Constance knelt by her father's side when he dropped listlessly into the armchair placed in his accustomed corner.
"Now, dad," she said, bravely unemotional, "there will be no more tears. Tell me all that I ought to know."
Enid drew a hassock to his feet and seated herself there, clasping her hands about her knees.
"Whatever she did I am sorry for her," said the girl decisively. "And she cannot have been a really bad woman, dad, or you would not have loved her once."
Brand sighed deeply. His strong will had deserted him for a little while. He shrank from the ordeal before him. Why should he be called on to sully the mirror of his daughter's innocence by revealing to her the disgrace of her mother?
Constance caught something of the dread in his soul.
"Don't tell me if it hurts you, dad. I am content to bear more than I have borne tonight if it lessens your sufferings," she whispered.
He placed an arm around each of them.
"It is God's will," he said, "that I should have to face many trials at a period when I expected nothing but some few years of quiet happiness."
"Nothing in this world can part us from you," said Constance.