“How does Erminie bear the news of her new-found parents?”
“Very quietly—with a sort of still, deep joy not to be expressed in words. She says she always knew that sweet, lovely lady with the soft, beautiful eyes was something to her, used to come to her in dreams, or something—odd, ain’t it? And she’s your mother, too, Ray! I declare, it’s all the strangest and most romantic thing I ever heard of!”
“We, too, have had our troubles,” said the dying man, making a faint motion toward Marguerite. “Perhaps it was a just retribution of heaven for what you were made to suffer. We, too lost a child; had she lived, even I might have been a different man to-day. She was lost, and all that was originally good in my nature went with her. My poor little Rita!”
“What did you say? Rita!” exclaimed Maude, as she and her husband gave a simultaneous start.
“Yes. Marguerite was her name; Rita we always called her—why?” he asked, in surprise.
“She was lost, did you say? How? did she die?” breathlessly demanded Lady Maude.
“No; she was carried off, perhaps by gipsies—she was kidnapped.”
“How old was she at the time?”
“About two years old—why?” for the first time spoke the woman Marguerite, starting up.
“Was she dark, with black hair and eyes.”