Never since the moment she had turned from her angry young husband, doubting his love and hating his poverty, had Verna Dalrymple known a really happy hour. Despite her pride and resentment that had driven them apart, she had loved Leon, her husband, with the passion of her life, and realized it too late. The decree of divorce she had permitted her parents to secure for her fell like the trump of doom upon her heart, and the coming of her child had been her only consolation. All these years she had fought down with resolution the passion of her heart, loving and hating alternately the man whose brief appearance on the stage of her life had been as fateful as a tragedy. Yet she knew not if he were dead or living, for never since the moment of their parting had she gazed on his fair, handsome face. The divorce case, based on nonsupport and incompatibility of temper, had been cleverly managed by her lawyers without bringing them together again, and when she fainted on receiving the decree of divorce, all supposed it was from hysterical excitement; none guessed that the iron of despair had entered her soul on knowing herself parted forever from Leon Dalrymple. She clung to his name still, with the excuse that it was for the sake of the unborn child, that it might bear the paternal name. But with the coming of the beloved daughter one bitter drop always mingled with her cup of joy. It was that he could not share her happiness. His child looked at her with its father’s face, and had the sunny curls that had crowned his handsome head. There was wordless reproach in the resemblance. There are words of deeper sorrow Than the wail above the dead; Both shall live, but every morrow Wake us from a widowed bed. And when thou wouldst solace gather, When our child’s first accents flow, Wilt thou teach her to say “Father!” Though his care she must forego? When her little hand shall press thee, When her lip to thine is pressed, Think of him whose love had blessed thee, Think of him thy love had blessed! Four years the child remained the idol of her life, and kept alive in her heart the father’s memory--then the blow fell that almost crushed her--the loss of the child! It was stolen while taking an airing in the park with its nurse. The maid had been flirting with a policeman--she said she had only just turned her head--when the little darling had been snatched up by a stranger--a man with a black wig and bushy whiskers who got away with the child in spite of her pursuit. On being cross-questioned, the maid admitted that the little girl had previously made the acquaintance of a blond gentleman with a melancholy aspect, and the two--Darling and the gentlemanly stranger--had become fast friends.