very foundations of the man's nature, and no more to be overthrown. She read, and with a bitter, bitter moan she turned away, the thin hands clasping yet more fiercely the throbbing heart whose every bound seemed like to be its last. Could she have doubted his face, the first tones of his voice would have proved to her that she had not deceived herself.
"If the future looks cold and barren to you, Anita, remember that it is to be conquered by your own effort. So far as physical well-being is concerned, I can assure it to you—the rest you must do for yourself. We all have our own fight to make in one way or another."
He waited, but she would neither speak nor look, and he went on, resolutely,
"I may be gone a long time. You will hear from me through my business agent, and I shall wish you to write, through the same medium, of matters connected with the child or the house that you may wish to communicate."
He hesitated a moment, and approached a little nearer to where she stood with drooping head and downcast eyes, one hand resting lightly upon a chair, the other hanging nervelessly beside her.
"There is one thing that you must promise me, Anita. The child must never know, must never suspect even so remotely. Can you do it?"
"I promised the same thing two years ago, when you married Gabrielle," replied the housekeeper, half scornfully. "Have I ever broken that promise?"
"Never, as I firmly believe. But now you will be alone, and you will love this little child so much that it will be hard."
"Is it the only thing in my life that is hard?" asked she, sharply.
"No. I have told you that we have all our own fight to make. If yours is a hard one through act of mine, may God and you forgive me. Do not fear that I shall not suffer the full penalty of my own misdoings. Do not doubt that my own conscience has said and will say all and more than you, or Gabrielle, or even this new-born child has a right to say. If you suffer, Anita, you do not suffer alone. And now I will have no more of this. From this moment we speak together in only our obvious relations. You quite understand my wishes in regard to the child."
"Quite, sir. Am I to address her entirely as Miss Vaughn, or will you give her a Christian name?"
Putting aside the sarcasm without notice, Vaughn replied,
"Certainly she must be named, and she shall have a name expressing her birthright. Call her Franc; it means free."
"Not Gabrielle?" asked the housekeeper, impetuously.
"No; Franc, or perhaps Francia is better. Let her be called Francia."
"Yes, sir," said the housekeeper, her voice as coldly submissive as his was coldly determined.
"Chloe, of course, will be her nurse, and you will guarantee Chloe's silence, as heretofore, I presume."
"Yes, sir."
"I believe that is all, then. I shall see you again upon some household matters not yet decided."
"What is to be done with the other little girl, sir? The child of the woman found dead on the beach."
"Ah. I had forgotten. Is she an intelligent and well-formed child, healthy and bright?"
"Yes, sir, I should judge so.
