"Yes—no—I don't remember. How do you know that she is dead?"
"I saw her grave. Why, how white you are, and how excited you seem! Why do you take such a strange interest in the girl?"
"I—I am sorry for her," faltered Laline.
She could not understand it. Was it some trick of her father's, she wondered—and did Wallace really believe her to be dead?
"What became of that Captain Garth who wrote the letter to your uncle?" she inquired, suddenly.
"Oh, that old sinner? He died of apoplexy two years ago, having enjoyed a handsome annuity from my soft-hearted uncle on the strength of the poor girl Laline having been his niece. But, dearest, if you knew how much I hate the subject, you would not, I am sure, compel me to discuss it."
"I will say no more about it now," she observed, quietly.
In spite of the quick drive through the keen air she was very pale. His news had strangely affected her, and the certainty that her father was dead moved her deeply. She tried to remember all that was good about him, and recalled on the instant many little acts of careless kindness which until then she had forgotten. All the Boulogne life came before her again in its sordid daily details, and she saw herself as Wallace had first seen her—an over-grown child in a short blue-cotton gown, with her long hair floating over her shoulders under her "Zulu" hat.
A barrier seemed suddenly to have arisen between her and Wallace. His belief that she was dead complicated things; and the fact that he clearly disliked all allusion to the events which occurred at Boulogne distressed Laline. Sooner or later she would have to enlighten him as to her identity; and might not this news go far to weaken his passion for her? Troubled with these thoughts, she sat still and silent, with big tears gathering in her eyes, hearing without listening to Wallace's light-hearted talk about indifferent subjects.