He stared at her, not comprehending. “How can she be Cousin Lydia’s child?” he asked. “She would have known you were her aunt.” “She does not. She knows nothing. But, Tom, she is Lydia’s daughter. I know it. I have known it all these weeks.” “But why”--he began, and then stopped, a dark flush rising in his face. He knew why his aunt had been silent. “Tom, at first I tried to persuade myself I was mistaken,” she faltered. “And then, when I saw”-- He made a quick gesture that was full of pain. The flush in his face had faded, leaving it very white. “Aunt Lucy, do not speak of that,” he said, turning his face aside. {Illustration: HE STARED AT HER, NOT COMPREHENDING.} She drew closer to him, putting her hand on his arm. “Tom, what do you mean?” “Don’t you see?” he returned, just glancing at her and then looking away again. “You have made it impossible, Aunt Lucy. I could never ask her to marry me now.” The bitterness in his voice overwhelmed her. “Tom, you don’t suppose she would believe that you--Oh, what have I done? Tom, you will never forgive me!” At the sound of the quick sob that choked her voice he turned quickly to her. “Aunt Lucy, do not talk like that. What is done can’t be undone. But let me understand. What proofs have you that Rhoda is your niece? You must write to Mr. Thomson and tell him all you know. But he will want proofs.” He spoke so quietly, she took courage. And she was able to speak fully to him. He listened with grave intentness, asking a question now and then. “We must write to this Mr. Harding,” he said, when she had finished. “Mrs. M’Alister will be sure to know his address. Shall I go up and see Mr. Thomson for you to-morrow, Aunt Lucy? I think the first step is to tell him.” “And Rhoda, Tom?” “Wait till I have seen Thomson. Though there seems no room for doubt. Aunt Lucy, I wish you had told me at first.” How she wished it she tried to tell him, but her tears prevented her. She sobbed hysterically, while he did his best to soothe her, forgetting his own pain at the sight of hers. When she could speak, her first words were of Rhoda. “Tom, you won’t let this come between you? Tom dear, I know she loves you.” His face quivered all over. “I have no right to speak to her yet,” he said. “Perhaps--but I must wait. Can’t you see it must be so? I shall have my own way to make in the world.” He squared his shoulders as he said it, as if eager to begin the struggle. “Tom, I don’t see it,” his aunt burst out. But he would not let her go on. He could not bear it. He felt that it was utterly impossible for him to ask Rhoda to marry him if she was heiress of Woodcote and he without a penny he could call his own. If they had met knowing their relative positions, it might have been different. But now he could make no claim on her. His aunt’s conduct had raised a barrier between them that could not be broken down till he had won an independent position for himself.