"If I were to find my father, and if he were prepared to own me, or were compelled to do so, I could repay Mrs. Douglas in full."
"Oh, why are you always thinking of that? You must not do so," she said. "You are stinting yourself and making your life miserable, just for us. And it isn't right. Oh, it isn't right!"
She was crying now; she could not help it. The thought of his constant self-denial, the remembrance of the hardships that he was bearing for their sakes, even though the debt had never been his; the recollection of all this touched her so deeply that she found it impossible to keep back her tears.
"This letter alters everything," she said; "do think of that. Even if you felt yourself bound to repay us when you thought you were Mr. Fortescue's son, you cannot feel so now. He was never your father except in name. Do remember that, and do give up, once for all, the idea of giving us that money back. The loss of it had nothing to do with you, nor with any one at all belonging to you."
"I cannot look at it in that light, Miss Douglas," he said. "If he was merely my father in name, still he was, at the same time, the only father I have ever known. God helping me, that debt shall be paid."
"Captain Fortescue."
"Yes, Miss Douglas."
"I'm afraid that letter is not of much use, after all."
"It may be," he said. "Who can tell?"
She sat looking into the fire for some minutes without speaking, and then she said—