“I beg your pardon,” his companion said, instantly disarmed and secretly ashamed of her sudden anger. “I am very quick, and you touched a sensitive nerve. Doctor Turner, my husband never knew of the birth of that child, and he can never know of it. “You look at me with horror,” she proceeded hastily, as she met his astonished gaze, “as if you imagine that I must have been guilty of some great crime; but I have not, unless giving away my babe was one. I was a lawful wife, as I convinced you at the time, and the child had honorable birth; but there were reasons which made it absolutely necessary that I should conceal my maternity from every one who knew me. I did, from all but my sister, who has since died.” “Ah! then the lady who was with you at the time was your sister. I could not believe her to be simply a maid,” the doctor interposed. Mrs. Marston bit her lips with vexation at having thus thoughtlessly committed herself even in so small a point. “Yes,” she said, after considering a moment, “she alone knew my secret, and I believed it safe from all the world until I stumbled upon you to-day.” “It is safe even now,” the physician hastened to assure her. “Believe me, I shall never betray it—you may set your heart wholly at rest upon that point.” “Thank you—I am very grateful for your past silence, Doctor Turner, and your assurance of future secrecy. I am not a heartless woman, nor devoid of maternal affection,” she went on, her lips quivering painfully. “I could have loved my baby as fondly as any mother ever loved her child, if I had been allowed to open my heart to her; but I could not. I had to steel it against her. I never dared even to allow myself to kiss her until the moment they took her away—for fear that I should begin to love her and refuse to part with her. I cannot tell you why—I can never explain it to any living being. I am hedged—I have always been hedged about by circumstances that made it impossible, and as long as I live I must carry the secret locked within my own heart.” She stopped for a moment, overcome by the sad memories and emotions which this retrospective glance aroused, while the good doctor felt more genuine sympathy than he had ever experienced for her over that mysterious occurrence so many years ago. “I will try to be content with what you have told me to-day,” she resumed, presently, “although it was my intention, when I came here, to see for myself how my child had been reared. I am glad to know that she has been tenderly shielded by parental love—that life has been made bright and beautiful for her; may it ever be so, and perhaps, some time, in the great future, where there can be no secrets, I may be allowed to recognize and love the daughter which stern fate decreed I could not have in this life.”