“Afterward I went to see his wife Margaret, and found her in desperate circumstances; yet she had one ornament in her house—­a beautiful young girl, her daughter, so fair of face that she dazzled me.  The moment I saw her I thought of your description of your ideal—­eyes like blue hyacinths, and hair of gold.  Forthwith a plan entered my mind which I have most successfully carried out.

“I asked for the girl’s name, and was told that it was Madaline—­an uncommon name for one of her class—­but the mother had lived among well-to-do people, and had caught some of their ideas.  I looked at the girl—­her face was fair, sweet, pure.  I felt the power of its beauty, and only wondered that she should belong to such people at all; her hands were white and shapely as my own, her figure was slender and graceful.  I began to talk to her, and found her well educated, refined, intelligent—­all, in fact, that one could wish.

“Little by little their story came out—­it was one of a mother’s pride and glory in her only child.  She worshiped her—­literally worshiped her.  She had not filled the girl’s mind with any nonsensical idea about being a lady, but she had denied herself everything in order that Madaline might be well educated.  For many years Madaline had been what is called a governess-pupil in a most excellent school.  ‘Let me die when I may,’ said the poor, proud mother, ’I shall leave Madaline with a fortune in her own hands; her education will always be a fortune to her.’

“I asked her one day if she would let me take Madaline home with me for a few hours; she seemed delighted, and consented at once.  I took the girl home, and with my own hands dressed her in one of my most becoming toilets.  Her beauty was something marvelous.  She seemed to gain both grace and dignity in her new attire.  Shortly afterward, with her mother’s permission, I sent her for six months to one of the most fashionable schools in Paris.  The change wrought in her was magical; she learned as much in that time as some girls would have learned in a couple of years.  Every little grace of manner seemed to come naturally to her; she acquired a tone that twenty years spent in the best of society does not give to some.  Then I persuaded Vere, my husband, to take me to Paris for a few days, telling him I wanted to see the daughter of an old friend, who was at school there.  In telling him that I did not speak falsely—­Madaline’s mother had been an old friend of mine.  Then I told him that my whim was to bring Madaline home and make a companion of her; he allowed me to do just as I pleased, asking no questions about her parents, or anything else.  I do not believe it ever occurred to him as strange that the name of my protegee and of the man who had robbed him was the same—­indeed, he seemed to have forgotten all about the robbery.  So I brought Madaline home to Vere Court, and then to London, where I knew that you would see her.  My husband never asked any questions about her; he made no objection, no remark—­everything that I did was always well done in his eyes.