I have a strange story to tell. There has lived in this house for thirty years, ostensibly as a servant but in fact more a companion and friend to me, a woman named Ellen Sydney. She came to my house as Mrs. Ellen Williams and brought with her a baby daughter, whom she called Moira. I adopted this child and raised her and loved her as though she had been my own. She believed she was my own until her nineteenth year, when she discovered the truth. She proved to be as high-spirited as she was adorable, for although her life here offered every advantage, and was, I know, one long unclouded happiness, she gave it up in a day on learning her true parentage. I can understand that spirit and yet I have suffered cruelly because of her act. She left without a word, effacing every trace of herself, and from that day to this I have never been able to find her, though I have made repeated efforts. I had little hope, it is true, of persuading her to return even if I did so, knowing her nature and her capacity to carry out her own decisions. I am convinced she has spent a large part of her life in New York, for at first, certain communications came from her there. Furthermore she loved the study of art and could only have followed it to her taste in that city. She may still be there. For that reason I write, thinking it possible if you have not met her you will, and she will then have a friend who has good reason to protect her. I am sending the latest photograph I possess of her. You will ask why I have never addressed you before. It is because I have always hesitated to ask Ellen the name of her child’s father. Moira, herself, is in ignorance of it. Only a month ago Ellen was persuaded, by the arguments I have used above, to tell her story to me in confidence, and now I write with her consent. To complete the coincidence, my nephew, Robert Blaydon, having met you, has given me your address. You may be sure that should you ever meet with your daughter or be able to send us word of her, two lonely old women will be grateful. I have considered that you may not be the kind of man who will care to receive this letter, but I do not believe that is possible. The passage of time softens our errors and may even turn them into blessings. Yours very sincerely, MATHILDA SEYMOUR. Moira put down the letter and sank beside the bed. She threw her arms over the figure that lay there. “But, father,” she cried softly, “I could have loved you as my father, too....” The tall figure of Roget was standing beside her, with bent head, his penetrating glance, full of profound compassion, searching the face of his friend. “Perhaps he could not, Mrs. Harlindew,” he said, as if thinking aloud. THE END TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES: Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.