"It is more than I dared hope for," he said. "How often, Lauretta, in the gloom of my prison, have I thought of you and your dear parents, of the home of innocence and love in which I was ever a welcome guest, of the once happy village in which I was honoured and respected. Some crumbs of comfort fell to my lot, some gleam of light shone through the darkness. Had it not been so, and had I not been animated by another hope, I might have gone mad. Good Father Daniel visited me regularly, at permitted intervals, until he died. He had the firmest faith in my innocence, and he brought me messages which fell like heavenly balm upon my wounded spirit. Your sainted mother believed in my innocence, and she bade him tell me so, and that her love for me was unchanged. And now, you! But your mother's soul shines in your eyes. It could not have been otherwise." He paused a moment or two, reflecting what to say. "On one of Father Daniel's visits he brought me a letter, securely sealed. It was against the prison rules, but that did not deter him from doing what he deemed to be right. I hastily concealed it, noting first, however, with a beating heart, that it was addressed to me in my wife's handwriting. I asked him if he knew what it contained, and he answered 'No;' and then, with a grave face, he bade me prepare for solemn news. I felt at once what was coming. Can you divine my purpose, Lauretta, in telling you this?" "I think I can," she replied. "Go on." "It was while the good priest was on a mission of mercy that a villager came to him and said that in a hut hard by a woman was dying, and, hearing that he was in the neighbourhood, begged him to come to her. Father Daniel went, and discovered that the woman was Patricia, my wife. She was very near to death, and she had only strength to entreat him to deliver to me, secretly, a letter she had written. He promised to do so, and in a few minutes after he received it from her she drew her last breath. Before she died he asked her after her babe--for Patricia was quite alone--but she did not seem to understand him. Subsequently, however, he learnt from the villager that Patricia had said her baby was dead. This was the mournful news which Father Daniel conveyed to me in prison. Despite his attempts at consolation, I felt when he left me that I was truly alone in the world. Brother, wife, child, all dead! I prayed to God to send death to me soon. What had I to live for? But there was my wife's letter, and before twenty-four hours had passed I found an opportunity to read it. Lauretta, that letter informed me what had become of my child, and it laid upon me an obligation of secrecy for so long a time as I was in prison. Patricia solemnly adjured me not to breathe to a living soul that our child lived in your care; but I was to be released from this obligation when I was a free man. Then I was to act as it seemed to me right to act. Is there any need, Lauretta, for me to enter more fully