"I must go home now," he said. "I--may God forgive me--I was so maddened by my child's wrongs and my own suspicions that I refused to own her; I drove her away from her rightful home. Pray God that she be not gone. If she has, I must bring her back and tell her that I know her whole sad story, and I must make the best I can of her poor, blighted life." "Shall you write to Bertram Chesleigh?" inquired Desmond. "Yes, for they must know that they have wronged you, and that you are innocent," replied the lawyer. "And, Desmond, you must write to your wife. I will inclose your letter with mine, otherwise, in her pride and anger, she might return it unopened. I thank God that your fidelity is vindicated, and that your reunion is now insured." "I have a better plan than writing to her," said Desmond, blushing like a school-girl. "I will follow your letter to her brother, and plead my cause in person. I cannot wait, Leith; I am too impatient. I long to meet my wife and child again. You will give me their address? The _Europa_ sails to-night. I must go with her." Mr. Leith saw no objection to the plan. He was sorry for the impatient husband who had received a lesson that would last a life-time. He gave him his wife's address in Italy, with his cordial good wishes and went away to seek his wronged, unhappy daughter. "She cannot have gone yet. She was to weak and ill to have gone to-day. She would have waited until she was better," he kept whispering to his reproachful heart as he hurried along. Then he thought of the beautiful, fashionable woman who had taken the place of little Golden's mother, and worn her name for twelve long years. "Poor Gertrude," he murmured sadly. "I wonder how she bears it. Perhaps she will not grieve much. She does not love me as she did when I first made her my wife. Perhaps I am to blame. I have chilled her tender nature by my carelessness or coldness, for I have never loved her as I did my lost little Golden." He hurried up the marble steps and ran impatiently along the hall, stumbling against the housekeeper, who was pacing sedately along with a little basket of keys. As he was rushing past her she stopped and called to him. "Mistress and her maid are gone away, sir." "Where?" he inquired, pausing and looking back in bewildered surprise. "I cannot tell you, for I do not know," the woman replied, respectfully. "But she bade me say that she left a letter for you on her dressing-table." He ran up to Mrs. Leith's dressing-room, and found it in some slight disorder, as if traveling bags had been hurriedly packed. Amid the dainty litter of the dressing-table he saw a square envelope addressed to himself, and hurriedly tore it open. His gaze ran over the few pathetic words daintily penciled on the perfumed, satiny sheet.