“Hush, father!” said Lord Charlewood, gently.  “We will not speak of this again.”

“Does it still pain you? tell me, my son,” cried the earl.

“Not in the way you think,” he replied.

“I would not pain you for the world—­you know that, Hubert.  But you must not let that one unfortunate love affair prejudice you against marriage.  I should like to see you married, my son.  I should like you to love some noble, gentle lady whom I could call daughter; I should like to hold your children in my arms, to hear the music of children’s voices before I go.”

“Should you love my children so much, father?” he asked.

“Yes, more than I can tell you.  You must marry, Hubert, and then, as far as you are concerned, I shall not have a wish left unfulfilled.”

There was hope then for his little Madaline—­hope that in time she would win the old earl’s heart, and prevent his grieving over the unfortunate marriage.  For two years and a half the Earl of Mountdean lingered; the fair Italian clime, the warmth, the sunshine, the flowers, all seemed to join in giving him new life.  For two years and a half he improved, so that his son had begun to hope that he might return to England, and once more see the home he loved so dearly—­Wood Lynton; and, though during this time his secret preyed upon him through every hour of every day, causing him to long to tell his father, yet he controlled the longing, because he would do nothing that might in the least degree retard his recovery.  Then, when the two years and a half had passed, and he began to take counsel with himself how he could best break the intelligence, the earl’s health suddenly failed him, and he could not accomplish his purpose.

During this time he had every six months sent regular remittances to England, and had received in return most encouraging letters about little Madaline.  She was growing strong and beautiful; she was healthy, fair, and happy.  She could say his name; she could sing little baby-songs.  Once, the doctor cut a long golden-brown curl from her little head and sent it to him; but when he received it the earl lay dying, and the son could not show his father his little child’s hair.  He died as he had lived, loving and trusting his son, clasping his hand to the last, and murmuring sweet and tender words to him.  Lord Charlewood’s heart smote him as he listened, he had not merited such implicit faith and trust.

“Father,” he said, “listen for one moment!  Can you hear me?  I did marry Madaline—­I loved her so dearly, I could not help it—­I married her; and she died one year afterward.  But she left me a little daughter.  Can you hear me, father?”