Lord Mountdean looked at her in astonishment.  How woman-like she was!  How full of contradictions!  What strength and weakness, what honor and dishonor, what love and selfishness did not her conduct reveal!

“Then,” continued Margaret Dornham, “when the doctor died, people frightened me.  They said that the child must go to the work-house.  My husband soon afterward got into dreadful trouble, and I determined to leave the village.  I tell the truth, sir.  I was afraid, too, that you would return and claim the child; so I took her away with me to London.  My husband was quite indifferent—­I could do as I liked, he said.  I took her and left no trace behind.  After we reached London, my husband got into trouble again; but I always did my best for the darling child.  She was well dressed, well fed, well cared for, well educated—­she has had the training of a lady.”

“But,” put in Lord Mountdean, “did you never read my advertisments?”

“No, sir,” she replied; “I have not been in the habit of reading newspapers.”

“It was strange that you should remain hidden in London while people were looking for you,” he said.  “What was your husband’s trouble, Mrs. Dornham?”

“He committed a burglary, sir; and, as he had been convicted before, his sentence was a heavy one.”

“And my daughter, you say, is living, but not well?  Where is she?”

“I will take you to her, sir,” was the reply—­“at once, if you will go.”

“I will not lose a minute,” said the earl, hastily.  “It is time, Mrs. Dornham, that you knew my name, and my daughter’s also.  I am the Earl of Mountdean, and she is Lady Madaline Charlewood.”

On hearing this, Margaret Dornham was more frightened than ever.  She rose from her knees and stood before him.

“If I have done wrong, my lord,” she said, “I beg of you to pardon me—­it was all, as I thought, for the best.  So the child whom I have loved and cherished was a grand lady after all?”

“Do not let us lose a moment,” he said.  “Where is my daughter?”

“She lives not far from here; but we cannot walk—­the distance is too great,” replied Margaret.

“Well, we are near to the town of Lynton—­it is not twenty minutes walk; we will go to an hotel, and get a carriage.  I—­I can hardly endure this suspense.”

He never thought to ask her how she had come thither; it never occurred to him.  His whole soul was wrapped in the one idea—­that he was to see his child again—­Madaline’s child—­the little babe he had held in his arms, whose little face he had bedewed with tears—­his own child—­the daughter he had lost for long years and had tried so hard to find.  He never noticed the summer woods through which he was passing; he never heard the wild birds’ song; of sunshine or shade he took no note.  The heart within him was on fire, for he was going to see his only child—­his lost child—­the daughter whose voice he had never heard.