“About a year after we had been at St. Sauveur, I was startled one morning by the appearance of Isola standing at the gate. My first thought was that she had come to me with a message of penitence from my wife. Then, however, noticing she was clad in deep mourning, I guessed she had far different tidings to bring. “‘Your mistress is dead,’ I asked, at once anticipating the worst. She bowed her head. “‘Tell me everything, Isola,’ I gasped, hoping still there might be some message of love or repentance for me. “‘There is nothing to tell,’ she replied coldly, ‘she is dead, that is all.’ “‘But where, when, how?’ I insisted, my soul thirsting and hungering after my wife. “‘She took cold, she would not take care, and so she died, that is all,’ was the reply. “‘And not a word or message for me, or for her daughter?’ “Then the woman laughed a harsh scornful laugh. “‘What would Monsieur have? Don Josef took care of her, and gave her all she wanted. He was by her side when she died, and held her in his arms.’ “I had no heart to ask more; and when Isola turned her back on me without another word or salutation of any sort, I did not seek to detain her. The least sign of penitence would have brought back my old love for my wife, but to die thus, as she had lived, in sin, was the bitterest blow of all. “My great fear at this time was lest Amy should know, by some means, any part of this terrible story. I endeavoured, and successfully, to confuse her infant mind, by constantly speaking of her mother as her governess, and the thought soon suggested itself to me, that if she had another mother given to her, the recollection of the first would be completely obliterated. Accordingly, some short time after Aimée’s death, I married my second wife. The result you know, a life of peace and comparative happiness until now.” Again Mr. Warden paused, his calmness was evidently failing him, and it was with increased effort and difficulty that he finished his narration. “Soon after my second marriage,” he continued, “I left St. Sauveur, hoping still farther to blot the recollection of her early days from Amy’s young mind. To a certain extent I believe I succeeded; I imagined I had quite done so, when one day, some two years ago, to my great surprise, she suddenly asked me— “‘Papa, dear, tell me about that beautiful lady who used to play with me when I was a child; wasn’t she my very own mamma?’ “Then it was I told my little daughter the first and only lie I ever uttered, and assured her that that beautiful lady was her governess, and that Mrs. Warden was her very own mamma.