"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
that we must part? Your child has no father. You shall not tell her. You
will go away and never speak to her. Think of the situation. Spare her, if
you do not spare me or your friend John Gladney."
He sat down in a chair, his clinched hands resting on his knees. He did
not speak. She could see his shoulder shaking a little, and presently a
tear dropped on his cheek.
But she did not stir. She was thinking of her child. "Had you not better
go?" she said at last. "My daughter may come at any moment."
He rose and stood before her. "I had it all, and I have lost it all," he
said. "Good-bye." He did not offer his hand.
"Good-bye. Where are you going?"
"Far enough away to forget," he replied in a shaking voice. He picked up
the photograph, moved his hand over it softly as though he were caressing
the girl herself, lifted it to his lips, put it down, and then silently
left the room, not looking back.
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