“Again, in those last, sad months, when her uncle lay slowly dying and I was accustomed to visit him every morning, I recall her wistful looks into my face—the looks of a poor, hunted fawn—the pleading gaze of a poor, helpless, frightened creature that mutely prays for mercy!—the looks she would raise to my face as she stood in the front hall waiting for me to pass! Why, sir, I tell you, hundreds of times I was on the point of speaking to the poor child and asking her what her trouble was, but that Malvina Warde—may the foul fiend fire her!—was always in the way, rattling with her tongue and hurrying me along, so that beyond a nod or a word I could get no conversation with the girl. And shortly after I went to sea, and did not return until the trial of Emolyn Wyndeworth was on. It was very short, you know, and after she was acquitted she suddenly vanished from sight, nor could all my effort to trace her be successful. So many years have passed since then that I have quite given her up for dead,” sadly concluded the old man. “And yet, for aught you know to the contrary, she may be living,” murmured the doctor. “Bah!” exclaimed the commodore. “Julius Cæsar may be also living, but it must be in another sphere of existence. No, the opportunity of saving or helping Emolyn Wyndeworth passed out of my hands because I was, in her case, too dull of perception, too slow of action. But understand this: Even at the time of the trial I did not suspect that Emolyn Wyndeworth had been the wife of my son. I suspected it afterward, upon reflection, and then, as I recalled all the circumstances of the case, I saw them in a new light, and my suspicion became conviction and filled me with regret, that grew into remorse, for my previous dulness and blindness, which had resulted so fatally for that poor, forlorn child. Thus, you see, sir, I mourn the early and tragic fate of Emolyn Wyndeworth in a sorrow that is without hope,” said the old man, dropping his gray head upon his chest. “But, as we have never had any proof of her death, she may be still living!” the doctor ventured again to suggest. The commodore made a movement of disgust and impatience, demanding: “If she is _not_ dead, why has no one ever heard anything of her in all these years?” “Perhaps some one has heard of her,” quietly suggested the doctor. “Bah!” exclaimed the old sailor. “I think—I am sure that some one has heard of her.” “I should like to know who it is, then!” exclaimed the commodore incredulously. “It is I!” “EH?” “I!” “You!” “Yes!” “Heard of Emolyn Wyndeworth!” “I have!” “Good Heaven! You don’t say so!” “Yes, I do!” “When? Where? How? Speak, sir! Where is she? Living? Well?” demanded the excited old man, pouring question upon question with impetuous rapidity. “She is living, and well, and not very far off,” quietly answered the doctor, as he arose, poured out a glass of water and made the commodore drink it.