lingered the aroma of her family traditions. "I am very grateful, sir,
to you. I know you only want to be kind, but please do not ask me to
tell you anything more. It would only make other people unhappy. There
is no one but myself to blame for my poverty, and for all I have gone
through. What is to become of me I do not know, but I cannot make my
people suffer any more. Do not ask me."

"It might end their suffering," he replied quickly. "I have a case in
point now where a man has been searching New York for months, hoping to
get news of his wife, who left him nearly a year ago. He comes in to
see me every few nights and we often tramp the streets together. My work
takes me into places she would be apt to frequent, so he comes with
me. He and I were up last night until quite late. He has nothing in his
heart but pity for that poor woman, who he fears has been left stranded
by the man she trusted. So far he has heard nothing of her. I left him
hardly an hour ago. Now, there, you see, is a case where just a word of
frankness and truth might have ended all their sufferings. I told Mr.
O'Day this morning, when I left him, that--"

She had grown paler and paler during the long recital, her wide-open
eyes staring into his, her bosom heaving with suppressed excitement,
until at the mention of Felix's name, she staggered to her feet, and
cried: "You know Felix O'Day?"

"Yes, thank God, I do, and you are his wife, Lady Barbara O'Day, Lord
Carnavon's daughter."

She cowered like a trapped animal, uncertain which way to spring. In her
agony she shrank against the wall, her arms outstretched. How did
this man know all the secrets of her life? Then there arose a calming
thought. He was a priest--a man who listened and did not betray.
Perhaps, after all, he could help her. He wanted the truth. He should
have it.

"Yes," she answered, her voice sinking. "I am Lord Carnavon's daughter."

"And Felix O'Day's wife?"

"And Felix O'Day's wife," came the echo, and, with the last word, her
last vestige of strength seemed to leave her.

The priest rose to his full height. "I was sure of it when I first
saw you," he said, a note of triumph in his voice. "And now, one last
question. Are you guilty of this theft?"

"GUILTY! I guilty! How could I be?" The denial came with a lift of the
head, her eyes kindling, her bosom heaving.

"I believe you. There is not a moment to be lost." The priest and father
confessor were gone now; it was