When Winifred said this I forgot my promise not to interrupt her narrative, and exclaimed,

‘And you believed this infamous libel, Winnie?’

’To say that I believed it as a simple statement of fact would of course be wrong.  I never doubted you loved me as a child.’

’As a child!  Do you then think that I did not love you that night on Raxton sands?’

’I did not doubt that you loved me then.  But wealth, I had been told, is so demoralising, and I thought your never coming forward to find me and protect me in my illness might have something to do with inconstancy.  Anyhow, these thoughts combined with my dread of your mother to prevent me from writing to you.’

‘Winnie, Winnie!’ I said, ’these theories of the so-called advanced thinkers, whom your aunt taught you to believe in—­these ideas that love and wealth cannot exist together, are prejudices as narrow and as blind as those of an opposite kind which have sapped the natures of certain members of my own family.’

’The sight of your dear sad face when I first saw it here was proof enough of that,’ she said.  ’As your life was said to be that of a wanderer, I did not care to write to Raxton, and I did not know where to address you.  What I had read in the newspaper, I need not tell you, troubled me greatly.  I cried bitterly, and made but a poor breakfast.  After it was over Mr. D’Arcy entered the room, and shook me warmly by the hand.  He saw that I had been crying, and he stood silent and seemed to be asking himself the cause.  Drawing a chair towards me, and taking a seat, he said,

’"I fear you have not slept well, Miss Wynne.”

’"Not very well,” I answered.  Then, looking at him, I said, “Mr. D’Arcy, I have something to say to you, and this is the moment for saying it.”

’He gave a startled look, as though he guessed what I was going to say.

’"And I have something to say to you, Miss Wynne,” he said, smiling, “and this seems the proper time for saying it.  Up to the last few weeks a young gentleman from Oxford has been acting as my secretary.  He has now left me, and I am seeking another.  His duties, I must say, have not been what would generally be called severe.  I write most of my own letters, though not all, and my correspondence is far from being large.  His chief duty has been that of reading to me in the evening.  For many years my eyes have not been so strong as a painter’s ought to be, and the oculist whom I consulted told me that the strain of the painter’s work was quite as much as my eyes ought to bear, and that I could not afford much eyesight for reading purposes.  I am passionately fond of reading.  To be without the pleasure that books can afford me would be to make me miserable, and I have looked upon my secretary’s duty of reading aloud to me as an important one.  If you would take his place you would be conferring the greatest service upon me.”