anion to their own child; that their own child had died, and Mildred
still remained with them. All this she knew from one who was aware of the
circumstances. Then she went on to tell him who Mildred's mother and
father were, what were Telford's relations to John Gladney and of his
search for Gladney's wife.

"Now," she said, "you understand all. They must meet."

"He does not know who she is?"

"He does not. He only knows as yet that she is the daughter of Mrs.
Gladney, who, he thinks, is a stranger to him."

"You know his nature. What will he do?"

"I cannot tell. What can he do? Nothing, nothing!"

"You are sorry for him? You"--

"Do not speak of that," she said in a choking whisper. "God gave women
pity to keep men from becoming demons. You can pity the executioner when,
killing you, he must kill himself next."

"I do not understand you quite, but all you say is wise."

"Do not try to understand it or me. I am not worth it."

"You are worth, God knows, a better, happier fate."

The words came from him unexpectedly, impulsively. Indirect as they were,
she caught a hidden meaning. She put out her hand.

"You have something to tell me. Speak it. Say it quickly. Let me know it
now. One more shock more or less cannot matter."

She had an intuition as to what it was. "I warn you, dear," he said, "that
it will make a difference, a painful difference, between us."

"No, George"--it was the first time she had called him that--"nothing can
make any difference with that."

He told her simply, bravely--she was herself so brave--what there was to
tell, that two weeks ago her husband was alive, and that he was now on his
way to England--perhaps in England itself. She took it with an unnatural
quietness. She grew distressingly pale, but that was all. Her hand lay
clinched tightly on the seat beside her. He reached out, took it, and
pressed it, but she shook her head.

"Please do not sympathize with me," she said. "I cannot bear it. I am not
adamant. You are very good--so good to me that no unhappiness can be all
unhappiness. But let us look not one step farther into the future."

"What you wish I shall do always."

"Not what I wish, but what you and I ought to do is plain."

"I ask one thing only. I have said that I love you, said it as I shall
never say it to another woman, as I never said it before. Say to me once
here, before we know what the future will be, that you love me. Then I can
bear all."

She tu