if to plead with him to understand. He understood, and drew her
closer, but she kept herself free still, to continue: "She was a
poor girl--she was only a governess; she was alone, she thought he
loved her. He did--I think it was the only happiness she ever knew.
But she died of it."

"Oh, I'm so glad you tell me--it's so grand of you!" Baron murmured.
"Then--your father?" He hesitated, as if with his hands on old
wounds.

"He had his own troubles, but he was kind to her. It was all misery
and folly--he was married. He wasn't happy--there were good reasons,
I believe, for that. I know it from letters, I know it from a person
who's dead. Everyone is dead now--it's too far off. That's the only
good thing. He was very kind to me; I remember him, though I didn't
know then, as a little girl, who he was. He put me with some very
good people--he did what he could for me. I think, later, his wife
knew--a lady who came to see me once after his death. I was a very
little girl, but I remember many things. What he could he did--
something that helped me afterwards, something that helps me now. I
think of him with a strange pity--I SEE him!" said Mrs. Ryves, with
the faint past in her eyes. "You mustn't say anything against him,"
she added, gently and gravely.

"Never--never; for he has only made it more of a rapture to care for
you."

"You must wait, you must think; we must wait together," she went on.
"You can't tell, and you must give me time. Now that you know, it's
all right; but you had to know. Doesn't it make us better friends?"