"’I?’ he said. ’Do you ask me what I must do? Would you have me leave my wife and children——?’ "I did not know he was married, you see, Miss Annie. Oh, the shame that came over me when I heard these words! The moment before I scarcely knew that I walked at all, so deliriously full of joy I was; _then_ I wished the ground would open beneath my feet. He offered to go to my husband and intercede for me; but I would have drowned myself rather than go back. I was the wretchedest woman in the whole world. And I could see that he loved me as much as ever, though he never would say so. That is all of my story that need concern you; but shall I tell you the rest, Miss Annie?" "Yes, Lady Jane." "Your mother was then the most popular actress in London; she could do anything she liked in the theatre; and it was for that theatre that _he_ chiefly worked then, though he became a great artist afterwards. Well, he took me back to the coffeehouse, and left me then; and then he went and persuaded your mother to take an interest in me, and through her means I got an engagement in the same theatre. From the moment I was settled there, he treated me almost like a stranger. He took off his hat to me in the street, and passed on without speaking. If I met him in the theatre, he would say ’Good evening’ as he would to the other ladies. He used to send me little presents, and he never forgot my birthday; but they were always sent anonymously, and if I saw him the next day he seemed more distant than ever, as if to keep me away. Oh, many and many a time have I been on the point of throwing myself at his feet, and clasping his knees, and thanking him with my whole heart for his goodness to me. I used to hate his wife, whom I had never seen, until one Sunday morning I saw her and him going to church, one little girl at his hand, another at hers—and the sweet face she had turned my heart towards her. Would you believe it, he bowed to me as kindly and respectfully as ever, and I think he would have stopped and spoken to me _then_, only I hurried away out of his sight." "And you never went back?" said the girl, softly. "How could I go back, clothed with shame, and subject myself to his suspicion? Besides, he was the last man to have taken me back. Once he felt sure I had left his house wilfully, I am certain he did not trouble himself much about me—as why should he?—why should he?" "It is a very sad story, Lady Jane." "And it has a moral." "But not for me. You are afraid I should marry Count Schönstein out of pique, and so be wretched? But there is no other person whom I could marry." "Come closer to me, sweetheart. There, bend your head down, and whisper. _Is there no other person whom you love?_" The girl’s head was so close down to the pillow that the blush on her face was unseen as she said, in a scarcely audible voice— "_There is, mother._" "I thought so, my poor girl. And he loves you, does he not?"