to all he had not told the world--she had read the book--and to the
strange, Americanized sequel.

"I am all at sea," concluded Orth. "What had my little girl to do with
the tragedy? What relation was she to the lady who drove the young man
to destruction--?"

"The closest," interrupted Lady Mildred. "She was herself!"

Orth stared at her. Again he had a confused sense of disintegration.
Lady Mildred, gratified by the success of her bolt, proceeded less
dramatically:

"Wally was up here just after I read your book, and I discovered he had
given you the wrong history of the picture. Not that he knew it. It is a
story we have left untold as often as possible, and I tell it to you
only because you would probably become a monomaniac if I didn't. Blanche
Mortlake--that Blanche--there had been several of her name, but there
has not been one since--did not die in childhood, but lived to be
twenty-four. She was an angelic child, but little angels sometimes grow
up into very naughty girls. I believe she was delicate as a child, which
probably gave her that spiritual look. Perhaps she was spoiled and
flattered, until her poor little soul was stifled, which is likely. At
all events, she was the coquette of her day--she seemed to care for
nothing but breaking hearts; and she did not stop when she married,
either. She hated her husband, and became reckless. She had no children.
So far, the tale is not an uncommon one; but the worst, and what makes
the ugliest stain in our annals, is to come.

"She was alone one summer at Chillingsworth--where she had taken