"It is always unpleasant to go into family affairs, but my relations with my wife's family were such that I removed the child from their influence and took her back to the old dwelling. There I placed her in charge of an old woman who had been my nurse. I refused to accept any of my wife's money, even for the maintenance of the child; and, my own circumstances being not of the best, I came to America. I had but one object in view—to make money, that I might return, claim my child and restore the old dwelling of my fathers to something of its former state."
Again there was a long, troubled pause; and I did not interrupt him by so much as a word, nor did I give any sign that some of his story was already familiar to me. When he resumed it was in a different tone. His face was drawn and haggard, his voice tremulous:
"For some time I sent the half-yearly remittance faithfully to my little Winifred, and I was happy in so doing. Then I received a letter—from whom precisely I know not, though I believe it purported to be from a priest. It was written in the third person and it simply informed me that my child was dead."
"Dead!" I exclaimed—"dead! How cruel!—how—"
I was about to say untrue, but I checked myself in time. Roderick glanced quickly toward me but said nothing.
"It was indeed a cruel blow," he resumed at last; "and after that I gave up all desire to see Ireland again. I drifted on here, doing whatever good I could and working still, but with little personal hope or interest to cheer me in my labors."
His weary, despondent tone went to my heart, which was beating just then with exultation; for I was truly rejoiced to know that Winifred's father was worthy of her, that poor Niall's dreams might one day come true—at least in so far as seeing the reunion of father and child, with Roderick's return to the home of his youth. I resolved to write to Niall without delay, tell him of what I had discovered and obtain his permission to reveal all to Roderick. In the meantime, however, I must, of course, be true to my promise and give Roderick no hint of the knowledge I possessed.
"And you never found out from whom that letter came?" I inquired.
"Never: there was no means of finding out. Father Owen was at that time absent in Rome. I presumed it was from the priest who had replaced him. I wrote to him; the letter followed him to a distant parish in a remote part of Ireland, whither he had already returned. He had never written to me, he replied, and had no knowledge of the matter at all. I wrote to Granny Meehan, the woman who had charge of Winifred. She never answered. I suppose on the death of the child she had wandered away. I then sent a letter to Niall, the eccentric kinsman to whom I before referred. He, I suppose, was either dead or away on some of his wanderings."
"Your story is indeed a sad one," I put in, grieved that I could do nothing to dispel his sorrow. I could not let him know that Granny Meehan was still faithful to her post, that Niall was still dreaming and planning for his welfare and for the restoration of the old place; and that, best of all, Winifred was still living and such a child as might delight a father's heart—in fact, that she was the child who had so deeply interested him already. Whether he suspected that such was the case or merely saw in her some chance resemblance I could not yet tell.