She had to learn again the names of things, and to be taught their use.  It was touching to see the untiring devotion of her father, and the pleasure he took in every new evidence of mental growth.  He went over the alphabet with her, letter by letter, many times each day, encouraging her and holding her thought down to the unintelligible signs with a patient tenderness sad yet beautiful to see; and when she began to combine letters into words, and at last to put words together, his delight was unbounded.

Very slowly went on the new process of mental growth, and it was months before thought began to reach out beyond the little world that lay just around her.

Meanwhile, Edith’s husband had been brought to trial for forgery, convicted and sentenced to the State’s prison for a term of years.  His partner came forward as the chief witness, swearing that he had believed the notes genuine, the firm having several times had the use of Mr. Dinneford’s paper, drawn to the order of Granger.

Ere the day of trial came the poor young man was nearly broken-hearted.  Public disgrace like this, added to the terrible private wrongs he was suffering, was more than he had the moral strength to bear.  Utterly repudiated by his wife’s family, and not even permitted to see Edith, he only knew that she was very ill.  Of the birth of his baby he had but a vague intimation.  A rumor was abroad that it had died, but he could learn nothing certain.  In his distress and uncertainty he called on Dr. Radcliffe, who replied to his questions with a cold evasion.  “It was put out to nurse,” said the doctor, “and that is all I know about it.”  Beyond this he would say nothing.

Granger was not taken to the State’s prison after his sentence, but to an insane asylum.  Reason gave way under the terrible ordeal through which he had been made to pass.

“Mother,” said Edith, one day, in a tone that caused Mrs. Dinneford’s heart to leap.  She was reading a child’s simple story-book, and looked up as she spoke.  Her eyes were wide open and full of questions.

“What, my dear?” asked Mrs. Dinneford, repressing her feelings and trying to keep her voice calm.

“There’s something I can’t understand, mother.”  She looked down at herself, then about the room.  Her manner was becoming nervous.

“What can’t you understand?”

Edith shut her hands over her eyes and remained very still.  When she removed them, and her mother looked into her face the childlike sweetness and content were all gone, and a conscious woman was before her.  The transformation was as sudden as it was marvelous.

Both remained silent for the space of nearly a minute.  Mrs. Dinneford knew not what to say, and waited for some sign from her daughter.

“Where is my baby, mother?” Edith said this in a low, tremulous whisper, leaning forward as she spoke, repressed and eager.

“Have you forgotten?” asked Mrs. Dinneford, with regained composure.