“‘You do understand me, Mr. Dalton,’ I said, sternly, ‘and you know that I speak the truth when I claim this dear girl as my child and Richard Forrester’s.’
“I turned to clasp her in my arms, but she had sunk, white and trembling, into a chair.
“‘I should like to see your proofs of that statement,’ Mr. Dalton sneered.
“I did not reply, but bending down, I took both of Editha’s hands in mine, and said:
“‘My dear child, tell me the date of your birth.’
“‘Editha, I command you to hold no communication with that woman,’ Mr. Dalton cried, shaking from head to foot with passion.
“Editha looked from one to the other in helpless amazement for a moment; then she said:
“‘Surely, papa, it can do no harm for me to give the date of my birth,’ then fixing her eyes wistfully on my face, and with lips that quivered painfully, she added, ‘I was born October 24th, 1843.’
“My child and Richard Forrester’s—my little blue-eyed, fair-haired girl, that her father named Editha for the happiness she brought him—was born October 24th, 1843.
“‘My love, did no one ever tell you that you resembled Richard Forrester?’ I asked, gathering her close in my arms, for I knew she was mine, and I would never relinquish her again, unless, after hearing my story, she should refuse to acknowledge me as her mother.