A crimson flush suffused the invalid's face. Then a flame of fire
shot into the dark eyes, and a small red spot only glowed on either
pale cheek.

"I do not know by what right you ask these questions, Baroness
Brown," she answered slowly; and her listener cringed under the old
appellation which recalled the miserable days when she had kept a
lodging-house--days she had almost forgotten during the last decade
of life.

"But I can assure you, madam," continued the speaker, "that my
daughter knows no father save the good man, my husband, who is dead.
I have never by word or line made my existence known to anyone I ever
knew since I left Beryngford. I do not know why you should come here
to insult me, madam; I have never harmed you or yours, and you have
no proof of the accusation you just made, save your own evil
suspicions."

The Baroness gave an unpleasant laugh.

"It is an easy matter for me to find proof of my suspicions if I
choose to take the trouble," she said. "There are detectives enough
to hunt up your trail, and I have money enough to pay them for their
trouble. But Joy is the living evidence of the assertion. She is
the image of Preston Cheney, as he was twenty-three years ago. I am
ready, however, to let the matter drop on one condition; and that
condition is, that you extract a promise from your daughter that she
will not encourage the attentions of Arthur Emerson Stuart, the
rector of St Blank's; that she will never under any circumstances be