“How can I help you?  I have no clue to this sad mystery.”

“Mystery!  Then you are as much in the dark as I am—­know no more of what became of my baby than I do!  Oh, father, how could you let such a thing be done, and ask no questions—­such a cruel and terrible thing—­and I lying helpless and dumb?  Oh, father, my innocent baby cast out like a dog to perish—­nay, worse, like a lamb among wolves to be torn by their cruel teeth—­and no one to put forth a hand to save!  If I only knew that he was dead!  If I could find his little grave and comfort my heart over it!”

Weak, naturally good men, like Mr. Dinneford, often permit great wrongs to be done in shrinking from conflict and evading the sterner duties of life.  They are often the faithless guardians of immortal trusts.

There was a tone of accusation and rebuke in Edith’s voice that smote painfully on her father’s heart.  He answered feebly: 

“What could I do?  How should I know that anything wrong was being done?  You were very ill, and the baby was sent away to be nursed, and then I was told that it was dead.”

“Oh, father!  Sent away without your seeing it!  My baby!  Your little grandson!  Oh, father!”

“But you know, dear, in what a temper of mind your mother was—­how impossible it is for me to do anything with her when she once sets herself to do a thing.”

“Even if it be murder!” said Edith, in a hoarse whisper.

“Hush, hush, my child!  You must not speak so,” returned the agitated father.

A silence fell between them.  A wall of separation began to grow up.  Edith arose, and was moving from the room.

“My daughter!” There was a sob in the father’s voice.

Edith stopped.

“My daughter, we must not part yet.  Come back; sit down with me, and let us talk more calmly.  What is past cannot be changed.  It is with the now of this unhappy business that we have to do.”

Edith came back and sat down again, her father taking a seat beside her.

“That is just it,” she answered, with a steadiness of tone and manner that showed how great was the self-control she was able to exert.  “It is with the now of this unhappy affair that we have to do.  If I spoke strongly of the past, it was that a higher and intenser life might be given to present duty.”

“Let there be no distance between us.  Let no wall of separation grow up,” said Mr. Dinneford, tenderly.  “I cannot bear to think of this.  Confide in me, consult with me.  I will help you in all possible ways to solve this mystery.  But do not again venture alone into that dreadful place.  I will go with you if you think any good will come of it.”

“I must see Mr. Paulding in the morning,” said Edith, with calm decision.

“Then I will go with you,” returned Mr. Dinneford.

“Thank you, father;” and she kissed him.  “Until then nothing more can be done.”  She kissed him again, and then went to her own room.  After locking the door she sank on her knees, leaning forward, with her face buried in the cushion of a chair, and did not rise for a long time.