“Your room,” he explained simply; “he closed the door on it that day, and for twenty years it has been unchanged. Yesterday I saw the very book you laid face downwards on the table, the handkerchief you dropped. He has mourned you as dead. In his gentleness, his humility, his greatness of soul, he chooses to believe you died that day. He loved you before it, he has loved and mourned you ever since. No one has ever heard a reproach from his lips, no one ever will. You broke his heart.” She covered her face with her hands and burst into tears. The old man stood looking at her unmoved, though the storm of her emotion shook her from head to foot. Still weeping, she threw herself into the chair by the fire and bowed her head on her arms. “It is twenty years,” she said at last, “and I have suffered--have you never forgiven me, William Cheyney?” The old man’s face saddened yet more deeply. “There was nothing for me to forgive; we all had his great example.” She looked up with swimming eyes, her lips twitching with pain. “It’s twenty years--he married me after David got the divorce, you knew that?” The doctor nodded. “He’s dead. Oh, he knew I had suffered, he wearied of me, and now he’s dead and I’m all alone. Oh, don’t you understand?” she held out both hands toward him, “don’t you know why I came?” The old man shook his head sadly. “God knows,” he said. “I want Diana!” she cried, “I want my daughter--I want her love!” Dr. Cheyney looked at her thoughtfully. “She’s twenty-three, Letty,” he said simply, “and she loves her father.” She winced, turning her eyes from his to the fire. “I have seen her,” she said, in subdued tones, “once or twice when she did not know it. She looks--don’t you think she looks as I did?” she added eagerly. “No,” he said sternly, “no, she’s like David’s mother.” She flushed angrily. “Oh, never!” she exclaimed. “She is like me--but you won’t admit it.” Dr. Cheyney shook his head. Disappointed, she dropped her chin into her hand and looked again into the fire. “David has lost everything,” she said after a moment. “I know, I heard in New York.” Dr. Cheyney, looking down at her, wondered what her secret thought was, how far remorse had touched her? “I’m afraid he’s badly hit,” he admitted slowly. She rose and went to him, her hands trembling. “Help me,” she said with feverish eagerness, “help me to get Diana. I want her to come to me; I can take care of her. It would help him, too. Oh, don’t you see I could do that much?” The old doctor’s penetrating eyes met hers. “You can take care of her,” he repeated; “you were not wealthy, Letty; have you grown so?”