"No. I never saw you. Madeline as a child--I left you when you were three or four days old. I have never seen you since, although I have spent a fortune almost in searching for you." "You have?" she said, wonderingly. "Who then are yon?" "That is what I want to tell you without startling you, Madaline--dear Heaven, how strange it seems to utter that name again! You have always believed that good woman who has just quitted the room to be your mother?" "Yes, always," she repeated, wonderingly. "And that wretched man, the convict, you have always believed to be your father?" "Always," she repeated. "Will it pain or startle you very much to hear that they are not even distantly related to you--that the woman was simply chosen as your foster mother because she had just lost her own child?" "I cannot believe it," she cried, trembling violently. "Who are you who tells me this?" "I am Hubert, Earl of Mountdean," he replied, "and, if you will allow me, I will tell you what else I am." "Tell me," she said, gently. "I am your father, Madaline--and the best part of my life has been spent in looking for you." "My father," she said, faintly. "Then I am not the daughter of a convict--my father is an earl?" "I am your father," he repeated, "and you, child, have you, child, have your mother's face." "And she--who has just left us--is nothing to me?" "Nothing. Do not tremble, my dear child. Listen--try to be brave. Let me hold your hands in mine while I tell you a true story." He held her trembling hands while he told her the story of his life, of his marriage, of the sudden and fatal journey, and her mother's death--told it in brief, clear words that left no shadow of doubt on her mind as to its perfect truth. "Of your nurse's conduct," he said, "I forbear to speak--it was cruel, wicked; but, as love for you dictated it, I will say no more. My dear child, you must try to forget this unhappy past, and let me atone to you for it. I cannot endure to think that my daughter and heiress, Lady Madaline Charlewood, should have spent her youth under so terrible a cloud." There came no answer, and, looking at her, he saw that the color had left her face, that the white eyelids had fallen over the blue eyes, that the white lips were parted and cold--she had fainted, fallen into a dead swoon. He knelt by her side and called to her with passionate cries, he kissed the white face and tried to 'recall the wandering senses, and then he rang the bell with a heavy peal. Mrs. Dornham came hurrying in. "Look!" said Lord Mountdean. "I have been as careful as I could, but that is your work." Margaret Dornham knelt by the side of the senseless girl. "I would give my life to undo my past folly," she said. "Oh, my lord, can you ever forgive me?"