“You are not much changed; not so much as might have been expected. No, indeed, you are not,” he resumed, as he stood before her, holding her hands and gazing wistfully, tenderly into her face. “Years of life without smiles, or tears, or frowns, or any emotion that could trace a line on cheek or brow, a life in marble, a life in death, leaves no vestige of its passage on the face or form,” mournfully replied Emolyn. “But, my child, why have you led this life? Why have you expatriated and hidden yourself from your friends all these years?” “You ask me why? Oh, Commodore Bruce!” “Well, I suppose I know or can surmise your motive for doing so; but, Emolyn, that motive arose from a very morbid mind. Oh, child, if you knew how I have ‘sought you, sorrowing,’ all these years!” “Ah, why should you have taken any interest in one so lost?” she sighed, covering her eyes with one hand. “Why? You ask me why?” he inquired, unconsciously repeating her own words. “I will tell you, Emolyn. My poor boy, my poor Lonny, with his last words, before sailing on that fatal voyage—committed you to my charge—telling me that when he should return from his voyage he meant to claim you for his wife.” A low moan of pain escaped the lips of the lady, but she made no comment. “Ah, Emolyn, would to Heaven I had paid that heed to his words which I afterward, but too late, found they deserved! But how could I have known?” “How, indeed? You knew nothing. Do not reproach yourself,” breathed the lady in low, almost inaudible tones. “But I ought to have known, or inquired, or discovered! Emolyn, child! what was the meaning of the pleading eyes you used to raise to mine when I would pass you in leaving Green Point, after a visit to your bed-ridden uncle? Tell me, dear! Tell me!” “It were bootless to tell you now what I had not the courage to tell then,” she replied. “And I—hard, cold and blind that I was, I never encouraged you to open your heart to me, although I had promised my poor boy to watch over you,” groaned the commodore. “Do not reproach yourself,” she repeated. “I might never have been able to confide in any man.” “Yet I should have drawn your secret from you, Emolyn! Tell me now, I conjure! In the name of the dead, I conjure you, tell me, were you the wife of my son?” solemnly demanded the veteran. She paused a moment and then answered in a low, distinct voice: “I was.” The commodore dropped his gray head upon his open hands and groaned aloud. “I thought so! I thought so! But not until it was too late! Not until you had passed out of my reach and knowledge entirely. Oh, child! If only you had confided in me, what sorrow would have been saved!”