“Captain Hunsden took her with him to Gibraltar, where his regiment was stationed, serenely unconscious of his terrible disgrace.  One year after a daughter was born, but neither husband nor child could win this woman from the man she passionately loved.

“She urged her husband to take her back to New York to see her friends; she pleaded with a vehemence he could not resist, and in an evil hour he obeyed.

“Again she met her lover.  Three weeks after the wronged husband and all the world knew the revolting story of her degradation.  She had fled with Thorndyke.”

Sybilla paused to let her words take effect.  Then she slowly went on: 

“There was a divorce, of course; the matter was hushed up as much as possible; Captain Hunsden went back to his regiment a broken-hearted man.

“Two years after he sailed for England, but not to remain.  How he wandered over the world, his daughter accompanying him, from that time until he returned to Hunsden Hall, every one knows.  But during all that time he never heard one word of or from his lost wife.

“She remained with Thorndyke—­half starved, brutally beaten, horribly ill-used—­taunted from the first by him, and hated at the last.  But she clung to him through all, as women do cling; she had given up the whole world for his sake; she must bear his abuse to the end.  And she did, heroically.

“He died—­stabbed in a drunken brawl—­died with her kneeling by his side, and his last word an oath.  He died and was buried, and she was alone in the world as miserable a woman as the wide earth ever held.

“One wish alone was strong within her—­to look again upon her child before she died.  She had no wish to speak to her, to reveal herself, only to look once more upon her face, then lie down by the road-side and die.

“She knew she was married and living here; Thorndyke had maliciously kept her au fait of her husband and child.  She sold all she possessed but the rags upon her back, and took a steerage passage for England.

“That was the story she told Mr. Parmalee.  ’You will go to Devonshire,’ she said to him; ’you will see my child.  Tell her I died humbly praying her forgiveness.  She is rich; she will reward you.’

“Mr. Parmalee immediately made up his mind that this sick woman, who had a daughter the wife of a wealthy baronet, was a great deal too valuable, in a pecuniary light, to be allowed ‘to go off the hooks,’ as he expressed it, thus easily.

“He pooh-poohed the notion of her dying, cheered her up, nursed her assiduously, and finally brought her around.  He left her in London, posted down here, and remained here until the return of Sir Everard and my lady from their honey-moon trip.  The day after he presented himself to them—­displayed his pictures, and among others showed my lady her mother’s portrait, taken at the time of her marriage.  She recognized it at once—­her father had