'Oh, Mummy look,' cries the child, 'look what bootiful flowers me's
gottened, him wouldn't let me get them meself. Look at him, Mummy,' she
urges as the woman still kneels with lowered head, 'him's name is Paul.'

She raises her head at the name, and he starts back on seeing her face
and looks at her for a moment with astonishment.

'Clotilde,' at length he says, and his voice is low, 'you here.'

Her head is once more bowed--

'You here,' he repeats, 'here at the grave of your child and'--with a
slight pause 'mine. It is four years since I saw you last, and now to
meet you like this.'

No sound comes from the kneeling figure. 'Where is ... he?' Paul asks in
a hoarse unnatural voice.

'Dead,' she whispers.

'Ah!' and he breathes a sigh of relief, 'so you always come here,' he
says, repeating the little girl's words, and then remembering her. 'Good
God!' he cries, 'that child! speak, Clotilde, tell me,' he bends forward
and touches her almost roughly, 'for Heaven's sake, speak, and say she
is not your child, but no! I would rather not hear it,' and overcome by
a strong emotion, he turns towards the sea, while a tumult of passionate
strife rends his very soul.

Why had he saved the child. One minute more where she had been would be
certain death, if he had only known who she was he would never have