‘No. I might have baptized it myself, had it been in danger of death. But the child was well enough, and seemed in a fair way to live. I told Mr. and Mrs. Eden to have it christened as soon as they had left Cornwall, and settled themselves in a new neighbourhood.’ ‘Did you tell them what name to call the infant?’ ‘No. It was to be their child henceforward. It was their business to choose its name.’ ‘They got safely away, I suppose?’ ‘Yes, they left secretly and safely, just as I had planned. I shall never forget that grey morning, in the chilly spring weather, and the last glimpse I had of those two wanderers—the woman with the child nestled to her breast, wrapped in my Muriel’s blue cloak—the cloak it had been such pleasure to me to quilt when I was a young woman.’ Mrs. Trevanard sighed bitterly. ‘I can remember sitting in this room at work at the beginning of my married life,’ she said, dreamily, ‘thinking what a grand thing it was to be married, and the mistress of a large house and a prosperous farm. I look back upon my life now—nine-and-thirty years of wedded life—and think how heavily the care of it weighs against the happiness, and what a life of toil it has been. “Heaping up riches, and ye know not who shall gather them.”’ ‘Did you never hear any more of Mr. and Mrs. Eden, or the child?’ asked Maurice, most anxious to hear all that was to be told by lips that must ere long be silent. ‘From that day to this not a word. They have kept their promise. Whether they prospered or failed, I know not. They were neither of them past the prime of life, and there seemed to me no reason why they should not get on pretty well in some small trade, such as I advised them to try, beginning humbly with a part of their little capital. Heaven knows what may have become of them. The child may be dead—dead, years ago, taking that quiet rest which will soon be mine.’ ‘Or she may be living. She may have grown up beautiful, good, and clever; such a grandchild as you would be proud to own.’ ‘I should never be proud of a nameless child,’ answered Mrs. Trevanard, gloomily. ‘The child you banished may not have been without a name. Forgive me if I speak plainly. Far be it from me to reproach you. I offer you sympathy and help, if help be possible. But I think you acted precipitately throughout this sad business. What if there were a secret marriage between your daughter and Captain Penwyn? Such a marriage might easily have taken place during the three weeks that your daughter was away from home, ostensibly on a visit to her late schoolmistress. Did you never question that lady?’