'Yes. Can it be that you have yet to learn that I am that Laura Dorillion to whom you gave this opal and diamond ring, with whom you spent so many a sweet hour, by Fairlight Glen, the East Cliffs that overhang the sea, by the Dripping Well, and amid the old castle walls at Hastings--the Laura whom you married, and from whom you so coldly fled?' Dalton tried to speak, but his voice was gone; he could but stretch his hand towards her, without advancing, while regarding her with growing bewilderment; so she spoke again, with tears in her voice. 'You ought to have forgiven me the humility of my origin, for that I could not help--ay, forgiven me long ago, Anthony. Remember that "he who cannot forgive breaks the bridge over which he must pass himself," for "every man hath need of forgiveness," we are told.' 'My wife--you?' exclaimed Dalton. 'Laura--your own wife, whom you married in St. Clement's Church on the tenth of August. You remember the day?' The words were simple, but spoken with great pathos, and all her sparkling manner seemed to have left her as she seated herself, and he hung over her. 'Do you forgive me, Laura, and pardon me--pardon me, and love me?' 'You know that I love you.' He was about to put an arm round her, when he paused, and said, 'But whence this name of Trelawney?' 'I assumed it from an aunt, who left me a small fortune, but for which I--I might have been compelled to struggle in penury on the stage to support your daughter.' 'My daughter!' exclaimed Dalton, a great love for the beautiful little girl lie knew suddenly gushing up in his heart. 'My daughter--mine?' 'Our child,' said Laura, softly. 'Born--when?' 'Six months after you left me at Hastings.' 'But her name--of Antoinette?' 'Is but the feminine of your own--Anthony.' 'Oh, what a blind fool I have been--Laura--Laura!' Goring, who had been studying a picture on the wall, now thought he might as well withdraw softly, and smoke his cigar outside. Taller in stature, fuller in figure, more fully developed in every way, and with a bearing, manner, and grace cultivated by those among whom she had moved, it required a certain effort to recognise in her the girlish Laura Dorillion of the past time. Though her whole style was different--finer and more statuesque--and the mode of her toilette and of dressing her hair was different, her voice and the inflections of it, her expression of eye, the droop of the lid and flicker of the long lash, and the sweet smile of her lip were, he now saw, all unchanged, and he pressed her to his breast in the rapture of the moment, forgetting that the transport which was soon to bear him away was at that supreme moment of joy having her fires banked up preparatory to putting to sea. 'And you love me, Laura?' he never was tired of repeating, and hearing the sweet admission that she did so. 'Oh, why have you concealed till this--why have you concealed yourself thus, and from me?'