have never heard her complain.  She loved me with an absorbing love.  I was her only comfort.  I did my best to deserve her affection.  I loved her too.  I cannot remember that she ever spoke one unkind word to me, and I can call to mind a thousand instances of indulgence and kindness.  I knew that she deprived herself of almost everything to give it to me.  I have seen her eat dry bread patiently, while for me and my father there was always some little dainty.  The remembrance of the happiness of my early life begins and ends with my mother.  My memories of her are all pleasant.”  She continued as though recalling her thoughts with difficulty.  “I can remember some one else.  I do not know who or what he was, except that he was, I think, a doctor.  He used to see me, and used to amuse me.  Then there came a dark day.  I cannot tell what happened, but after that day I never saw my friend again.”

He was looking at her with wondering eyes.

“And you remember no more than that about him, Madaline?”

“No,” she replied.  “Then came a time,” she went on, “when it seemed to me that my mother spent all her days and nights in weeping.  There fell a terrible shadow over us, and we removed.  I have no recollection of the journey—­not the faintest; but I can remember my sorrow at leaving the bright green woods for a dull, gloomy city lodging.  My mother was still my hope and comfort.  After we came to London she insisted that, no matter what else went wrong I should have a good education; she toiled, saved, suffered for me.  ‘My darling must be a lady,’ she used to say.  She would not let me work, though I entreated her with tears in my eyes.  I used to try to deceive her even, but I never could succeed.  She loved me so, my poor mother.  She would take my hands in hers and kiss them.  ‘Such dainty hands, dear,’ she would say, ‘must not be spoiled.’  After a great deal of trouble and expense, she contrived to get me an engagement as governess-pupil in a lady’s school; there I did receive a good education.  One failing of my mother always filled me with wonder—­she used to fancy that people watched me.  ’Has any one spoken to you, darling?’ she would ask.  ‘Has any stranger seen you?’ I used to laugh, thinking it was parental anxiety; but it has struck me since as strange.  While I was at the ladies’ school my father committed the crime for which I—­alas!—­am suffering now.”

“Will you tell me what the crime was?” requested Lord Arleigh.

A dreary hopelessness, inexpressibly painful to see, came over her face, and a deep-drawn sigh broke from her lips.

“I will tell you all about it,” she said—­“would to Heaven that I had done so before!  My mother, many years ago, was in the service of Lady L’Estrange; she was her maid then.  Miss L’Estrange married the Duke of Hazlewood, and, when my mother was in great difficulties, she went to the duchess to ask for employment.  The duchess was always kind,” continued Madaline, “and she grew interested in my mother.  She came to see her, and I was at home.  She told me afterward that when she first saw me she conceived a liking for me.  I know now that I was but the victim of her plot.”