"I cannot describe the effect this had upon me. I did not love Genevra then. I had outlived that affection, but I felt remorse and pity for having wronged her so, and asked how I could make amends.
"'You cannot,' the old man said, 'except in one way, and that she does not desire. I did not come here with any wish for you to take her for your wife again. It was an unequal match which never should have been; but if you believe her innocent, she will be satisfied. She wanted you to know it, I wanted you to know it, and so I crossed the sea to find you.'
"I sent a letter by him assuring her she stood acquitted in my mind of all I had suspected her, and asked her pardon for the great wrong I had done her. The next I heard of her was in the columns of an English newspaper, which told me she was dead, while in another place a pencil mark was lightly turned around a paragraph, which said that 'a forger, Thomas Lambert, who escaped years ago and was supposed to be dead, had recently reappeared in England, where he was recognized, but not arrested, for the illness proved fatal.' He was attended, the paper said, by his daughter, 'a beautiful young girl whose modest mien and gentle manner had done much toward keeping the officers of justice from her dying father, no one being able to withstand her pleadings that her father might die in peace.'
"I was grateful for this tribute, to Genevra, and I felt that it was deserved; turning again to the notice of her death, which must have occurred within a short time of her father's, and was probably induced by past troubles and recent anxiety for him.
"'Genevra Lambert died at Alnwick, aged twenty-two.' There could be no mistake, and with a tear to the memory of the dead whom I had loved and injured, I burned the paper, feeling that now there was no clew to the secret I was as anxious to preserve as was my mother.
"And so the years wore on till I met and married you, withholding from you that yours was not the first love which had stirred my heart, nor yours the first head which had slept upon my arm. I meant to tell you, Katy, but I could not for the great fear of losing you if you knew all. And then an error concealed so long is hard to be confessed. I took you across the sea to Brighton, where I first met Genevra, and then to Alnwick, seeking out the grave which made assurance doubly sure. It was that one in the far corner of St. Mary's where I went so often and where once you came, sitting upon the very mound whose headstone bore Genevra's name. I drew my breath quickly as if the dead were thus dishonored, but I knew you meant no harm, and as soon as possible I hurried you away. It was natural that I should make some inquiries concerning her last days, but lest it should all come out kept me back, so that I only questioned the old sexton who once was at work nearby. Calling his attention to the name, I said it was an uncommon one and asked if he knew the girl.