And there was. Père Michaux had hoped that the Eastern Pronandos would see the name, and, moved by some awakening of memory or affection, would make inquiry for this son of the lost brother, and assist him on his journey through the crowded world. "I did not know that 'Anne' was a shortening of 'Angélique'; I thought yours was the plain old English name. But Helen knew; I showed the notice to her." Anne's face altered; she could not control the tremor that seized her, and he noticed it. "Are you _not_ married then, after all? Tell me, Anne, tell me. You can not deceive; you never could, poor child; I remember that well." She tried to rise, but he held her arm with both hands, and she could not bring herself to use force against that feeble hold. "Why should you not tell me what all the world is free to know?" he continued. "What difference does it make?" [Illustration: "SHE TRIED TO RISE, BUT HE HELD HER ARM WITH BOTH HANDS."] "You are right; it makes no difference," she answered, seating herself, and taking up the fan again. "It is of no especial consequence. No, I am not married, Mr. Heathcote. Angélique is the name of my little sister Tita, of whom you have heard me speak; we first called her Petite, then Tita. Mr. Pronando and Tita are married." "The same Pronando to whom you were engaged?" "Yes. He is--" "Oh, I do not care to hear anything about _him_. Give me your hand, Anne. Take off that ring." "No; it was a present from my pupils," she said, drawing back with a smile, but at the same time an inward sigh of relief that the disclosure was over. "They--" "If you knew what I suffered when I read that notice!" pursued Heathcote, without heeding her. "The world seemed all wrong then forever. For there was something about you, Anne, which brought out what small good there was in my worthless self, and young as you were, you yet in one way ruled me. I might have borne the separation itself, but the thought that any other man should call you wife was intolerable to me. I had--I still have it--a peculiar feeling about you. In some mysterious way you had come to be the one real faith of my life. I was bitterly hurt and angry when you ran away from me; but angry as I was, I still searched for you, and would have searched again if Helen had not--But never mind that now. If I have loved you, Anne, you have loved me just as dearly. And now you are here, and I am here, let us ask no more questions, but just--be happy." "But," said the girl, breathlessly, "Helen--?" Then she stopped. Heathcote was watching her. She tried to be calm, but her lips trembled. A little skill in deception now, poor Anne, would have been of saving help. Heathcote still watched her in silence--watched her until at last she turned toward him. "Did you not know," he said, slowly meeting her eyes--"did you not know that Helen was--married?" "Married? And not to you?" There was a perceptible pause. Then he answered. "Not to me."