“I am not much given to watching the people who pass in and out, sir. When his Lordship gave me the cottage, he was good enough to allow me a servant to open the park gate, as he knew that I was not strong enough to bear exposure to all kinds of weather. I am free to live my own life therefore, without thinking of his Lordship’s visitors.” “I am sorry to intrude myself upon your notice, Mrs. Porter, but I want to speak to you upon a very delicate subject, and I must ask your forgiveness in advance if I should touch upon an old wound.” She looked at him curiously, shrinkingly even, with a latent anger in her pale eyes, eyes that had been lovely once, perhaps, but which time or tears had faded to a glassy dulness. “I have no desire to discuss old wounds with any one,” she said coldly. “My troubles at least are my own.” “Not altogether your own, Mrs. Porter. The sorrow of which I am thinking involves another life—the life of one who has been dear to you.” “I have nothing to do with any other life.” “Not even with the life of your only child?” “Not even with the life of my only child,” she answered doggedly. “She left me of her own accord, and I have done with her for ever. I stand utterly alone in this world—utterly alone,” she repeated. “And if I tell you that I think and believe I have found your daughter in London—very poor—working for her living, very sad and lonely, her beauty faded, her life joyless—would you not wish to know more—would not your heart yearn towards her?” “No! I tell you I have done with her. She has passed out of my life. I stand alone.” There was a tone of finality in these words which left no room for argument. Theodore lifted his hat, and walked on. CHAPTER XVIII. “O sovereign power of love! O grief! O balm! All records, saving thine, come cool, and calm, And shadowy, through the mist of passed years.” Harrington Dalbrook, having in a manner given hostages to Fortune, entered upon his new career with a strength of purpose and a resolute industry which took his father by surprise. “Upon my word, Harry, I did not think there was so much grit in you,” said Mr. Dalbrook. “I thought you and your sisters were too much stuffed with modern culture to be capable of old-fashioned work.” “I hope, my dear father, you don’t think education and intellect out of place in a lawyer?” “Far from it. We have had too many examples to the contrary, from Bacon to Brougham, from Hale to Cockburn; but I was afraid of the dilettante spirit, the talk about books which you had only half read, the smattering of subjects that need the work of a lifetime to be properly understood. I was afraid of our modern electro-plate culture—the process which throws a brilliant film of education over a foundation of ignorance. However, you have surprised me, Harry. I own that I was disappointed by your want of purpose at the University; but I begin to respect you now I find you attack your work in the right spirit.”