The words were thick and far apart. The head drooped lower and lower, the color all left the lips, and in spite of Anna’s vigorous shakes, or still more vigorous hartshorn, overtaxed nature gave way, and the doctor fainted at last. It was Anna’s turn now to wonder what she should do, and she was about summoning aid from some quarter when the door opened suddenly, and Hugh ushered in a stranger—the convict, who had kept his word, and came to tell what he knew of this complicated mystery. No one had seen him as he entered the house but Hugh, who was expecting him, and who, in reply to his inquiries for the doctor, told where he was, and that a stranger was with him. There was a low, hurried conversation between the two, a partial revelation of the business which had brought Sullivan there, and at its close Hugh’s face was deadly white, for he knew now that he had met Dr. Richards before, and that ’Lina could not be his wife. “The villain!” he muttered, involuntarily clenching his fist as if to smite the dastard as he followed Sullivan into the parlor, starting back when he saw the prostrate form upon the floor, and heard the lady say, “My brother, sir, has fainted.” She was Anna, then; and Hugh guessed rightly why she was there. “Madame,” he began, but ere another word was uttered there fell upon his ear a shriek which seemed to cleave the very air and made even the fainting man move in his unconsciousness. It was Mrs. Worthington who, with hands outstretched as if to keep him off, stood upon the threshold, gazing in mute terror at the horror of her life, whispering incoherently, “What is it, Hugh? How came he here? Save me, save me from him!” A look, half of sorrow, half of contempt, flitted across the stranger’s face as he answered for Hugh kindly, gently, “Is the very sight of me so terrible to you, Eliza? Believe me, you have nothing to fear. I am only here to set matters right—to make amends for the past, so far as possible. Here for our daughter’s sake.” He had drawn nearer to her as he said this last, but she intuitively turned to Hugh, who started suddenly, growing white and faint as a suspicion of the truth flashed upon him. “Mother?” he began, interrogatively, winding his arm about her, for she was the weaker of the two. She knew what he would ask, and with her eye still upon the man who fascinated her gaze, she answered, sadly, “Forgive me, Hugh, I thought he was dead. The paper said so, with all the particulars. Forgive me. He was—my husband; he is—’Lina’s father, not yours, Hugh, oh, Heaven be praised, not yours!” and she clung closely to her boy, as if glad one child, at least, was not tainted with the Murdoch blood. The convict smiled bitterly, and said to Hugh himself, “Your mother is right. She was once my wife, but the law set her free from the galling chain. I have had a variety of names in my life; so many, indeed, that I hardly knew which is my real one.”