"It was I who brought you, a little child, to her house before you were confided to the care of the Quakeresses at Bristol."
"Is it possible!"
And, impetuously seizing Lebeau's hand, she added:—
"Then you knew my parents? O, I beseech you, sir, tell me something of my mother! Who was she? Do I resemble her? Where did she die, and how?"
The queries crowded to her lips in an imperative tumult.
Lebeau's features relaxed in a melancholy smile.
"Patience!" he replied. "Later I will tell you all. Only know that your mother was exceedingly beautiful, and that you are her living image. She too was carried away by excess of emotion and by the thirst of adventure. There was no one at hand to give her timely warning, and she paid dearly for her imprudence."
Esther bowed her head, while a tear glided slowly from her lashes to her cheek.
"It was then that your father met her and took pity upon her. She was in sore need of pity and protection. Her child was born. You are that child."
"Alas!" murmured Esther. "But my father—is he still living?"