"I don't think they have a suspicion—not of the real truth," she said slowly.
"Has anyone?"
"Not a soul that I know of."
"The girl herself, is she also in ignorance?"
"She knows, I believe, that she is only the adopted child of my sister and her husband, but I don't think she has gone at all deeply into the matter."
"Tell me this"—the mere effort of speech seemed to cost him infinite pain—"do you think there is a means open to anyone of learning the truth at this time of day?"
"My brother-in-law knew from the first that the child was mine, but I feel sure the real truth can never come out now."
Impassive as he was, a shade of evident relief came into his face. But the look of strain in his eyes deepened to actual pain as he said, "No doubt we ought to be glad that it is so. At the same time, I think you'll agree, that we have a duty to face which may prove extraordinarily difficult."
Harriet did not speak, but suddenly she bent her head in a quivering assent.
"You see," he said slowly, "we can no longer burke the fact that something is due to the girl herself."
Harriet's eyes suddenly filled with an intensity of suffering he could not bear to look at.
"You know the position, of course?" he said gently, after a pause.
"I know she has promised to marry Mr. Dinneford."
"But only if I give my consent."
"I am sure that is right." A note of relief came into
