Lenora made no further remark until after tea, when she announced her intention of going to the village.
"Come back early, for I don't feel like staying alone," said her mother.
The sun had set when Lenora left the village, and by the time she reached home it was wholly dark. As she entered the garden the outline of a figure; sitting on a bench at its further extremity, made her stop for a moment, but thinking to herself, "I expected it, and why should I be afraid?" she walked on fearlessly, until the person, roused by the sound of her footsteps, started up, and turning toward her, said half-aloud:
"Lenora, is it you?"
Quickly she sprang forward, and soon one hand of the beggar was clasped in hers, while the other rested upon her head, as he said, "Lenora, my child, my daughter, you do not hate me?"
"Hate you, father?" she answered, "never, never."
"But," he continued, "has not she—my—no, not my wife—thank Heaven not my wife now—but your mother, has not she taught you to despise and hate me?"
"No," answered Lenora bitterly. "She has taught me enough of evil, but my memories of you were too sweet, too pleasant, for me to despise you, though I do not think you always did right, more than mother."
The stranger groaned, and murmured: "It's true, all true;" while Lenora continued:
"But where have you been all these years, and how came we to hear of your death?"