"Give her up!" echoed Curtiss, seized suddenly with a terrible trembling. "No, I'll never give her up!"

"I knew it," she said triumphantly. "I knew I'd not misjudged you. And there need be no scandal. No one need ever know!"

What was she saying? What infamy was she proposing? But not with the joy-illumined face! Ah, she did not understand, and we should have to tell her!

"It was wrong, I know," she went on, more calmly. "But when the mother died, he wanted to take the child to rear it as his own-I had not given him any-and since-since-there was a sorrow in my own life, I could understand and forgive. It was a kind of penance-an atonement-and I welcomed it. Besides, he was not wholly to blame, for she-but I'll speak no ill of her. And I grew to love the child for her own sake-I grew to forget that she was not really mine--"

Curtiss was clutching blindly at a chair, his face ghastly, his eyes staring.

"I-I don't think I quite understand," he faltered, "You-you're speaking of Marcia?"

"Of Marcia, certainly. But you said you knew the story."

She was looking at him intently, her face suddenly pale.

"Was it something else?" she asked. "Something else? Was it the letter? Tell me!"

"No, no," he protested, and stopped, unable to go on.

"I don't think he heard it quite correctly, Mrs. Lawrence," I said, seeing that he needed saving. "Do I understand you to say Miss Lawrence isn't your daughter?"

"She's Ruth Endicott's daughter. She was housekeeper here and she-she-But no matter. No one knew except her cousins, the Kingdons. It was Harriet who took her away-to Florida-and she died there. They promised to keep the secret-it was to their interest-we did everything we could for them-I was kinder to them than they deserved. But I loved the child-I had none of my own-I wanted to protect my husband's memory-Where was the sin in--"

"Where is she?" demanded Curtiss hoa.r.s.ely, but with a great light in his eyes. "Where is she?"

"Then you don't mind? You won't--"

"Mind!" cried Curtiss. "Mind! Where is she?"

The curtains at the door were swept aside, and a woman appeared between them-a woman regal, with glowing eyes, with smiling, tremulous lips--

Fool that I had been not to guess-not to see! It was the Endicott strain, first and last-dark, pa.s.sionate, virile-and I had shut my eyes to it!

I saw him turn toward her, his face aflame with joy--

Then the hot tears blinded me, and I groped my way from the room, from the house, out into the silent night; and I looked up at the quiet stars, with Pippa's song singing in my heart--

"G.o.d's in his heaven- All's right with the world!"

THE END