duty is to Susan--there's no doubt about that."

"They are both in a very melancholy position, and that's true!" murmured
Donald.

"They are! For myself I don't care--'twill all end one way. But these
two." Henchard paused in reverie. "I feel I should like to treat the
second, no less than the first, as kindly as a man can in such a case."

"Ah, well, it cannet be helped!" said the other, with philosophic
woefulness. "You mun write to the young lady, and in your letter you
must put it plain and honest that it turns out she cannet be your wife,
the first having come back; that ye cannet see her more; and that--ye
wish her weel."

"That won't do. 'Od seize it, I must do a little more than that! I
must--though she did always brag about her rich uncle or rich aunt, and
her expectations from 'em--I must send a useful sum of money to her, I
suppose--just as a little recompense, poor girl....Now, will you help me
in this, and draw up an explanation to her of all I've told ye, breaking
it as gently as you can? I'm so bad at letters."

"And I will."

"Now, I haven't told you quite all yet. My wife Susan has my daughter
with her--the baby that was in her arms at the fair; and this girl knows
nothing of me beyond that I am some sort of relation by marriage. She
has grown up in the belief that the sailor to whom I made over her
mother, and who is now dead, was her father, and her mother's husband.
What her mother has always felt, she and I together feel now--that we