“It strikes me as Utopian, my child. At the age of seventy-five, after fifty years in the pulpit, to have my first long holiday, my first visit to Europe—a pleasure I never permitted myself to dream of. But I thank heaven, my dear, that the old man has still health and strength enough left for the voyage.” Soon after this the rector took leave, as he had to make a sick call seven miles on the other side of Goeberlin. Miss Fronde went in the house and wrote a long letter to her lawyer, describing her plans, and asking him if he could become her agent in carrying them into execution—making contracts, engaging officers, and so forth. The capricious days of April passed, and the delightful days of May came, but nothing was heard from Hanson or the child. Then, one morning, Puck brought her a letter from the post office, bearing the postmark of New York, but having no proof of the writer, for it was imprinted by a typewriter, both as to the superscription and contents. Guessing whom it came from, and what it treated of, Miss Fronde anxiously opened it, and read: “The child is breaking her heart, is ill, is dying, and will die unless she is restored to you. But you cannot have her, even to save her life, unless you take me also, for I also am in almost as bad a plight. I am desperate, for never man loved woman as I love you, nor ever did; or dared as much for her as I have done and dared, and will do and dare for you. Only give me an opportunity to plead my cause. Write and tell me when and where you will see me. Direct your letter to A B Y Z, General Post Office, New York.” Roma’s first emotion on reading this letter was one of alarm and pity for the child; but these were soon swallowed up in burning indignation. She studied the letter—analyzed it. How meanly cautious it was to avoid giving her any advantage over the writer! If he had stolen a child that was not his own he could not have been more guarded in his endeavor to profit by his theft without compromising his own safety from the law. He had written with a typewriter, he had given no address, signed no name, mentioned no name in the body of the letter. “Why,” she asked herself, “had the man been so cowardly cautious in communicating with her if he knew that the child he had carried off was his own?” Then, for the first time, Roma felt a doubt as to whether he did know the child to be his own.