"Distress me!" cried Hope. "These tears you have drawn from me are pearls of memory and drops of balm to my sore, tried heart. I, too, have lived and struggled in a by-gone world. I had a lovely child; she made me rich in my poverty, and happy in my homelessness. She left me—"
"Poor Mr. Hope!"
"Then I went abroad, drudged in foreign mines, came home and saw my child again in you. I need no fairy's wand to revive the past; you are my fairy—your sweet words recall those by-gone scenes; and wealth, ambition, all I live for now, vanish into smoke. The years themselves roll back, and all is once more peace—and poverty—and love."
"Dear Mr. Hope!" said Mary, and put her forehead upon his shoulder.
After a while she said, timidly, "Dear Mr. Hope, now I feel I can trust you with anything." Then she looked down in charming confusion. "My reminiscences—they are certainly a great mystery. But I have another secret to confide to you, if I am permitted."
"Is the consent of some other person necessary?"
"Not exactly necessary, Mr. Hope."
"But advisable."
Mary nodded her head.
"Then take your time," said Hope. He took out his watch, and said: "I want to go to the mine. My right-hand man reports that a ruffian has been caught lighting his pipe in the most dangerous part after due warning. I must stop that game at once, or we shall have a fatal accident. But I will be back in half an hour. You can rest in my office if you are here first. It is nice and cool."