“He knows now all about it—the cruel, slanderous deception practiced on you by the man Stukely, when he made you believe that the marriage with Saviola was illegal, and left you no other alternative than to do as you did. And no shadow of implied blame is felt by Roland—only reverential tenderness and compassion for all that you have had to suffer for so many years from the diabolical villainy of one man. Roland is impatient to see you, my dear, as soon as you can admit him.” “My incomparable husband!” breathed the lady, penetrated by her perception of his utter unselfishness and superiority to every feeling of jealousy. “Ah! how you exaggerate, dear,” he said, with a smile. Then: “Will you see Roland?” he inquired. “When you please,” she answered. He arose, stooped and kissed her forehead, and left the room. In a few moments the door opened and Roland entered. The blood rushed to the lady’s face, and then left it paler than before. She held out both hands to receive him. “My son! Oh, my son! Can you forgive me?” she wailed. Roland dropped on one knee and lifted her hands to his lips, in silent reverence. Then he arose and folded her in his arms, still in silence. “Speak to me, Roland,” she said at last, when he had drawn a chair and seated himself at her side. “Dear mother,” he said, very gently, “I have heard your whole story from the lips of my stepfather—my honored father, I should rather say, for truly he has done a father’s part, and given a father’s love to me—and I feel for him the deepest love, respect and compassion. I wish from my soul that at my hands the demon who has wronged you so bitterly could receive his punishment.” “No, no, my son. From your hands his punishment would be sinful revenge. From the hands of the law which has seized him it will be retributive justice. Roland, how much, if anything, can you remember of your infancy, before you were cast upon these shores?” she suddenly inquired. “Not much very clearly, dear mother. But I do remember a country place, where there were many cows and some calves, fruit trees, flowers and a house covered all over with flowering vines. I remember a rosy-cheeked woman in a white cap and white apron, who used to wash and dress me, and another little boy of about my age, and give us our milk and bread in a room that had a bright red brick floor.” “Nothing more, Roland?” “Oh, yes. I remember something that used to make a grand holiday for us, a great lady who used to come to see us, and bring cakes and sugar plums and toys and clothes. Then I remember being in a ship on the sea for many days, but cannot recall how I got there, or how I came away. These reminiscences I have often told to Aunt Sibby, but neither she nor I could ever make out by much study where that home of my infancy could have been located, or what seas I had sailed over.” “And did no face, no voice here ever associate itself with those earlier memories?” inquired the mother.