The heavy veil drooped over the little one, and the father knew that she had found a home.
“God bless you, and all the saints too, madam, if it comes to that!” he said with a tremor in his voice. And he cleared his throat two or three times as, with uncertain, fumbling fingers, he searched for something in his pockets.
At last he drew out a soiled envelope, which he placed upon the table. It was directed simply “To the Mother-Superior, Convent of the Sacred Heart.” The lady read the direction with surprise.
“You were pretty sure of success in your mission, then, when you came up here?”
“Yes, madam, I have always believed I could succeed in everything—until—this morning.”
His harsh voice broke again.
“You will find in that envelope an address from which any communication will be forwarded to me. It is an old house on the Yorkshire coast, which has been shut up now for many years. But there is a caretaker who will send on letters.”
“And some day you will open the place again, and want your daughter to keep house for you?”
He shook his head.
“It’s a lonely place, and would frighten a girl. The birds build their nests about it. I believe the towns-folk have named it Sea-Mew Abbey. Good-bye, madam, and thank you for your goodness. Good-bye, Freda.”