But he reiterated in tones of suppressed passion:
"I believe that she is my own child. I have loved her since the first hour I looked on her beautiful face, so like that of the fair, cold woman who broke my heart! I have yearned to hold her in my arms, to kiss her fair face, and claim her for my own daughter, the pledge of a love that for a little while was as pure, as true, as beautiful as Heaven! It was the voice of nature speaking in my heart, claiming its own in tones that would not be stilled. Oh, Elaine, Elaine, fairest, dearest, cruelest of women!"
He bowed his head on his hands, and his strong form shook with great, smothered sobs.
Mrs. Leslie gazed at him in wonder and sympathy. What hidden mystery, what aching sorrow had her chance words evoked from the buried past? It was terrible to witness the shuddering emotion of this brave, strong man.
Looking up suddenly, with dark, anguished eyes, he caught her wondering, troubled look.
"Mrs. Leslie, you think me mad," he said, mournfully.
"No, no," she answered, reassuringly. "I must beg your pardon for my ill-advised words," she continued, regretfully. "I fear that I have touched the spring of some secret sorrow."
"You have," he answered, sadly. "But do not reproach yourself. You could not have known. You probed an aching wound by chance."
"I am so sorry. I did not dream," she said, incoherently, full of sorrow for her unconscious fault.
"And she looks like me, you think?" he said, thoughtfully.