’But I will come to my point at once.  You are, no doubt, aware that I married the daughter of Lord De Courcy, and that I was separated from my wife a few weeks after our unfortunate marriage.  It is now something over twelve months since she died at Baden-Baden in her mother’s house.  I never saw her since the day we first parted.  I have not a word to say against her.  The fault was mine in marrying a woman whom I did not love and had never loved.  When I married Lady Alexandrina I loved, not her, but your daughter.

’I believe I may venture to say to you that your daughter once loved me.  From the day on which I last wrote to you that terrible letter which told you of my fate, I have never mentioned the name of Lily Dale to human ears.  It has been too sacred for my mouth—­too sacred for the intercourse of any friendship with which I have been blessed.  I now use it for the first time to you, in order that I may ask whether it be possible that her old love should ever live again.  Mine has lived always—­has never faded for an hour, making me miserable during the last years that have passed since I saw her, but capable of making me very happy, if I may be allowed to see her again.

’You will understand my purpose now as well as though I were to write pages.  I have no scheme formed in my head for seeing your daughter again.  How can I dare to form a scheme, when I am aware that the chance of success must be so strong against me?  But if you will tell me that there can be a gleam of hope, I will obey any commands that you can put upon me in any way that you may point out.  I am free again—­and she is free.  I love her with all my heart, and seem to long for nothing in the world but that she should become my wife.  Whether any of her old love may still abide with her, you will know.  If it do, it may even yet prompt her to forgive one, who, in spite of falseness of conduct, has yet been true to her in heart.

’I have the honour to be, Madam,
’Your most obedient servant,

Adolphus Crosbie.’

This was the letter which Mrs Dale had received, and as to which she had not as yet said a word to Lily, or even made up her mind whether she would say a word or not.  Dearly as the mother and daughter loved each other, thorough as was the confidence between them, yet the name of Adolphus Crosbie had not been mentioned between them oftener, perhaps, than half-a-dozen times since the blow had been struck.  Mrs Dale knew that their feelings about the man were altogether different.  She, herself, not only condemned him for what he had done, believing it to be impossible that any shadow of excuse could be urged for his offence, thinking that the fault had shown the man to be mean beyond redemption—­but she had allowed herself actually to hate him.  He had in one sense murdered her daughter, and she believed that she could never forgive him.  But, Lily, as her mother well knew,