“Did she ever tell you anything of my earlier life?” he asked, when he could command his voice. “Nothing, except that you had--had not been happy in your marriage.” It was a little strange for her to be speaking thus with a man so much her elder, but the subject of their emotions put them on equal ground. “Do you know that I was once secretary to Mr. Clarendon?” She gazed at him with agitated interest. “I did not know that.” “Yes, I was; all through the five years of his married life. I had many opportunities of understanding his private affairs, and I could not help seeing what the relations were between him and his wife. Mrs. Clarendon is to be forgiven everything.” Ada heard, with bowed head. “What her moral claims and standing may be--with that we have no concern. Such judgments have little to do with personal feeling, and I want, if it be possible, to soften your heart to her, that is all. I owe Mrs. Clarendon more than I owe any one, dead or living. At her husband’s death I was plunged into sufferings which I cannot speak of in detail--they would have been bad enough in any case, and were made all but intolerable by the completest poverty. If it had not been for the children, I should assuredly have killed myself. In my despair I wrote to her. I had never been on such terms with her as warranted me in doing this, but----” he waved his hand. “It would have been natural enough if she had thrown aside my letter, as awakening disagreeable memories, and left it unanswered. Instead of that, she met me with such kindness as one human being seldom shows to another. She invited me to come to Knightswell, and insisted on my bringing the children--they had, happily, no mother. I was wretchedly ill, unable to exert myself in any way, only the workhouse was before me.” His voice failed him for a moment. “I remember your coming,” Ada said quietly. “After that life was hard enough, but never what it had been. If I were to tell you all she has been to the girls since then----” He broke off. “Perhaps you would think there was shame in it; that I should have been too proud to accept so much help. It may be so. A man submits for the sake of his children to what would perhaps degrade him if he stood alone. Well, these are the things that I wanted you to know. And more; Mrs. Clarendon has never spoken to me of you in any but the justest and most generous way. She has recognised your talents, and has always accepted gladly any suggestion I made for your good. Think, Ada--that cannot have been easy to her.” There was a long silence. Then the girl asked: “Did you ever see my mother?” “Your parents were unknown to me.” “I did not say my parents--my mother.” She corrected him with cold emphasis, looking into his face. Meres averted his eyes. “No, I never saw her,” was his uneasy reply. “Mr. Ledbury, one of the trustees, tells me that she was on the stage.” He looked surprised.