"So you," he said, almost in a whisper, "are the child she wrote to me about before she died?" Julie made a sign of assent. "How old are you?" "Twenty-nine." "_She_ was thirty-two when I saw her last." There was a silence. Julie lifted one of his hands and kissed it. But he took no notice. "You know that I was going to her, that I should have reached her in time"--the words seemed wrung from him--"but that I was myself dangerously ill?" "I know. I remember it all." "Did she speak of me?" "Not often. She was very reserved, you remember. But not long before she died--she seemed half asleep--I heard her say, 'Papa!--Blanche!' and she smiled." Lord Lackington's face contracted, and the slow tears of old age stood in his eyes. "You are like her in some ways," he said, brusquely, as though to cover his emotion; "but not very like her." "She always thought I was like you." A cloud came over Lord Lackington's face. Julie rose from her knees and sat beside him. He lost himself a few moments amid the painful ghosts of memory. Then, turning to her abruptly, he said: "You have wondered, I dare say, why I was so hard--why, for seventeen years, I cast her off?" "Yes, often. You could have come to see us without anybody knowing. Mother loved you very much." Her voice was low and sad. Lord Lackington rose, fidgeted restlessly with some of the small ornaments on the mantel-piece, and at last turned to her. "She brought dishonor," he said, in the same stifled voice, "and the women of our family have always been stainless. But that I could have forgiven. After a time I should have resumed relations--private relations--with her. But it was your father who stood in the way. I was then--I am now--you saw me with that young fellow just now--quarrelsome and hot-tempered. It is my nature." He drew himself up obstinately. "I can't help it. I take great pains to inform myself, then I cling to my opinions tenaciously, and in argument my temper gets the better of me. Your father, too, was hot-tempered. He came, with my consent, once to see me--after your mother had left her husband--to try and bring about some arrangement between us. It was the Chartist time. He was a Radical, a Socialist of the most extreme views. In the course of our conversation something was said that excited him. He went off at score. I became enraged, and met him with equal violence. We had a furious argument, which ended in each insulting the other past forgiveness. We parted enemies for life. I never could bring myself to see him afterwards, nor to run the risk of seeing him. Your mother took his side and espoused his opinions while he lived. After his death, I suppose, she was too proud and sore to write to me. I wrote to her once--it was not the letter it might have been. She did not reply till she felt herself dying. That is the explanation of what, no doubt, must seem strange to you." [Illustration: "'FOR MY ROSE'S CHILD,' HE SAID, GENTLY"]