmly; opened it before her eyes; stood by her, pointing
to the words. "Now read!"--she said.

And then Ruth Thrale read as a child reads a lesson:--"My ... dear ...
daughter ... Maisie ..." and a few words more, her voice shaking badly,
then suddenly stopped. "But my mother's name was Maisie," she said. She
had wavered on some false scent caused by the married name.

"Read on!" said Gwen remorselessly. Social relation said that her
ladyship _must_ be obeyed first; madness fought against after. Ruth
Thrale read on, for the moment quite mechanically. The story of the
shipwreck did not seem to assume its meaning. She read on, trembling,
clinging to the hand that Gwen had given her to hold.

Suddenly came an exclamation--a cry. "But what is this about Mrs.
Prichard? This is _not_ Mrs. Prichard. Why is mother's old name in this
letter?" She was pointing to the word Cropredy, Phoebe's first married
name; a name staggering in the force of its identity. She had not yet
seen the signature.

Gwen turned the page and pointed to it:--"Isaac Runciman," clear and
unmistakable. Incisiveness was a duty now. Said she, deliberately:--"Why
is this forged letter signed with your grandfather's name?" A pause,
with only a sort of puzzled moan in answer. "I will tell you, and you
will have to hear it. Because it was forged by your father, fifty years
ago." Again a pause; not so much as a moan