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HomeMy WebLinkAboutThe Wingham Times, 1916-10-19, Page 7'S SSST C/a C� u�d October 19, 1916 THE WINGHAM TIMES Page 7 A isi AME ONLY WIFE INNoi v$u�ciSvS v�vS�iS�r�: BY BERTHA M. CLAY SSSS'2.h e, vSna S S &S4 er v5�r�Sr�S'�i TES b xiocent;• you "Wo flTi •riaeery 'tier NI you cannot—what, then? Am I right?" All the piide of his nature rose in rebellion against this coarse speech. He, an Arleigh of Beechgrove, to hear this reprobate sneering at his love! His first impulse was an angry one, 'but he controlled himself. After all, jit was Madaline's father—for Mada- line's sake he would be patient. "Am I right?" the prisoner repeat - ..ed, with the same mocking smile. "No," replied Lord Arleigh, "you are not right. There is no need for me to offer any explanation, as I have failed in my object, I will go." 'You might just as well tell me if you are in love with my little Made- line. I might make it worth your while to let rile know." It was with great difficulty that Lord Arleigh controlled his indigna- • tion; but he replied calmly: "I have nothing to tell you." A look of disappointment came over the dark handsome face. "You can keep your secrets," he said—"so can I. If you will tell me nothing, neither shall I; but I might make it worth your while to trust me." "I have nothing to confide," re- turned Lord Arleigh; "all I can say to you on leaving is that I hope you will come to your senses and repent • of your past wickedness." "I shall begin to think that you are c„a missionary in disguise,” said Henry ,Dornham. "So you will not offer me anything for my secret?" he interro- • gated. "No secret of yours could interest !me," rejoined Lord Arleigh, abruptly, as he went away. So for the second time in his life, he was at the door of the mystery, yet it remained unopened. The first time was when he was listening to Lord Mountdean's story, when the mention " of the name of Dornham -should have led to a denouement; the second was now, when, if he had listened to the con"ict he would have heard that Madeline was not }lis -child. He left Chatham sick at heart. There was no help for him—his fate was sealed. Never, while he lived, • could he make his beautiful wife his own truly—they were indeed parted. for evermore. There remained to him to write that letter; should he con-' sent to Madaline's mother living with her or should he not? He reflected long and .aux:iously,' :and then having well weighed the) smatter- he ---decided that he would not refuse his wife her request. He must run the risk, but he would caution her. He wrote to Madeline, and told her that he would be pleased if she .were pleased, and that he hoped she would be happy with. her mother, adding the caution that he trusted she would impress upon her mother the need , of great reticence, and that she must not mention the unfortunate circum- , stances of the family to any creature I.living. Madaline's answer touched him. She -assured him that there was no fear— ^that her mother was to be implicitly trusted. She told him also how en- tirely she had kept the secret of his separation from her, lest it should •add'to her mother's trouble. "She will know now that I do not live with you, that I never see you, that we are as strangers; but she will never know the reason." you; I might see some way out. of He was deeply moved. What a no- the difficulty, that bas not yet pre - tie girl she was, bearing her troubles 8ented itself to you. Please yourself so patiently, and confiding them to no human soul! Then he was compelled to go to Beechgrove—it was so long since he had'Fbeen there, and so much requir- ed attention, he was obliged to go, sorely against his will, for he dreaded :the sight of the place, haunted as it 'was by the remembrance of the love •.and sorrow of his young wife. He avoided going as long as possible, ' but the place needed the attention! of a master. It was June when he went.—bright,! -smiling, perfumed, sunny June—ani Beechgrove was at its best; the trees! . were in full foliage, the green woods! reeounwft0song of ithe ard ifietlello> the e eallble ea cats wart l'ooi lug anal fair. He took up his abode there. It was soon noticed in the house that he avoided the picture-gallery—no- thing ever induced him to enter it. More than once, as he was walking, through the woods, his heart beat and! his face flushed; there, beyond the, trees lived his wife, his darling, from: whom a fate more cruel than death( had parted him. His wife! The long-: ing to see her grew on him from dart, to day. She was so near him, yet sol far away—she was so fair, yet her! beauty must all fade and die; it wase not for him. In time he began to think it strange, that he had never heard anything oft, her. He went about in the neighbor hood, yet no one spoke of bovine seen! her. He never heard of her being aattli church, nor did he ever meet her on' the high road. It was strange how', completely a veil of silence and mys-' tery had fallen over her. When he had been some time at Beechgrove he received one morning; a letter from the Earl of Mountdean, saying that he was in the neighbor- hood, and would like to call. Lord' Arleigh was pleased at the prospect.' There was deep and real cordiality. between the two men—they thorough- ly uncle -stood and liked each other; it was true that the earl was older by marry years than Lord Arleigh, but that did not affect their friend- ship. They enjoyed a few days together very much. One morning they rode, through the wood» -the sweet, _frag- rant June woods—when, from be- tween the trees, they saw the square turrets of the Dower House. Lad Mountdean stopped to admire the view. "We are a long distance (nom iseec hgrove,��he said: what is that pretty place?" Lord Arleigh's face flushed hotly. "That," he replied, "is the Dower House, where my wife lives." The earl looked with great interest at Lady Arleigh's dwelling -place. "It is very pretty,," he said—"pretty' and quiet; l a young gar; you said she was young. did not not?" "Yes, she is years younger than I am," replied Lord ,Arleigh. "Poor girl!" said the earl, pitying- ly; "it must be rather a sad fate— so young and beautiful, yet condemn-' ed all her life to live alone. Tell me, 'Arleigh, did you take advice before you separated yourself so abruptly from her?" "No," replied Lord' Arleigh, "I did not even seek it; the matter appeared plain enough to me. I should not like you to think metoo what she could be like, this con - "I friends now, the earl "We are' vict's daughter who had been gifted tine now, and we can Crud- with a regal dower of grace and each other.nYou have ,every confide beauty—this lowly -born child of the 'encs in me,uand I havencomplete people who had been !fair enough to the inyou Y would intrust heart. you charm the fastidious Lord Arleigh. lethe dearest secret of know have Meanwhile Madeline was all uncon- toldtell me humannt I gyou scious. of the strides that destiny were told to se being—the reason making in her favor. She had thought of year separation from the wife you her husband's letter all that was love." most kind; and, though she felt that (sore Arleigh hesitated for one half there was no real grounds for it, she minute.' impressed upon her mother the need "What good can it possibly do?" the utmost reticence. Margaret he oldsaid. Dornham understood from the first. "I proverbm a gthat two heads eat believer in the eood e better "Never have a moment's uneasi- thaone," replied the earl. "I think nese, Madslitle." she said. "From it is just possible that I .might have the hour I cross your threshold until some idett that has not occurred to I leave your father's name shall nev- er pass my lips." It was a little less dreary for Mada- line when her mother was with her. Though they did not talk much, and had but few was all devotion, Margaret all•attentiotes alike, to her child. She was sadly at a loss to under- stand matters. She had quite expect- ed to find Madeline living at Beech- grove—she could not imagine why she was alone at Winston House. The arrangement had seemed reasonable enough while Lord Arleigh was abroad, but now he had returned to England, why did he not come to his wife, or why did she not go to him? She could not understand it; and as Madeline volunteered no explanation, her mother asked for none. But, when day after day she saw her daughter fading away ---when she saw the gal shrink from the sunshine and the flowers, from all that was bright and beautiful, from all that was cheerful and .exhilarating—she knew that her soul was sick unto death. She would look with longing eyes at the calm. resigned face, wish- ing with all her heart that she might speak. yet not daring to do so." What seemed to her to be even more surprising was that no one appeared to think stick a state of things strange; and when she had been at Winston some few Weeks, she discovered that, as far as the occupants of the house were concerned, the condition of mat- ters was not viewed as extraordinary. She offered no remark to the servants, and they offered none to her, but from casual observations she gather- ed that her daughter had never been to Beechgrove, but had lived et Win- iston all her married life, and that Lord Arleigh had never been to visit her. How was this? What did the ter- rible pain in her daughter's face 0 i' The reason of his separation from mean? Why was her bright young g his wife revealed, Lord Arleigh again life so slowly but surely fading away? ut the question: She noted it for some time in silence, and then she decided to speak. p "Do ou think, Lord Mountdean, One morning when Madeline had turned with a sigh from the old -fish- loved garden with its wilderness of flowers, Margaret said, gently: "Madeline, T never hear you speak of the Duchess of Hazlewood, who „ KEEP THE BOWELS REGULA1 AND AVOID CONSTIPATION. tg--- no ;-'T'i'le mothero`51"—M- enIIat-' ren. I coold not let my children point to a felon's cell as the cradle of their origin. I could not sully my name, outrage a long line of noble ancestors, by making my poor wife mistress of Beechgrove. Say, if the same thing had happened to you, would you not have acted in like man- ner?" "I believe that I should," answered the earl, gravely. "However dearly you might love a woman, you could notplace your cor- onet on the brow of a convict's daugh- ter," said Lord Arleigh. "I love my wife a thousand times better than my life, yet I could not make her mistress of Beechgrove." "It was a cruel deception," observ- ed the earl—"one that it is impossible to understand. She herself—the lady you have made your wife—must be quite as unhappy as yourself." "If it is possible, she is more so," returned Lord Arleigh; "but tell me, if I had appealed to you in the di- lemma—if I had asked your advice— what would you have said to me?" "I should have had no resource bat to tell you to act as you have done," replied the earl; "no matter what pain and sorrow it entailed, you could not have done otherwise." "I thought you would agree with me. And now, Mountdean, tell me, do yon "see any escape from my dif- ficulty?" "I do not, indeed," replied• the earl. "I had one hope," resumed Lord Arleigh; "and that was that the fath- er had perhaps been unjustly sen- tenced, or that he might after all prove to be innocent. I went to see him—he is one of the convicts work- ing at Chatham." 'You went to see him!" echoed the earl in surprise. "Yes; and I gave up all hope from the moment I saw him. He is simply a handsome reprobate. I asked him if it was true that he had committed the crime, and he answered me, quite frank, 'Yes.' I 'asked him if there were an extenuating circumstances; he replied 'want of money.' When I had seen and spoken to him, I felt convinced that the step I had taken with regard to my wife was a wise one, however cruel it may have been. No man in his senses would voluntar- ily admit a criminal's (laughter into his 'family." "No; it is even a harder case than I thoueht it." said the earl. 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Ont. •"u ie sa:w L;ie v.v,^.: crimson mount to the white brow, to be speedily re- placed by a pallor terrible to behold. "My darling," she cried. in dis- tress, "I did not expect to grieve you !" "My should I be grieved?" said the girl, quietly. "The duchcsa does net come to see me because she acted to me very cruelly; and I never write to her now." Then Margaret for awhile was si- lent. How was she to bring forward the subject nearest her heart? She cast about for words in which to ex- press her thoughts. "Madeline," she said at last, "no one has a greater respect than I have for the honor of husband and wife— I mean for the good faith and confi- dence there should be between them. In days gone by I never spoke of your poor father's faults—I never allowed any one to mention them to me. If any of the neighbors ever tried to talk about him, I would not allow it. So, my darling, do not consider that there - is any idle curiosity in what I am about to say to you. I thought you were so happily married, my dear; and it is a bitter disappointment to me to find that such is not the case." There came no reply from Lady Arleigh; her hands were held before her eyes. I am almost afraid, dearly as I love you, to ask you the question," Margaret continued; "but, Madeline, will you tell the why you do not live with your husband?" "I cannot, mother," was the brief reply. "Is its --oh, tell Brie; dear !--is it any fault of yours? Have you displeased him?" "It is through no fault of mine, mother -he says so himself." "Is it from any fault of his? Has he done anything to displease you?" "No," she answered, with sudden warmth, "he has not—indeed be could not, I love him so." "Then, if you have not displeased each other, and really love each oth er, why are you parted in this strange fashion? It seems to me, Madeline. that you are his wife only in name," "You are right, mother—and I shall never be any neverore; but tell you. not ask The me why—I must live and die with me." "Then I shall never know it, Made - liner' Never, mother," she answered. "But do you know, my darling, that it is wearing your life away?" "Yes; I know it, but I cannot alter matters. And, ,mother," she contin- ued; be good riends and"if we axe live together, you must f never mention this to me again." "I will remember," said Margaret. kissing the thin white hands, but to herself she said matters should not so continue. Were Lord Arleigh twen- ty times a lord, he should not break his wife's heart in that cold, cruel fashion. A sudden resolve came to Mrs. Dornham--she would go to Beech - grove and see him herself. If he were angry and sent her away from Wins- ton House, it would not matter—she would have told him the truth. 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Milburn's Heart and `Nerve Pills are 10 cents per box, or 3 boxes for $1.25. Von sale at all (calors or veiled c;ireet of nee t c1 •sisc by 'Tee T. 1.:1"" •• ,.orzata, Cult. about it; either trust me or not, as you will; but if you do trust me, rely upon it I shall find some way •,f helping you." It is a hopeless case," observed Lord Arleigh, sadly. "I am quite sure that even if you know all about it, you would not see any comfort for me. For my wife's sake I hesitate totell you, not for my own." "Your wife's secret will be as safe with ane as with yourself," said the earl. I never thought that it would pas my lips, but I do trust you," declared Lord Arleigh; "and if yon can see any for the first day I Heaven thank met you. You must: hold my wife blameless, Lord Mountdean," he went on. '''She never spoke untruthfully, she never deceived me, but on our wedding -day I discovered that her father was a convict--a'man of the lowest criminal !Lord Mountdean looked as he felt, shocked. "But how,, , he asked, eagerly, "could you be so deceived?" "That T can never tell you; it was an act of „fiendish revenge—cruel, ruthless, treacherous. I cannot reveal the perpetrator. My wife did not de- ceive me, did not even know that I had been deceived; she thought, poor child, that I was aequainted with the whole of her father's story, but I was not. And now, Lord Mountdea.n, 1011 uta, do you think I did wrong?" He raised his care -worn, haggard face as he asked the question,nd the earl was disturbed at sight of the terrible pain in it. CHAPTER XXXVIT. CHAPTER XXXVIII. Margaret Dornham knew no peace until she had carried out her inten- tion, It was but right, she said to herself, that Lord Arleigh should know that his fair young wife was dying. "What right had he to marry herr she asked herself, indignantly, "if be meant to break her heart?" What could he have left her for? It could not have been because of her poverty or her father's crime— he knew of both beforehand. What was it? In vain did she recall all that Madeline had ever said about her hus- band—she could see no light in the darkness, And no solution to the mys- tery; ys-tery; therefore the only course open to her was to go to Lord Arleigh, and to tell him that his wife was dying, "There may possibly have been some slight misunderstanding between them which one little interview might re- move," she thought. One day she invented some excuse for her absence from Winiston House, and started on her expedition, strong with the love that makes the weak- est heart brave. She drove the great- er part of the distance, and then dis- missed the carriage, resolving to walk the remainder of the way—she did not wish the servants to know whith- er she was going. It was a delight- ful morning. warm, brilliant, sunny. The hedge -rows were full of wild roses, there was a faint odor of new- ly -mown hay, the westerly wind„ was soft and sweet, As Margaret Dornham walked through the woods, she fell deeply into thought. Almost for the first time a great doubt had seined her. a doubt that made her tremble and fear. Through many long years she had clung to Madeline—she had thought her love and tender care of more consequence to the child than any- thing else. Knowing nothing of her father's rank or position, she had flat- tered herself into believing that she had been Madaline's best friend in childhood. Now there came to her a terrible daaubt. What if she had stood in Madaline's light, instead of being her friend? She had not been informed of the arrangements be- tween the doctor and his patron, but people had said to her, when the doctor died, that the child had bet- ter be sent to the workhouse—and that had frightened her. Now she wondered whether she had done right or wrong. What if she, who of all the world had been the one to love Madeline best, had been her great- est foe? Thinking of this, she walked along the soft greensward. She thought of the old life in the pretty cottage at Ashwood, where for so short a time she had been happy with her hand- some ne'er-do-well husband, whom at first she had loved so blindly; she thought of the lovely golden -haired child whom she had adored so wild- ly, and of the kind, clever doctor, who had been so suddenly riled to' his account; and then her thoughts wandered to the stranger who had intrusted his child to her dare. Had she done wrong in leaving him all these years in such utter ignorance of his child's welfare? Had she wronged him? Ought she to have waited patiently until he had either returned or sent? If she were ever to meet him again, would be over- whelm her with reproaches? She thought of his tall, erect figure, of his handsome face. so sorrowful and sad, of his mournful eyes, which al- ways looked as though his heart lay buried with his dead wife. Suddenly her face grew deathly pale, her lips flew apart with a ter- rified cry, her whole frame trembled. She raised her hands as one who would fain ward off a blow, f or, standing just before her, looking down on her with stern, indignant eyes, was the stranger who had in- trusted his child to her. For some minutes—how many she never , knew—they stood looking at each other—he stern, indignant, haughty; she trembling, frightened, cowed. "I recognize you again," he said at length, in a harsh voice. Cowed, subdued, she fell on her knees at his feet. "Woman," he cried, "where is my child?" She made him no answer, but cov- ered her face with her hands. "Where is my child?" he repeated. "I intrusted her to you—where is she?" The white lips opened, and some feeble answer came which he could not hear. "Where is my child?" he demand- ed. "What have you done with her? For Heaven's sake, answer. nee!" he implored. Again she murmured something he could not catch, and he bent over her. If ever in his life Lord Mount - dean lost his temper, he lost it then. He could almost, in his impatience, have forgotten that it was a woman who was kneeling at his feet, and could have shaken her until she spoke intelligibly. His anger was so great he could have. struck her. But he controlled himself. "I am not the most patient of men, Margaret Dornham," he said, "and your are trying me terribly. In the name of Heaven, I ask you, what have you done with my child?" "I have not injured her," she sob- bed. "Is she living or dead?" asked the earl. with terrible calmness. "She is living," replied the weep- ing woman. Lord Mountdean raised his face reverently to the summer sky. "Thank Heaven!" he said devoutly, and then added, turning to the wo- man: "Living and well?" "No, not well; but she will be in time, Oh, sir, forgive me! I did wrong, perhaps, but I thought I was acting for the best." "It was a strange 'best,'" he said, "to place a child beyond its parent's reach." "Ohs sir," cried Margraet Dorn - ham, I never thought of that! She came to me in my dead child's place —it was to me as though my own child was come back again. You could not tell. how I loved her. Iler little head lay on my breast, her lit- he fingers caressed me, her little voice murmured sweet words to me. that I have done wtong? The earl looked at him. "No," he replied, "I cannot say that you have." "I loved her," continued Lord Ar - Leigh ; "but I could not make the was so very )cine to you. Does s d;tug?1teT. of I4 convict the. tUistreas yf 13.V.fir tc)-neo vourt,. . _•.. - The Army of Constipation Ie Growing Smaller Every Day. CARTER'S LITTLE LIVER PILLS are responsible—they not only give relief— they permanently cure Constipa. tion. Mil- lions use them for Ban. nese, Indigestion, Sick Headache, Sallow Skin. Small Pill, Small Dose, Small Price, Genuine mud bear Signature .s f -040217e movemosialmammaimamillimigammilillumall sri0uneenu nuruuuxniuuiNp 42 The Fropra isr e orf?tentMedeinekr, y_ ..,..._- AVeeetable preparalionforA� simile ti nethelbad and Reg ting the Stomachs ape ROWcls of -' INFANTS LDRS PromoteestiConn nsneirtatr' uk ne ss an Opium,Morphind nor Mineral. NOT NARCO r ape m* Sane Ileo PI Aat Anic4ed AAonnnt sa " a,,,,ra,d o,rSoacrrho tinSo mhAart• Worms, Feverishness and LOS50FsP meFacSiiSignature o f � tier.. ---- THEO AUNEW YORE. COMPANY. MONTREAL t, d "2-111.1h old CENTS 3�DQ -'35 CASTORIA Por Inpi fang a zd Children. Mothers Know That Exact Copy of Wrapper. Genuine Castoria Always J Bears the Signature of L • In Use For Over Thirty Years, CASIOr'i•; .r;IA ANY, Nil. YCNK THC world was hard and cruel and cold to me—the child never was; all the world disappointed me—the child nev- er did. My heart and soul clung to her. And then, sir. when she was able to run about, a pretty, graceful, loving child, the very joy of my heart and sunshine of my life, the doctor died, and I was left alone with her." She paused for some few minutes, her whole frame shaken with sobs. The earl, bending down, spoke kindly to her. "I am quite sure." he said, "that if you erred it has been through love for my child. Tell me all—have no fear." "I was in the house. sir," she con- tinued, "when the poor doctor was carried home dead—in his sitting - room with my—with little Madeline— and when I saw the confusion that followed upon his death, I thought of the papers in the oaken box; and, without saying a• word to any one, I took it and hid it under my shawl." "But tell me," said the earl, kindly, "why did you do that?" "I can hardly remember now," she replied—"it is soslong since. I think my chief motive was dread lest my darling should be taken from me. I thought that, if strangers opened the box and found out who she was, they would take her away from me, and I should never see her again. I knew that the box held all the papers re- lating to her, so I took it deliberate - Y "Then, of course," said the earl, "you know her history." No," she replied, quickly; "I have never opened the box." "Never opened it l" he exclaimed, wonderingly. "No, sir—I have never even touch- ed it; it is wrapped in my old shawl now just as I brought it away." "But why have you never opened it?" he asked, still wondering. "Because, sir, I did not wish to know who the little child really was, test, in discovering that, I should discover something also which would compel me to give her up." Lord Mountdean looked at her in astonishment. How woman-like she was ! How full of contradictions! What strength and weakness, what honor and dishonor, what love and (;elfishness did not her conduct re- veal! "Then," continued Margaret Dorn - ham, "when the doctor died, people frightened me. They said that the child must go to the work -house. My husband soon after got into dreadful trouble, and I determined to leave the village. I tell the truth, sir. I was afraid, too, that you would return and claim the child; so I took her away with me to London. My husband was quite indifferent—I could do as I liked, he said. I took her and left nc, trace behind. After we reached London, my husband got into trouble again; but I always did my best for the darling child. She was well dress- ed, well fed, well cared for, well edu- cated—she has had the training of a lady." "But," put in Lord Mountdean, "did you never read my advertise- ments?" "No, sir," she replied; "I have not been in the habit of reading newspa- pers." "It is strange that you should re- main hidden in London while people were looking for you," he said. "What was your husband's trouble, Mrs. Dornham?" "He committed a burglary, sit; and as he had been convicted before, his sentence was a very heavy one." "And my daughter. you say, is liv- ing, but not well? Where is she?" "I will take you to her, sit," was the reply—"at once, if you will go." "I will not lose a minute,' said the earl, hastily. "It, time, isMrs. D ern- ham, that you know my name, and my daughter's also. I ani the Earl of Mountdean, and she Lady Madeline Charlewood." On hearing this Margaret Dom - ham was more frightened than evet. -"If 1 'Have done wrong, my-lorii,'41 she said, "I beg of you to pardon me� —it was all, as I thought, for the best. So the child whom I have loved and cherished was a grand lady, after( all? "Do not let us lose a moment," hef said. "Where is my daughter?" ! "She lives not far from here, but! we cannot walk—the distance is too, great," replied Margaret. "Well, we are near to the town eft Lynton—it is not twenty minutes' walk; we will go to an hotel, and gett a carriage. II can hardly endure). this suspense." He never thought to ask her howl= she had come thither; it never oo-a curred to him His whole soul was! wrapped in the one idea—that he w to see his child again—Madaline's child—the little babe he had held in his arms, whose little face he had be- dewed with tears—his own child—: the daughter he bad lost fort long years and had tried so hart to find. He never noticed the summer) woods through which he was passing; he never heard the wild birds' songs;` of sunshine or shade he took no note. The heart within him was on fire, for! he was going to see his only child—, his lost child—the daughter whose! voice he had never heard. "Tell me," he said, stopping abrupt -1 ly, and looking at Margaret, "you save my poor wife when she lay dead—is! my child like herr' Margaret answered quickly: "She is like her; but, to my mind,( she is a thousand times fairer." They reached the principal hotel at Lynton, and Lord Mountdean called hastily for a carriage. Not a moment was to be lost—time pressed. "You know the way," he said tot Margaret; "will you direct the driv-' er?" He did not think to ask where his daughter lived, if she was married! or single, what she was doing, or any thing else; his one thought was that he had found her—found her, never to lose her again. He sat with his face shaded by his! hand during the whole of the drive, thanking Heaven that he had found! Madaline's child. He never noticed! the woods, the high -road bordered with trees, the carriage -drive with' its avenue of chestnuts; he did not; even recognize the picturesque, quaint old Dower House that he had admir- ed so greatly some little time before. She was as nay own child --«I loved She rose from her knees and stood her so, sir 1" and the poor won'ian's bemire }iiia, - • . voice was broken with sobs. "All the ! Xeres rittelanuesill% He saw a large mansion, but it never occurred to him to ask whether his daughter was mistress or servant; be only knew that the carriage had stop- ped, and that very shortly he should see his child. Presently he found himself in a large hall gay with flowers and cover- ed with Indian matting, and Mar- garet Dornham was trembling before him. "My lord," she said, "your daughter is ill, and I am afraid the agitation may prove too much for her. Tell me, what shall I do?" He collected his scattered thoughts. "Do you mean to tell me," he ask- ed, "that she has been kept in com- plete ignorance of her history all these years? "She has been brought up in the belief that she is my daughter," said Margaret; "she knows nothing else." A dark frown came over the earl's face, "It was wickedly unjust," he said; "cruelly unjnst. Let me go to her at once." Pale, trembling, and frightened, Margaret led the way. It seemed to. the earl that his heart had 'stopped beating. that a thick mist was spread' before his eyes, that the surging or a deep sea filled his ears, He stag- gered It:: a drunken man. 01, Heav- en, could it be that after all these years he was really going to see Made - line's child, his awn lost daughter? Very soon he found himself looking on a fair face framed in golden hair, with dark blue eyes, full of passion,. poetry, and sorrow. sweet crimson lips, sensitive and delicate. a face sod lovely that its pure. saint -like eiC ' •,:r, evi n almost frightens djjeseee lege t;(To BE Coi'insitmA.)„