It was but a child, the rector thought to himself, whom its father had
seen but a few times. He did not understand that to Lord Mountdean this
child--his dying wife's legacy--was the one object in life, that she was
all that remained to him of a love that had been dearer than life
itself. Commonplace words of comfort rose to his lips, but the earl did
not even hear them. He looked up suddenly, with a ghastly pallor still
on his face.

"How foolish I am to alarm myself so greatly!" he said. "Some one or
other will be sure to know whither the woman has gone. She may have had
some monetary trouble, and so have desired to keep her whereabouts a
secret; but some one or other will know. If she is in the world I will
find her. How foolish I am to be so terribly frightened! If the child
is living what have I to fear?"

But, though his words were brave and courageous, his hands trembled, and
the rector saw signs of great agitation. He rang for wine, but Lord
Mountdean could not take it--he could do nothing until he had found his
child.

In few words he told the rector the story of his marriage.

"I thought," he said, "that I could not do better for the little one
than leave her here in the doctor's care."

"You were right," returned the rector; "the poor doctor's love for the
child was talked about everywhere. As for Margaret Dornham, I do not
think, if she had been her own, she could have loved her better.
Whatever else may have gone wrong, take my word for it, there was no