little girl upstairs you'd better tell me."

"What I've said to you I've never said to a soul," he went on. "I've
carried this thing all these years and have never mentioned it. My
friends at the college are the noblest people on earth; they have never
asked questions, but they must have wondered."

"Yes; and I've wondered, too, since the first time you came here and
told me you had brought your daughter's child home. It's perfectly
natural, Andrew, for folks to wonder. Go on and tell me the rest."

"The rest!" he cried. "Oh, that's the hardest part of it! I have told
you all I know! She wrote me after a time that she was married and was
happy, but she didn't explain her conduct in any way. She signed herself
Garrison, but begged me not to try to find her. She said her husband
wasn't quite prepared to disclose his marriage to his family, but that
it would all be right soon. The woman with whom I had left her couldn't
help me to identify him in any way; at least she didn't help me. There
had been a number of young men boarding in the neighborhood--medical and
law students; but there was no Garrison among them. It was in June that
this happened, and when I went down to try to trace her they had all
gone. I was never quite sure whether the woman dealt squarely with me or
not. But it was my fault, Sally; I want you to know that I have no
excuse to offer. I don't want you to try to say anything that would make
my lot easier."

It was not Sally Owen's way to extenuate errors of commission or
omission. Her mental processes were always singularly direct.

"Are you sure she was married; did you find any proof of it?" she asked