"They did not know of it either, Dolly, as I learned later. The child then was shocked and stunned. She said very little, but I heard her cry herself to sleep that night and countless nights afterward. A little tact would have saved all the trouble. If she had been told kindly and tenderly beforehand, that her father was lonely, and that he was going to bring me here--not to be a mother to Elizabeth--but to be a friend and helper to them both, there would have been no trouble. As it was, the child was too hurt ever to care for me. My chance of winning her affection had been lost. Had things been different, there would have been no trouble. Had she been old enough then to understand matters, I should have told her the truth. But she was too young then. Can you wonder, Dolly, that I felt bitter and heartsick that night? I spoke very angrily to John, and that did not mend matters in the least." Dolly slipped her hand into Mrs. Newby's. "I am so dreadfully sorry, for it all seems to me to have been so needless. I hardly see why Mr. Newby did not tell both you and Beth everything." "He was afraid to tell Elizabeth, my dear, for he felt at a disadvantage with her. He did not want to take the time and patience necessary to make her see the subject from his standpoint. In fact, he meant to have his own way, and he did not mean to run any chance of obstacles being placed in his path. He was afraid to tell me the truth for fear I would insist upon delaying our marriage, and I certainly should have done so. Had we waited a little, and had Elizabeth come to visit me first, my married life would have been a very different thing. John had his own way, but I think that he found that it hardly paid in the end. Selfishness does not pay in the long run, Dolly." "I wonder, Mrs. Newby, that you never explained things to Beth when she grew older." "As I said, Dolly, she was too young at first to tell her the facts of the case. She was merely hurt and heartbroken then. As she grew older and comprehended the situation better, she judged me more harshly. How could she believe I had married her father in less than a year from the time of her mother's death without knowing that fact, and how could she know, too, that I had supposed her to be a mere baby, not older than Nell, at most, whose love could be won after our marriage instead of before, as should have been the case with her? There has never been a time when I felt that I could tell her, and yet, in justice to myself, I wish that she knew." "Won't you tell her now, Mrs. Newby? I do wish you would." "It is too late," Mrs. Newby said despairingly. "One cannot alter the habits and feelings of years at a moment's notice." "But still--"