Laurel rose with an encouraging smile and drew her friend forward.
"Mr. Gordon," she said, "this is my friend, Mrs. Wentworth. She is little Trixy's mother."
Beatrix looked upon into the face of her father through blinding tears and put out her hand.
"Papa, forgive me," she murmured, sadly.
There was a moment's dead silence. Mr. Gordon had put the child from his knee and risen, but he did not answer his daughter. She went on, in gentle, pleading tones.
"Papa, I have written to you so often and begged you to forgive me, and every time my letters came back to me unopened. Papa, I cannot say I am sorry for my fault, because Cyril is good and kind, and he makes me very happy. But I have grieved sorely for you and mamma, I have longed to be reconciled to you. Oh, surely you will not refuse to forgive me now that we are face to face!"
"Forgive her, Mr. Gordon," cried Laurel, impulsively.
The two fair faces, the pleading voices, the wondering eyes of the little children, were too much for Mr. Gordon's calmness. His pride and sternness melted into love and remorse. Laurel gave one glance at his quivering face and turned gently away. She knew that the end was won—that love had conquered pride. He would forgive Beatrix.
But she did not know that in this moment when the ice melted around his hard, cold heart and he forgave his disobedient daughter, new light had broken upon his mind. The sight of Beatrix had supplied the missing link that connected Mrs. Lynn so subtly with his past. Like a flash of lightning it dawned upon him that this was Laurel Vane.