“I wish to Heaven you had; but when was that? Was it when you used to watch for me in the hall and look at me with large, wistful eyes as I passed out?” “Oh, no; it was after you had gone away. I had been plunged in despair by the news of my husband’s sudden death; but it was not until I knew—what, in my ignorance, I was long in knowing—that I should become a mother, and the fate of an innocent being would depend upon mine, I was inspired with the courage to desperation and resolved to go away with my faithful nurse to her relatives and stay with them until my child’s arrival and your return, and then, if the babe lived, to take it to you and tell it was your son’s child, and that I, its mother, was your son’s widow.” “I wish to Heaven you had done so.” “I should have carried out my resolution if the fatal catastrophe had not fallen so suddenly upon me. Then after the death of my child and the shameful accusation——Oh, I cannot speak of this!” exclaimed Emolyn, breaking off and dropping her head upon her hands. “I know—I know,” murmured the commodore in deep emotion—“you acted with the heroism and self-devotion of your race and nature. You refused, even for your own preservation and vindication, to tell your real story and bring our name into the trial.” “Yet without it I was acquitted and vindicated by all but by myself.” “How, Emolyn, how? What do you mean, my child?” inquired the old man in distress. “I know not—oh, I know not what happened that horrible night!” she gasped with a shudder. “You were irresponsible. You are free from reproach.” “Oh, let us not talk of it! The thought—the doubt—has made me a vagabond and wanderer on the face of the earth, trying to hide from the world, to fly from myself. Oh, let us not talk of it! Let us talk of something else!” She shivered and buried her face in her hands. They were both painfully silent for a few moments. At length Emolyn raised her head and spoke: “Commodore Bruce——” “My dear,” said the old man. “I did not come here with any intention of telling you my secret, nor should I ever have told you if you had not asked me the direct question.” “I only asked you, Emolyn, that I might receive confirmation of my own convictions. I am glad and grateful that you came to see me and gave me the opportunity of making inquiries that have brought out the truth.” “Yet I should never have had the hardihood to leave my seclusion after all these years if it had not been for one in whom I take a deep interest. I mean my little namesake, Emolyn Palmer, whose acquaintance I have recently made.” “Ah!” exclaimed the commodore. “I am aware that you know her quite well.” “Oh, yes; she passed a week here—a very interesting young person. She might have had a permanent home with us if it hadn’t been for the folly of my nephew Ronald in fancying he had fallen in love with her.”