Lower and lower drooped the golden bowed head, and a voice like no other voice, like nothing human, said:
“I am Rex Lyon’s wife, his wretched, unhappy, abandoned wife.”
Mrs. Tudor dropped her hands with a low cry of dismay.
“You will keep my secret,” sobbed Daisy; and in her great sorrow she did not notice the lady did not promise.
In vain Mrs. Tudor pleaded with her to go back to her husband and beg him to hear her.
“No,” said Daisy, brokenly. “He said I had spoiled his life, and he would never forgive me. I have never taken his name, and I never shall. I will be Daisy Brooks until I die.”
“Daisy Brooks!” The name seemed familiar to Mrs. Tudor, yet she could not tell where she had heard it before.
Persuasion was useless. “Perhaps Heaven knows best,” sighed Mrs. Tudor, and with tears in her eyes (for she had really loved the beautiful young stranger, thrown for so many long weeks upon her mercy and kindness) she saw Daisy depart.
“May God grant you may not be too late!” she cried, fervently, clasping the young girl, for the last time, in her arms.
Too late! The words sounded like a fatal warning to her. No, no; she could not, she must not, be too late!