“No, Mildred. I have no knowledge of your father’s friends. They are all dead and gone, perhaps. But what can it matter to you who this girl was? She is dead. Let the secret of her existence die with her. It is wisest, most charitable to do so.”
“Ah, you know she is dead!” cried Mildred quickly. “Where and when did she die? How did you hear of her?”
“From your father. She died abroad. I do not remember the year.”
“Was it before my marriage?”
“Yes, I believe so.”
“Long before?”
“Two or three years, perhaps. I cannot tell you anything precisely. The matter was of no moment to me.”
“O aunt, it is life and death to me. She was my husband’s first wife. She and I—daughters of one father—as I, alas! can but believe we were—married the same man.”
“I never heard your husband was a widower.”
“No, nor did I know it until a few weeks ago;” and then, as clearly as her distress of mind would allow, Mildred told how the discovery had been made.