“Not altogether your own, Mrs. Porter. The sorrow of which I am thinking involves another life—the life of one who has been dear to you.”
“I have nothing to do with any other life.”
“Not even with the life of your only child?”
“Not even with the life of my only child,” she answered doggedly. “She left me of her own accord, and I have done with her for ever. I stand utterly alone in this world—utterly alone,” she repeated.
“And if I tell you that I think and believe I have found your daughter in London—very poor—working for her living, very sad and lonely, her beauty faded, her life joyless—would you not wish to know more—would not your heart yearn towards her?”
“No! I tell you I have done with her. She has passed out of my life. I stand alone.”
There was a tone of finality in these words which left no room for argument.
Theodore lifted his hat, and walked on.
CHAPTER XVIII.
“O sovereign power of love! O grief! O balm!