d Felicia, from a heart sincerely touched. The sordid years in
Florence, the death of Netta's mother, the bankruptcy of her father, the
bitter struggle amid the Apuan Alps to keep themselves and their wretched
invalid alive--she described them, as they had been told to her, not
rhetorically, for neither she nor Netta Melrose was capable of rhetoric,
but with the touches and plain details that bring conviction.

"They have been _hungry_--for the peasants' food. Your wife and child
have had to be content day after day with a handful of bread and a
_salata_ gathered from the roadside; while every franc they could earn
was spent upon a sick man. Mrs. Melrose is a shadow. I suspect incurable
illness. Your little daughter arrived fainting and emaciated at my house.
But with a few days' rest and proper food she has revived. She is young.
She has not suffered irreparably. One sees what a lovely little creature
she might be--and how full of vivacity and charm. Mr. Melrose--you would
be proud of her! She is like you--like what you were, in your youth. When
I think of what other people would give for such a daughter! Can you
possibly deny yourself the pleasure of taking her back into your life?"

"Very easily! Your sentimentalism will resent it; I assure you,
nevertheless, that it would give me no pleasure whatever."

"Ah, but consider it again," she pleaded, earnestly. "You do not know
what you are refusing--how much, and how little. All that is asked is
that you should acknowledge them--provide for them. Let them stay here a
few weeks in the year--what could it matter to you in this immense
house?--or if that is impossible, at least give your wife a proper
allowance--you would spend it three times over in a day on things like
these"--her eye glanced toward a superb ewer and dish, of _verre
eglomisee_, standing between her and Melrose--"and let your daughter take
her place as your heiress! She ought to marry early--and marry
brilliantly. And later--perhaps--in her children--"

Melrose stood up.

"I shall not follow you into these dreams," he said fiercely. "She is not
my heiress--and she never will be. The whole of my property"--he spoke
with hammered emphasis--"will pass at my death to my friend and agent and
adopted son--Claude Faversham."

He spoke with an excitement his physical state no longer allowed him to
conceal. At last--he was defeating this woman who had once defeated him;
he was denying and scorning her, as she