“You call me Madaline,” she said again—­“but I do not know you.”

Before answering her, Lord Mountdean turned to Margaret.

“Will you leave us alone?” he requested, but Lady Arleigh stretched out her hand.

“That is my mother,” she said—­“she must not be sent away from me.”

“I will not be long away, Madaline.  You must listen to what this gentleman says—­and, my dear, do not let it upset you.”

Mrs. Dornham retired, closing the door carefully behind her, and Lady Arleigh and the earl stood looking at each Other.

“You call we Madaline,” she said, “and you send my mother from me.  What can you have to say?” A sudden thought occurred to her.  “Has Lord Arleigh sent you to me?” she asked.

“Lord Arleigh!” he repeated, in wonder.  “No, he has nothing to do with what I have to say.  Sit down—­you do not look strong—­and I will tell you why I am here.”

It never occurred to him to ask why she had named Lord Arleigh.  He saw her sink, half exhausted, half frightened, upon the couch, and he sat down by her side.

“Madaline,” he began, “will you look at me, and see if my face brings back no dream, no memory to you?  Yet how foolish I am to think of such a thing!  How can you remember me when your baby-eyes rested on me for only a few minutes?”

“I do not remember you,” she said, gently—­“I have never seen you before.”

“My poor child,” he returned, in a tone so full of tenderness and pain that she was startled by it, “this is hard!”

“You cannot be the gentleman I used to see sometimes in the early home that I only just remember, who used to amuse me by showing me his watch and take me out for drives?”

“No.  I never saw you.  Madeline as a child—­I left you when you were three or four days old.  I have never seen you since, although I have spent a fortune almost in searching for you.”

“You have?” she said, wonderingly.  “Who then are yon?”

“That is what I want to tell you without startling you, Madaline—­dear Heaven, how strange it seems to utter that name again!  You have always believed that good woman who has just quitted the room to be your mother?”

“Yes, always,” she repeated, wonderingly.

“And that wretched man, the convict, you have always believed to be your father?”

“Always,” she repeated.

“Will it pain or startle you very much to hear that they are not even distantly related to you—­that the woman was simply chosen as your foster mother because she had just lost her own child?”

“I cannot believe it,” she cried, trembling violently.  “Who are you who tells me this?”

“I am Hubert, Earl of Mountdean,” he replied, “and, if you will allow me, I will tell you what else I am.”

“Tell me,” she said, gently.

“I am your father, Madaline—­and the best part of my life has been spent in looking for you.”