Dan, for of course the reader has guessed that it was he, though he was broken in spirit and weak and exhausted by fever and chills, from which he had long suffered in the West, had yet in his degradation something more of human softness than he had ever had in his strength. When this beautiful little girl told him she was six years old, the thought flashed upon him that his and Susie’s child would be, if living, about this age; and something in her face appealed to him like a half-forgotten picture. Mrs. Forest had never once alluded to Susie in her letters, and in the short notes he returned, at long intervals, in answer to his mother’s tiresome, pious communications, he asked no questions, though he had often determined to do so, or write to his sister, or even to Susie; but he had never done so. Susie might be gone away or dead, for all he knew, and the child too. This one was no such child as would spring from him and Susie, he thought. This was some proud, petted beauty, whose birth had been heralded as a blessing, and when she told him her name, his speculation ceased, but every word and motion charmed him. She seemed like a creature of some purer, higher sphere than that to which he belonged, and when he spoke to her he softened his voice and manner as by instinct. “I must bury my birdie and go back,” she said, “for I am going away with mamma and Linnie and Paul. The ship is waiting for us, papa says, in Boston, and it sails on the great ocean to-morrow morning. We are going to France, you know, to the Social Palace.” “Who’s Linnie? Not Linnie Forest?” “Yes; Linnie Forest, my doctor’s girl. Don’t you know Linnie? She is my nurse now.” Dan saw at once that this Frauenstein must be some great nabob, or his mother would never let Linnie go in such a capacity—a relative, he thought, of that millionaire count, of whom he had heard in his youth. As the child ran on, talking of many things, she mentioned her mother as “Madam Susie.” “Susie!” echoed Dan. “Is that your mother’s name? What is her other name? I mean, what was it before she was married?” But he could get no satisfactory reply. “Is this Mr. Frauenstein, then, your father?” he asked. “Yes,” said Minnie. “He wasn’t once, you know, but he made me his little girl. He isn’t Mr. He’s Count.” “Who is your real father?” “Oh, we don’t ever speak of him. He was a naughty, bad man. He didn’t love me nor mamma. He went off and forgot his little girl; but Paul loved me, and is so good to me. He is my Slave of the Lamp, you know.” Dan covered his face with his hands, and hot tears of shame and remorse poured down his face. Minnie patted his head with her soft little hands, and told him not to cry. “Come home to my house,” she said, “and we will give you something to eat.” “Thank you; I am not a beggar.” “Well, you are poor, ain’t you?” “Yes, poor enough, God knows.”