into the particulars of Patricia's letter?" "There is no need, Emilius." "Except, perhaps, to say that when you were lying senseless before her, and your tender blossom lay dead in its cradle, it was only then that the idea entered Patricia's mind of changing the children's clothes, and leaving her baby with you. It was done, and Patricia stole away with your dead child at her breast, herself to die, as she well knew, before many weeks had passed. I have something to tell you, Lauretta"--and here Emilius's voice was charged with a new note of tenderness. "When Father Daniel next visited me I begged him to discover where the dead babe was buried, and to put a few flowers on the grave. The good priest did more. He paid a village woman to attend to it, and he left a small sum of money to be spent in beautifying the grave of your child. Flowers have grown upon it and around it from that day to this. I visited the grave before I set forth on my journey here, and I knelt and prayed there. I prayed a blessing upon you, Lauretta, and I prayed that I might live to see the hope fulfilled which shone like a star upon me through the long years of my prison life. Lauretta," he cried, stretching forth his trembling hands, "my child--my child"-- "She lives," sobbed Mrs. Carew, "in goodness, health, and beauty--a flower of sweetness!" He fell upon his knees before her, and kissed her dress, and it was then I heard a sound without which, for a moment, transfixed me with terror. They, overwhelmed by emotion, were deaf to this sound. It was that of a man creeping stealthily from his chamber--and that man Gabriel Carew. Quickly recovering myself, and feeling the necessity for immediate and prompt action, I addressed Emilius and Mrs. Carew. "Attend to me," I said impressively. "All is well with you. You, Emilius, have gained a daughter, and will embrace her at sunrise. You, dear lady, have not lost a daughter, for Mildred will be to you as she has ever been. I have proved myself your friend. Answer quickly--have I not?" "Yes," they both replied. "Do not, therefore, ask me for the reasons for my present action. I demand from you both a sacred promise--that you will not leave this room till I call for you, till I give you permission. It shall be given at the latest by sunrise. I must have this promise--I must!" My voice, my manner, Mrs. Carew's fears for her husband, and confidence in me, compelled assent. "We give it," she said. "We give it," said Emilius. "I accept it, and bind you to it. What I do is for the good of all--for your future, for Mildred's future--and to avert disaster. Only I can do this. Whatever you hear, you will not open this door without my permission, after I leave it. When I am gone, turn the key, and admit no one unless I desire it. It is understood?" "Yes," they said, "it is understood." As I closed the door behind me I heard the key turned in the lock. XXVIII.