She would not go down to breakfast, however, but had it served in her room. She had not courage to come face to face with the man who, she believed, had so wronged her; she shrank from him, but even more from the woman who, she supposed, occupied the position that belonged to her. After breakfast she dressed her little daughter in the daintiest manner, and sent her out for a walk with her maid, telling the latter that she might keep Virgie out as long as desired, as she was not feeling well and wished to be quiet. When they were gone she lay down again, and tried to think what was best for her to do. Should she go away immediately, and avoid all danger of being seen and recognized? Should she fly from the temptation that was fast laying hold of her to look once more upon the old-time lover—the father of her child? She feared that it was not wise for her to linger there; indeed she knew that it would be far better for her peace of mind to turn resolutely away from all that pertained to the past, go elsewhere, and try to forget—if that were possible—that such a person as Sir William Heath had ever existed. She fell asleep while musing thus, and was conscious of nothing more until someone knocked upon her door, and a childish voice called out: “Mamma! mamma! oh, please let me in. I want to tell you something.” Virgie aroused herself, and going to the door, unlocked and opened it, and was confronted by her little daughter, her face flushed and eager, her hat hanging from her neck by its blue ribbons, her golden curls floating in charming disarray about her shoulders, while she held by the hand a bright, dark-eyed little boy, perhaps a year younger than herself. “Oh, mamma!” cried little Virgie, all excitement, “I have had such a lovely time down stairs on the veranda. There was the nicest lady and gentleman there, and this is their little boy. We played a long time with some beautiful white stones, and we had some caramels and taffy, the lady told us some pretty stories, and Willie’s papa sang us such a funny song; then they went away for a walk, and told Willie that he might come and play with me for a little while.” Something made Virgie grow very pale and still while her child was talking; something in those dark eyes of the little stranger, lifted in wonder and inquiry to her beautiful, white face, made her shrink and tremble, a terrible suspicion in her heart. She stooped quickly and looked closer into the small, upturned face. “Your name is Willie,” she said, in a low, repressed tone—“Willie what?” “Willie Heath,” he answered, regarding her earnestly. “Yes, mamma, and he lives away over the sea, in England—away over that water where poor papa went and——” “Yes, dear,” said Virgie, interrupting her, and though she had known well enough, the moment she saw him, who the child was, the sound of those two names smote her with such startling force that she reeled dizzily and was obliged to lay hold of the door for support.