by" -- the words refused to leave his lips -- "the name -- Can you
not guess, Senora, what name she bears?"

The Senora knew. "My own?" she said.

Angus bowed his head. "The only woman's name that my lips ever
spoke with love," he said, reassured, "was the name my daughter
should bear."

"It is well," replied the Senora. Then a great silence fell between
them. Each studied the other's face, tenderly, bewilderedly. Then
by a simultaneous impulse they drew nearer. Angus stretched out
both his arms with a gesture of infinite love and despair, bent
down and kissed the hands which lovingly held his sleeping child.

"God bless you, Ramona! Farewell! You will never see me more,"
he cried, and was gone.

In a moment more he reappeared on the threshold of the door, but
only to say in a low tone, "There is no need to be alarmed if the
child does not wake for some hours yet. She has had a safe
sleeping-potion given her. It will not harm her."

One more long lingering look into each other's faces, and the two
lovers, so strangely parted, still more strangely met, had parted
again, forever. The quarter of a century which had lain between
them had been bridged in both their hearts as if it were but a day.
In the heart of the man it was the old passionate adoring love
reawakening; a resurrection of the buried dead, to full life, with
lineaments unchanged. In the woman it was not that; there was no