A crimson flush suffused the invalid’s face. Then a flame of fire shot into the dark eyes, and a small red spot only glowed on either pale cheek. “I do not know by what right you ask these questions, Baroness Brown,” she answered slowly; and her listener cringed under the old appellation which recalled the miserable days when she had kept a lodging-house—days she had almost forgotten during the last decade of life. “But I can assure you, madam,” continued the speaker, “that my daughter knows no father save the good man, my husband, who is dead. I have never by word or line made my existence known to anyone I ever knew since I left Beryngford. I do not know why you should come here to insult me, madam; I have never harmed you or yours, and you have no proof of the accusation you just made, save your own evil suspicions.” The Baroness gave an unpleasant laugh. “It is an easy matter for me to find proof of my suspicions if I choose to take the trouble,” she said. “There are detectives enough to hunt up your trail, and I have money enough to pay them for their trouble. But Joy is the living evidence of the assertion. She is the image of Preston Cheney, as he was twenty-three years ago. I am ready, however, to let the matter drop on one condition; and that condition is, that you extract a promise from your daughter that she will not encourage the attentions of Arthur Emerson Stuart, the rector of St Blank’s; that she will never under any circumstances be his wife.” The red spots faded to a sickly yellow in the invalid’s cheeks. “Why should you ask this of me?” she cried. “Why should you wish to destroy the happiness of my child’s life? She loves Arthur Stuart, and I know that he loves her! It is the one thought which resigns me to death; the thought that I may leave her the beloved wife of this good man.” The Baroness leaned lower over the pillow of the invalid as she answered: “I will tell you why I ask this sacrifice of you.” “Perhaps you do not know that I married Judge Lawrence after the death of his first wife. Perhaps you do not know that Preston Cheney’s legitimate daughter is as precious to me as his illegitimate child is to you. Alice is only six months younger than Joy; she is frail, delicate, sensitive. A severe disappointment would kill her. She, too, loves Arthur Stuart. If your daughter will let him alone, he will marry Alice. Surely the illegitimate child should give way to the legitimate. “If you are selfish in this matter, I shall be obliged to tell your daughter the true story of her life, and let her be the judge of what is right and what is wrong. I fancy she might have a finer perception of duty than you have—she is so much like her father.” The tortured invalid fell back panting on her pillow. She put out her hands with a distracted, imploring gesture.