"You know that I was going to her, that I should have reached her in time"--the words seemed wrung from him--"but that I was myself dangerously ill?"
"I know. I remember it all."
"Did she speak of me?"
"Not often. She was very reserved, you remember. But not long before she died--she seemed half asleep--I heard her say, 'Papa!--Blanche!' and she smiled."
Lord Lackington's face contracted, and the slow tears of old age stood in his eyes.
"You are like her in some ways," he said, brusquely, as though to cover his emotion; "but not very like her."
"She always thought I was like you."
A cloud came over Lord Lackington's face. Julie rose from her knees and sat beside him. He lost himself a few moments amid the painful ghosts of memory. Then, turning to her abruptly, he said:
"You have wondered, I dare say, why I was so hard--why, for seventeen years, I cast her off?"
"Yes, often. You could have come to see us without anybody knowing. Mother loved you very much."