dence; he had
frequently spoken to her of old days, of his boyhood and early manhood,
but never once had the names of either Francis Heathcote or his sister
passed his lips. And yet, had he not, by his reticence, acted the
kindest part? Was not silence the only tribute love could lay upon the
grave of the woman who had failed? And he did not foresee, indeed how
was it possible that he should, that by the mysterious working of that
power which erring men call Chance, the whole sad happening would be
brought to light again.

If he had for a moment deemed it possible that his daughter would come
face to face with Francis Heathcote, he would surely have prepared her
in some way for the meeting, have given her some notion of how he would
wish her to act. But even if he had anticipated the possibility of a
meeting he could never have imagined that it would come about under
such extraordinary circumstances, or that his girl would be called upon
to stand in the dead woman's place, and to assume her very personality.
And if by some miracle he stood by her side now, what would he wish her
to do? That was the question which seemed to dance before Philippa's
tired eyes, limned in letters of flame against the black wall of doubt
and difficulties which barred the way she was to take.

What would he wish her to do? Would he feel that some heritage of duty
left undone was hers to accomplish, to fulfil? a point of honour as it
were--pride of race insisting that there was a debt owing, which she
was called upon to pay? Would he not in his affection for his friend
be the first to echo the doctor's plea, "just a little happiness for
all the years he has missed"?--the happiness which it seemed that she
of all people was alone able to give.

She thought of the little brooch, "Your heart and mine,"--the only
visible link which connected her father with the story at all. How had
it come into his possession? Surely, if Phil had returned it with
other tokens of her engagement, it must have fallen into Lady Louisa's
hands. Had she perhaps overlooked it at first, and then, before she
died, sent it to her brother--a mute appeal for forgiveness, a silent
confession of regret? The explanation was conjectural, but it was
possible. Philippa would have liked to know it true, for it would have
been some comfort to her father.

She thought of old Jane Goodman, comforted by the certainty which
seemed to the girl so entirely without foundati