The shock, my friend! I had remembered him so strong and gallant--wicked, if you will; but then I had always pictured myself the cherished pledge of his wickedness. And now, it appeared, I was only one of a large family. Without a word, I turned my back upon him. “Don’t go,” he said, disturbed at that. “What name did you say?” I confronted him once more, sorrow and disdain battling in my face. “I said Diana.” “Of course,” he answered, beating his forehead; “the child of”-- After all, it was a long lapse of time. I told him my mother’s name. “She was my one real love,” he said, shedding tears. “I recall her among the peats of Killarney as if it were to-day. When she died (she is dead, isn’t she?) I buried my heart in her grave. I have never known a moment’s happiness since. Speak to me of her, Dinorah.” He followed me up a little later, when Patty was sitting with me, and peeped round the door. “May I--daughter Di?” he said. I believe he had really in the interval been looking among his notes, or letters, and with such benefit to his memory that he felt secure, at least, in that monosyllabic compromise. Blame my fond heart, thou _fripon_. I was softened even in my desperate disillusionment by this half recognition. With a father, fashionable and well-connected, possibly rich, to safeguard my interests, I need no longer fear the light. Receiving no answer, he sidled himself into the room, and to a sofa, on which he sat down. Patty, dropping her work, looked at him with all her might of astonishment. “And is this dear child your sister?” he asked. “Yes,” I answered; “from the very first.” “Twins?” he exclaimed. “I am very sure there is no such entry.” He sat frowning at the carpet for a little. Then, “Wait,” he said. “It is my misfortune to serve small beer.” And with these enigmatic words laid himself down and fell asleep. With his first snore, Patty flew over to me. “Who is it?” she whispered, frantic. “_It_ is a wise father that knows his own child.” “_Father_?” she said. “Hush!” I answered; “yes.” And would say no more till he woke. He came to himself presently, in a properer sense of the word. During the interval I had been curiously observing his condition. It was very different in seeming from that of the spark of eleven years since. It showed an assumption of finery, it is true; but the trappings were tawdry and soiled, and the materials cheap. He sat up with a prodigious yawn, his face, in the midst, lapsing into a watery, paternal smile. But it was evident at once that something of the thread of memory was restored in him; and he began questioning me much more shrewdly and to the point. “Why, ecod,” said he presently, “was it a fact that the sweep had stole you? If I’d only learnt the truth before Charlie Buckster put a bullet in himself. I’d a double pony on it with the man.”