t felt that she could not bear the painful interview any
longer, and was about to touch the electric button to summon her
servant to show her visitor out, when he stayed her with a gesture of
appeal.

"One moment more, Isabel, I implore," he exclaimed; "then I will go,
never to trouble you again."

Her beautiful hand dropped by her side, and she turned again to him
with a patient, inquiring glance.

"You have spoken of our--child," the man went on, eagerly, though a
flush of shame dyed his face as he gave utterance to the pronoun
denoting mutual possession. "Do you intend to continue your search for
her?"

"Certainly; that will now be the one aim of my life. I could never
take another moment of comfort knowing that my old friend and my child
were destitute, as I have been led to believe they are."

"And if--you find her--shall--you tell her--your history?" faltered
Gerald Goddard, as he nervously moistened his dry lips.

His companion bent her head in thought for a moment. At length she
remarked:

"I shall, of course, be governed somewhat by circumstances in such a
matter; if I find Edith still in ignorance of the fact that she is an
adopted daughter, I think I shall never undeceive her, but strive to be
content with such love as she can give me, as her mother's friend. If,
on the other hand, I find that she has learned the truth--especially if
she should happen to be alone in the world--I shall take her into my
arms and tell her the whole story of my life, beg her to share my
future, and let me try to win as much as possible of her love."

"If you should find her, pray, pray do not teach her to regard me as a
monster of all that is evil," pleaded her companion, in a tone of
agony that was pitiful. "Ah, Isabel, I believe I should have been a
better man if I could have had the love of little children thrown
about me as a safeguard."

Isabel Stewart's red lips curled with momentary scorn at this attempt
to shift the responsibility of his wasted and misguided life upon any
one or anything rather than himself.

"What a pity, then, that you did not realize the fact before you
discarded the unhappy young mother and her innocent babe, so many
years ago," she remarked, in a tone that pierced his heart like a
knife.

"I did go back to Rome for the child--I did try to find her after--I
had heard that--that you were gone," he faltered. "I was told that the
infant had doubtless perished with you, though its body was