"You have seen her?" She eyed him sharply.

"Yes, to-day." His look wandered to a table whereon was a photograph of
her daughter. He glanced at it keenly. A look of singular excitement
sprang to his eyes. "That is your daughter?"

She inclined her head.

"How old is she?" He picked up the photograph and held it, scrutinizing
it.

"She is seventeen," was the reply in a cold voice.

He turned a worn face from the picture to the woman. "She is my child.
You lied to me."

"It made no difference to you then. Why should it make any difference now?
Why should you take it so tragically?"

"I do not know, but now"--His head moved, his lips trembled.

"But now she is the daughter of John Gladney's wife. She is loved and
cared for by people who are better, infinitely better, than her father and
mother were or could be. She believes her father is dead. And he is dead!"

"My child! My child!" he whispered brokenly over the photograph. "You will
tell her that her father is not dead. You"--

She interrupted. "Where is that philosophy which you preached to me, Mark
Telford, when you said you were going to marry another woman and told me