"After the first shock I do not think he cared very much," she replied. "We had lived very unhappily; perhaps he saw in this a release. I was told by the stewardess that the ship was searched; but she managed to put them off the scent, as far as my hiding-place was concerned--smuggled me into her own quarters while the search was going on. When we reached the end of the voyage she lent me clothes and a heavy veil, and I walked out unnoticed among the crowd of passengers and the other crowd that had come to meet them. I landed in England a free woman, and I began again, under another name." "And what was that other name?" I asked. She laughed softly, and coloured like a girl. "Barbara Avaline," she replied. Then more quickly she added: "I would not have you think that I took that name merely for a whim; it was because I loved you, and because I felt that in spirit at least I belonged to you. I have lived quietly, and not unhappily; I had my memories to sustain me. The hardest part had been, of course, the giving up of little Barbara; I almost failed in my purpose once or twice--almost went back to Savell for the sake of the child. But, thank God, I was able in all those long years to get news of her; I have been near her many and many a time--poor unhappy mother that I was!--and have known that she was well. I have had to work for my living, but that has not mattered; I might have gone mad if I had not had something to do." "And what first brought you down here?" I asked after a pause, during which it seemed as though we sat together looking into the past. "My father had left the business to Lucas Savell, but it was never any good in his hands. It went down and down, and I knew that Savell was borrowing money anywhere and everywhere. After a time they got quite poor--Barbara and her father--and I began to see a number of people gathering about the place, just as they say birds of prey gather when a man is dying and his hours are numbered. I did not think of Savell; I thought only of Barbara and of what might happen to her. And so, in a poor futile way, I've haunted this place, and watched her--even hungered for her more than I dare say." "Where are you living?" I asked her. "I have a couple of rooms at a cottage on the outskirts of the town," she said, "and I do needlework for a living. I lie hidden all day, and only come out like this when the darkness has fallen. And to think that I have seen you here before, and did not guess who you were." "I am so changed," I reminded her sadly. "I might have known that you would steal back to the place where for an hour or two we were happy; I might have guessed that. I have seen you once or twice about the house and the grounds, and wondered a little who you were, and why I was so strongly moved at the sight of you. But we must not think any more of ourselves," she went on eagerly--"we must think of those who have grown up to take our places."