“Andrew, who was Sylvia’s father?  I never asked you that question before, and maybe I oughtn’t to ask it now; but I’ve often wondered.  Let me see, what was your daughter’s name?”

“Edna.”

“Just what happened to Edna, Andrew?” she persisted.

Kelton rose and paced the floor.  Thrice he crossed the room; then he flung himself down on the davenport beside Mrs. Owen.

“I don’t know, Sally; I don’t know!  She was high-spirited as a girl, a little willful and impulsive, but with the best heart in the world.  She lost her mother too soon; and in her girlhood we had no home—­not even the half-homes possible to naval officers.  She had a good natural voice and wanted to study music, so after we had been settled at Madison College a year I left her in New York with a woman I knew pretty well—­the widow of a brother officer.  It was a horrible, terrible, hideous mistake.  The life of the city went to her head.  She wanted to fit herself for the stage and they told me she could do it—­had the gift and all that.  I ought never to have left her down there, but what could I do?  There was nothing in a town like Montgomery for her; she wouldn’t listen to it.”

“You did your best, Andrew; you don’t have to prove that to me.  Well—­”

“Edna ran off—­without giving me any hint of what was coming.  It was a queer business.  The woman I had counted on to look out for her and protect her seemed utterly astonished at her disappearance and was helpless about the whole matter when I went down there.  It was my fault—­all my fault!”

He rose and flung up his arms with a gesture of passionate despair.

“Sit down, Andrew, and let’s go through with it,” she said calmly.  “I reckon these things are hard, but it’s better for you to tell me.  You can’t tell everybody and somebody ought to know.  For the sake of the little girl upstairs you’d better tell me.”

“What I’ve said to you I’ve never said to a soul,” he went on.  “I’ve carried this thing all these years and have never mentioned it.  My friends at the college are the noblest people on earth; they have never asked questions, but they must have wondered.”

“Yes; and I’ve wondered, too, since the first time you came here and told me you had brought your daughter’s child home.  It’s perfectly natural, Andrew, for folks to wonder.  Go on and tell me the rest.”

“The rest!” he cried.  “Oh, that’s the hardest part of it!  I have told you all I know!  She wrote me after a time that she was married and was happy, but she didn’t explain her conduct in any way.  She signed herself Garrison, but begged me not to try to find her.  She said her husband wasn’t quite prepared to disclose his marriage to his family, but that it would all be right soon.  The woman with whom I had left her couldn’t help me to identify him in any way; at least she didn’t help me.  There had been a number of young men boarding in the neighborhood—­medical and law students; but there was no Garrison among them.  It was in June that this happened, and when I went down to try to trace her they had all gone.  I was never quite sure whether the woman dealt squarely with me or not.  But it was my fault, Sally; I want you to know that I have no excuse to offer.  I don’t want you to try to say anything that would make my lot easier.”