As Margaret Dornham walked through the woods, she fell deeply into thought.  Almost for the first time a great doubt had seized her, a doubt that made her tremble and fear.  Through many long years she had clung to Madaline—­she had thought her love and tender care of more consequence to the child than anything else.  Knowing nothing of her father’s rank or position, she had flattered herself into believing that she had been Madaline’s best friend in childhood.  Now there came to her a terrible doubt.  What if she had stood in Madaline’s light, instead of being her friend?  She had not been informed of the arrangements between the doctor and his patron, but people had said to her, when the doctor died, that the child had better be sent to the work-house—­and that had frightened her.  Now she wondered whether she had done right or wrong.  What if she, who of all the world had been the one to love Madaline best, had been her greatest foe?

Thinking of this, she walked along the soft greensward.  She thought of the old life in the pretty cottage at Ashwood, where for so short a time she had been happy with her handsome, ne’er-do-well husband, whom at first she had loved so blindly; she thought of the lovely, golden-haired child which she had loved so wildly, and of the kind, clever doctor, who had been so suddenly called to his account; and then her thoughts wandered to the stranger who had intrusted his child to her care.  Had she done wrong in leaving him all these years in such utter ignorance of his child’s welfare?  Had she wronged him?  Ought she to have waited patiently until he had returned or sent?  If she were ever to meet him again, would he overwhelm her with reproaches?  She thought of his tall, erect figure, of his handsome face, so sorrowful and sad, of his mournful eyes, which always looked as though his heart lay buried with his dead wife.

Suddenly her face grew deathly pale, her lips flew apart with a terrified cry, her whole frame trembled.  She raised her hands as one who would fain ward off a blow, for, standing just before her, looking down on her with stern, indignant eyes, was the stranger who had intrusted his child to her.

For some minutes—­how many she never knew—­they stood looking at each other—­he stern, indignant, haughty, she trembling, frightened, cowed.

“I recognize you again,” he said, at length, in a harsh voice.

Cowed, subdued, she fell on her knees at his feet.

“Woman,” he cried, “where is my child?”

She made him no answer, but covered her face with her hands.

“Where is my child?” he repeated.  “I intrusted her to you—­where is she?”

The white lips opened, and some feeble answer came which he could not hear.

“Where is my child?” he demanded.  “What have you done with her?  For Heaven’s sake, answer me!” he implored.

Again she murmured something he could not catch, and he bent over her.  If ever in his life Lord Mountdean lost his temper, he lost it then.  He could almost, in his impatience, have forgotten that it was a woman who was kneeling at his feet, and could have shaken her until she spoke intelligibly.  His anger was so great he could have struck her.  But he controlled himself.