“As I told you,” she continued, after a moment, “on our arrival at Saratoga, we repaired immediately to the garden-party, and while there I managed to draw Editha one side for a little quiet chat, during which she opened her heart to me. I had heard something of her sad story from Mr. Tressalia before, but she related it to me more fully. She spoke of her uncle several times, telling of his deep interest in you, of his fondness for her, and that he had, in dying, bequeathed all his fortune to her, save the sum he had wished you to have. I casually inquired his name, but before she could reply, Mr. Dalton interrupted us and took Editha away. The next morning I arose quite early, considering the lateness of the hour that I had retired the night previous, feeling very restless, and apprehensive of I know not what. “I met Mr. Tressalia in a small sitting-room as I went below, and immediately began talking of the conversation I had had with Editha the night before. “‘What was Miss Dalton’s uncle’s name—the one who left her his fortune?’ I asked, during the interview. “‘Richard Forrester,’ he returned; and I sank into a chair, feeling as if a heavy hand had suddenly been laid upon my heart and stopped its beating. “You will not wonder,” madam continued, her face paling with emotion even then at the remembrance, “when I tell you that _Richard Forrester was my husband_!” “Your husband!” repeated Earle, fairly dazed with astonishment. “Yes, my husband, and Editha’s father. I saw through it all in an instant. Mr. Dalton’s wife was his sister, and to her he had committed his child. It was no wonder that I had been attracted toward her from the very first; it was no wonder that, when I met her for the first time in Redwood Library at Newport, my heart thrilled with something stronger than sympathy for her sorrow and pity for her suffering. She was my own, own child, and it was the instinct of the mother claiming her offspring, even before she recognized her. She was my baby, my pet, my little bud of promise, which had been so cruelly wrested from my arms more than twenty years before.” And madam’s tears flowed freely even now. Her joy was so new that she could not speak of it without weeping. “What a strange, strange story!” Earle exclaimed. “Richard Forrester Editha’s father! That accounts, then, for the intense love which he always seemed to bear her.” “He did love her, then—he did not visit her mother’s sin upon the life of her child?” madam asked, eagerly. “No, indeed; he seemed to love her most devotedly. She never came into his presence but that his eyes followed her every movement with a strange, intense gaze, at which I often wondered. But I cannot understand why he should have resigned his claim upon her—why he denied himself all the comfort of her love, and had her reared as Sumner Dalton’s child,” Earle said, thoughtfully.