"Only once." "And once only to me, his friend--several years ago. He has suffered. I have known no detail, but whatever it was, it went deep." I was willing to follow his lead a little further and, although I realized the ice was thin, I ventured. "I wonder if you have ever heard any gossip--" "Gossip? What gossip?" The Doctor's words were abrupt, his tone resentful. "Something Jamie heard here in the village, and because he did not believe it, he told me, when I first came, that if I ever heard it I should not believe it either--" "About Ewart?" He ceased to puff at his cigar. "Yes; about his having been married and divorced, and that he has a child living, a boy whom he is educating in England." "That's all fool-talk about the boy." The Doctor spoke testily. "I don't mind telling you that he was married, as of course you know, and lost his wife. I don't mind telling you that he was divorced from her; I suppose that is a matter of public record somewhere. I don't know who she was--or what she was; he is loyal to that memory. But there is no boy in the case." He tossed his cigar into the fire and began tapping the floor rapidly with the tip of his boot. "I inferred, of course, from a remark he made to me then, that there was a child mixed up in the affair--" "All this must be the foundation for the rumors, then?" I said. "Yes; but if Ewart has a child, and I am convinced he has--" "You are?" I asked in amazement, thereby proving to the Doctor that I had never given credence to this part of the report. He nodded emphatically, looking away from me into the fire. "If he has a child, I know it to be a girl--no boy." "I had n't thought of that." "I see you have n't," he said dryly; then, clearing his throat, he turned squarely to me, speaking deliberately, as if hoping every word would carry conviction. "Marcia, if Ewart has a child, as I am convinced he has, it is a daughter,--" with a quick turn of his head he faced me, speaking distinctly but rapidly,--"and that daughter is you." It was said, the unheard-of. He had used his knife when I was off my guard. I was powerless to shrink from it, to protest against its use. All I could do was to bear. I heard one of the dogs whine somewhere about the house. I know I counted the vagrant sparks flying up the chimney. I heard the kitchen clock striking. I counted--ten. I remembered that I had forgotten to wind it, and must do so when I made the bread. I moistened my lips; they were suddenly parched. Then I spoke. "Why have you told me this?" I failed, curiously, to hear my own voice, and repeated the question. "Marcia, it had to be said--it was my duty." "Why?" "Why?" He turned to me with something like anger flashing in his eyes. "Because I don't choose to have you make a wreck of your life, as I told you only the other day--" "But if I choose--" I did not know what I was saying. I was merely articulating, but could not tell him so.