He was very pale, and came toward her, with an eager, questioning look in his eyes, which scanned her curiously. She had risen, and was standing with her hands locked together, her head unconsciously poised upon one side, and her body bent slightly forward. It was Laura’s attitude exactly. Laura had stood just this way that night she met him outside her mother’s house and he persuaded her to the clandestine marriage. Save that there was about Magdalen more refinement, more culture, and a softer style of beauty than had ever belonged to Laura Clayton, he could have sworn it was the Laura of his mature manhood’s love, or passion, who stood upon the rug by the fire, her dark eyes meeting his with a wistful, earnest gaze. In an instant the forgot his doubts;—his faith was strong as Guy’s, and he reached his arms toward her, and his lips quivered as he said: “You are so much like Laura that you _must_ be my child.” She knew he expected her to go to him, but Jessie and Laura, and the uncertainty as to herself and his right to claim her, rose up a mighty barrier between them, and she made no movement towards him; she only said: “It is not sure that I am your child. We must prove it beyond a doubt,” and in her voice there was a tone which Mr. Grey understood. She knew Laura’s story. Penelope had told her, and she resented the injury done to one who might be her mother. It was a part of his punishment, and he accepted it, and put down the tenderness and love which kept growing in his heart for the beautiful girl before him. “No, it is not proved,” he said, “though I trust that it may be. Tell me, please, your own story as you have heard it from Mr. Irving, and also what you wish me to do.” He had heard the whole from Guy, but the story gained new force and reality as told by Magdalen, whose eyes and face and gestures grew each moment more and more like Laura Clayton as she was years ago. Guy had forgotten the locket, but Magdalen did not, and she showed it to Mr. Grey, who examined it closely, then staggered a step or two toward her, and steadied himself against the mantel, as he said: “It _was_ Laura’s. I remember it perfectly and where I bought it, I gave it to her myself. My likeness was in it then. You see it has been taken out,” and he pointed to the inside of the ornament from which a picture had evidently been removed. “Magdalen, I do not need stronger proof. Will you let me call you daughter?” The tears were streaming down his face, and Magdalen felt herself beginning to relent, but there must be no mistake,—no shadow on which to build a doubt hereafter. She could not take her place in the hearts of that family as a rightful daughter of the house and then suddenly be displaced by some other claimant. She must know to a certainty that she was Magdalen Grey, and she replied: