Lord and Lady Lorriston found comfort after a time in the children they had adopted. Baby Maud grew up the exact picture of her mother, the same sweet face and tender eyes. There were times when, as Lorriston grew older, he would forget the tragedy at Aldenmere, and, seeing the golden head, would call her Hermione. There were times, too, when he longed to take the child on his knee and tell her how nobly her mother had kept her vow. But he never did so. The children grew up with no other knowledge save that their parents had both died when they were very young. There were times, too, when Kenelm Eyrle regretted his sternness, his lost desire for vengeance, his long years of search for the criminal whom he afterward found in his dearest friend. If he had been less vigorous, less exact, Lady Hermione might have lived. He was very lonely; the great purpose of his life was accomplished; he had found out who murdered Clarice, but in making that discovery he made many others. Clarice was not what he had thought her. He had believed her one of the noblest and truest of women; now he found out that she had committed the most dishonorable of all frauds. The whole of the sad tragedy at Aldenmere was the consequence of her fault. If she had not stolen that letter and forged another there would have been no wrong, no suffering, no murder; after all, she had but reaped what she had sown--lo, that while his pity for her never grew less, his love, the intense passionate worship he had felt for her during life and for her memory after death, decreased. He had believed her an angel--she was but a faulty woman; he had believed her a goddess--she was but an ordinary fellow-creature, with more faults and imperfections than fell to the lot of most people. The very consciousness of this made him more lonely than ever. He had so fitted his life with a reverential and worshiping love of her, that now that love had changed its character, his life seemed empty. He had not been to the Dower House for some time, because he felt that it was not kind nor wise to add to the perplexities of Lady Pelham. One morning a messenger came with a note for him. It said simply: “You have been so kind to me that I cannot help writing to tell you that my husband lies even now on his deathbed and has sent for me. He has promised to do me justice and to clear my good name before the world.” A few days afterward he read in the papers that Sir Alfred Pelham was dead, and before his death he had exonerated his wife from all blame. He had sworn to her innocence, and had withdrawn the charges brought against her after begging her to pardon him. Kenelm Eyrle read it with pleasure. He read long articles in which the law, as it exists, enabling a man to wrong his wife in so deadly a fashion, was reprobated as it deserved to be.