"Never. I never knew till this day."

"It was more than three years ago."

Hugh was very pale. Three years ago--three long years in which he had
worked, and tried not to think of her! And if he had known--"You see,
I've had a queer life, knocking about in strange places," he said,
trying to speak calmly. "Often I didn't see any newspapers for weeks
together. I thought of you always as rich and happy, living in England,
the wife of Sir Edward Clifford--"

"Rich and happy," she repeated, bitterly. "How little one knows of
another's life. After his death, there was nothing--there had been some
wild speculations; and the estates went with the title, of course, to
his cousin. But, yes,--in a way you were right. I was rich and happy
because I had Rosemary."

"And Rosemary had you, Angel," cried the child, who had been listening,
puzzled and bewildered, not knowing that they had forgotten her
presence until this moment. "Rosemary had you. And now we've all got
each other--till the fairy father vanishes."

"But I shan't have to vanish after all," said Hugh.

* * * * *

After that, it seemed they had been together but for a moment, when a
wild wail went moaning through the house; the first gong for the
_pensionnaires'_ dinner.