“He is not in Europe now, he is in California.  His wife is dead and he has a little girl ten years old.  He refers to a letter written twelve years ago—­a letter that I never received; but it would have made no difference if I had received it.  I wrote to him once begging him to release me from a promise that I made rashly out of great pity for him, it was cruel and selfish in him to force me to it, but I was not sure of myself then, and it was all that I could do for him.  But, as I said, he released me when he chose to do it, and it does not matter.  Perhaps it is better that I had the promise to bind me; you are happier for it, I think, and I have not been selfish in any demand upon you.”

“John, I don’t know what you mean,” she said, perplexed.

“I don’t mean anything that I can tell you.”

“I hope he did not deceive her—­his wife, that he told her all about himself.”

“She died nine years ago, he writes, and now he is very ill himself and wishes to leave his little daughter in safe hands; her mother was an orphan, it seems, and the child has no relatives that he cares to leave her with; her mother was an English girl, he was married in England.  He wishes me to come to him and take charge of the child.”

“That is why you so suddenly chose California instead of Minnesota for your winter?”

“Yes.”

“Have you written to him?”

“Yes.”

“Is he very ill?”

“Yes; he may never receive my letter.”

“I would like to write to him,” said Miss Prudence.

“Would you like to see the letter?”

“No; I would rather not.  You have told me all?” with a slight quiver in the firm voice.

“All excepting his message to you.”

After a moment she asked:  “What is it?”

“He wants you to take the guardianship of his child with me.  I have not told you all—­he thinks we are married.”

The brave voice trembled in spite of his stern self-control.

“Oh!” exclaimed Prudence, and then:  “Why should he think that?” in a low, hesitating voice.

“Because he knew me so well.  Having only each other, it was natural, was it not?”

“Perhaps so.  Then that is all he says.”

“Isn’t that enough?”

“No, I want to know if he has repented, if he is another man.  I am glad I may write to him; I want to tell him many things.  We will take care of the little girl, John.”

“If I am West and you are East—­”

“Do you want to keep her with you?”

“What could I do with her?  She will be a white elephant to me.  I am not her father; I do not think I understand girls—­or boys, or men.  I hardly understand you, Prudence.”

“Then I am afraid you never will.  Isn’t it queer how I always have a little girl provided for me?  Marjorie is growing up and now I have this child, your niece, John, to be my little girl for a long time.  I wonder what her name is.”