“Well, not our kind of a woman, anyway. How could she have deserted a man who was good to her? And how could she consent to give up her child afterward? It might be right for her to leave her husband; but for a mother to give up a little daughter.... No, I couldn’t think of having here in our home a link to bind us with a woman like that--a life out in the unknown, on the streets that are strange to us, that are strange to all faithful, happy people. “And then when it was too late I began to see his side of it. He was the father just as much as she was the mother. She was _his_ child as much as hers--more, if he loved her more. And I began to realize what it must be to a father to have his little daughter away from him, perhaps not loved and provided for, possibly facing an evil future. Oh, the night that thought came to me! And always he was so kind to me, and patient. He did not speak of his daughter again. And I waited.... I knew he would speak again some day, and I wanted to grow strong enough to say to him honestly: ‘Ah, do bring her, and she shall have love here, here in her own home’....” She lifted her hands to her cheeks and closed her eyes. It was as if she must shut out some of the impressions which crowded into her mind. Baron waited until a measure of calm came upon her. “And--he never did?” She opened her eyes and regarded him inquiringly. “I mean, he never spoke of her again?” She regarded him with a smouldering look in her eyes. Then she leaned forward, her hands gripping the arms of her chair. “I honestly believe you don’t know!” she whispered. And in an instant she had taken from a little box on the table near which she sat an envelope. She drew from it a single sheet and passed it to Baron. He turned a little, so that the light from the table fell upon it and read: “_Do be good to the little girl your husband has brought to you. You ought to be, because he is her father._” There was no name. Baron handed the sheet back to her. He was thinking hard. “Who could have written it?” he asked. “Of course you realize that I don’t _know_,” she replied. “Do you mean to ask me what I think?” “Well, what do you think?” “I think her mother wrote it. I think she must have lost track of the child, and concluded that Mr. Thornburg had taken her. I think she must have known of my--my jealousy on that other occasion. I think she wrote this note hoping that I would refuse to have the child in the house if I knew who she was. It seems plain that she wants her now.” Baron was examining the date of the postmark on the envelope. She saw that furrows were gathering on his forehead. She explained: “It came some time ago. I had it with me here when you called that first time.” “Oh!” exclaimed Baron. “And you knew, then----” “Yes, I knew then.” “But you haven’t.... Mr. Thornburg....”