“Where is she?” he cried.  “You cannot mean that she is dead?  Not dead, surely?  I have not seen her since I left her, a little, feeble baby; but she has lived in my heart through all these weary years of exile.  My whole soul has hungered and thirsted for her.  By night and by day I have dreamed of her, always with Madaline’s face.  She has spoken sweet words to me in my dreams, always in Madaline’s voice.  I must see her.  I cannot bear this suspense.  You do not answer me.  Can it be that she too is dead?”

“No, she is not dead,” replied the rector.  “I saw her two months since, and she was then living—­well, beautiful, and happy.  No, the little one is not dead.”

“Then tell me, for pity’s sake, where she is!” cried the earl, in an agony of impatience.

“I cannot.  Two months since I was at Ashwood Cottage Margaret Dornham’s worthless husband was in some great trouble.  I went to console his wife; and then I saw the little one.  I held her in my arms, and thought, as I looked at her, that I had never seen such a lovely face.  Then I saw no more of her; and my wonder was aroused on hearing some of the tradespeople say that Mrs. Dornham had not been in town for some weeks.  I believed she was ill, and went to see.  My wonder was as great as your own at finding the house closed.  Husband, wife, and child had disappeared as though by magic from the place, leaving no clew or trace behind them.”

The rector was almost alarmed at the effect of his words.  The young earl fell back in his chair, looking as though the shadow of death had fallen over him.

Chapter VI.

It was but a child, the rector thought to himself, whom its father had seen but a few times.  He did not understand that to Lord Mountdean this child—­his dying wife’s legacy—­was the one object in life, that she was all that remained to him of a love that had been dearer than life itself.  Commonplace words of comfort rose to his lips, but the earl did not even hear them.  He looked up suddenly, with a ghastly pallor still on his face.

“How foolish I am to alarm myself so greatly!” he said.  “Some one or other will be sure to know whither the woman has gone.  She may have had some monetary trouble, and so have desired to keep her whereabouts a secret; but some one or other will know.  If she is in the world I will find her.  How foolish I am to be so terribly frightened!  If the child is living what have I to fear?”

But, though his words were brave and courageous, his hands trembled, and the rector saw signs of great agitation.  He rang for wine, but Lord Mountdean could not take it—­he could do nothing until he had found his child.

In few words he told the rector the story of his marriage.

“I thought,” he said, “that I could not do better for the little one than leave her here in the doctor’s care.”

“You were right,” returned the rector; “the poor doctor’s love for the child was talked about everywhere.  As for Margaret Dornham, I do not think, if she had been her own, she could have loved her better.  Whatever else may have gone wrong, take my word for it, there was no lack of love for the child; she could not have been better cared for—­of that I am quite sure.”