The sunny summer days came and went, lengthening themselves into long weeks before Daisy Brooks opened her eyes to consciousness. No clew could be found as to who the beautiful young stranger was.

Mr. Tudor had proposed sending her to the hospital––but to this proposition his wife would not listen.

“No, indeed, Harvey,” she exclaimed, twisting the soft, golden curls over her white fingers, “she shall stay here where I can watch over her myself, poor little dear.”

“You amaze me, my dear,” expostulated her husband, mildly. “You can not tell who you may be harboring.”

“Now, Harvey,” exclaimed the little woman, bending over the beautiful, still, white face resting against the crimson satin pillow, “don’t insinuate there could be anything wrong with this poor child. My woman’s judgment tells me she is as pure as those lilies in yonder fountain’s bed.”

“If you had seen as much of the world as I have, my dear, you would take little stock in the innocence of beautiful women; very homely women are rarely dangerous.”

“There is no use in arguing the point, Harvey. I have determined she shall not be sent to the hospital, and she shall stay here.”

Mrs. Tudor carried the point, as she always did in every argument.

“Well, my dear, if any ill consequences arise from this piece of folly of yours, remember, I shirk all responsibility.” 168

he quoted, dryly. “I sincerely hope you will not rue it.”

“Now, you would be surprised, my dear, to find out at some future time you had been entertaining an angel unawares.”

“I should be extremely surprised; you have put it mildly, my dear––nay, I may say dumbfounded––to find an angel dwelling down here below among us sinners. My experience has led me to believe the best place for angels is up above where they belong. I am glad that you have such pretty little notions, though, my dear. It is not best for women to know too much of the ways of the world.”

“Harvey, you shock me!” cried the little lady, holding up her hands in horror at her liege lord’s remarks.

Still she had her own way in the matter, and Daisy stayed.

Every day the detective grew more mystified as to who in the world she could be. One thing was certain, she had seen some great trouble which bid fair to dethrone her reason.

At times she would clasp his hands, calling him Uncle John, begging him piteously to tell her how she could die. And she talked incoherently, too, of a dark, handsome woman’s face, that had come between her and some lost treasure.

Then a grave look would come into the detective’s face. He had seen many such cases, and they always ended badly, he said to himself. She had such an innocent face, so fair, so childish, he could not make up his mind whether she was sinned against or had been guilty of a hidden sin herself.

Love must have something to do with it, he thought, grimly. Whenever he saw such a hopeless, despairing look on a young and beautiful face he always set it down as a love case in his own mind, and in nine cases out of ten he was right.

“Ah! it is the old, old story,” he muttered. “A pretty, romantic school-girl, and some handsome, reckless lover,” and something very much like an imprecation broke from his lips, thorough man of the world though he was, as he ruminated on the wickedness of men.

Two days before the marriage of Rex and Pluma was to be solemnized, poor little Daisy awoke to consciousness, her blue eyes resting on the joyous face of Mrs. Tudor, who bent over her with bated breath, gazing into the upraised eyes, turned so wonderingly upon her.

“You are to keep perfectly quiet, my dear,” said Mrs. Tudor, pleasantly, laying her hands on Daisy’s lips as she attempted to speak. “You must not try to talk or to think; 169 turn your face from the light, and go quietly to sleep for a bit, then you shall say what you please.”

Daisy wondered who the lady was, as she obeyed her like an obedient, tired child––the voice seemed so motherly, so kind, and so soothing, as she lay there, trying to realize how she came there. Slowly all her senses struggled into life, her memory came back, her mind and brain grew clear. Then she remembered walking into the cool, shady garden, and the dizziness which seemed to fall over her so suddenly. “I must have fainted last night,” she thought. She also remembered Pluma bending so caressingly over her young husband in the moonlight, and that the sight had almost driven her mad, and, despite her efforts to suppress her emotion, she began to sob aloud.

Mrs. Tudor hurried quickly to the bedside. She saw at once the ice from the frozen fountain of memory had melted.

“If you have any great sorrow on your mind, my dear, and wish to see Mr. Tudor, I will call him at once. He is in the parlor.”

“Please don’t,” sobbed Daisy. “I don’t want to see anybody. I must go home to Uncle John at once. Have I been here all night?”

“Why, bless your dear little heart, you have been here many a night and many a week. We thought at one time you would surely die.”

“I wish I had,” moaned Daisy. In the bitterness of her sorely wounded heart she said to herself that Providence had done everything for her without taking her life.

“We thought,” pursued Mrs. Tudor, gently, “that perhaps you desired to see my husband––he is a detective––upon some matter. You fainted when you were just within the gate.”

“Was it your garden?” asked Daisy, surprisedly. “I thought it was a park!”

“Then you were not in search of Mr. Tudor, my dear?” asked his wife, quite mystified.

“No,” replied Daisy. “I wanted to get away from every one who knew me, or every one I knew, except Uncle John.”

“I shall not question her concerning herself to-day,” Mrs. Tudor thought. “I will wait a bit until she is stronger.” She felt delicate about even asking her name. “She will seek my confidence soon,” she thought. “I must wait.”

Mrs. Tudor was a kind-hearted little soul. She tried every possible means of diverting Daisy’s attention from the absorbing sorrow which seemed consuming her.

She read her choice, sparkling paragraphs from the papers, commenting upon them, in a pretty, gossiping way.

Nothing seemed to interest the pretty little creature, or bring a smile to the quivering, childish lips.

“Ah! here is something quite racy!” she cried, drawing her chair up closer to the bedside. “A scandal in high life. This is sure to be entertaining.”

Mrs. Tudor was a good little woman, but, like all women in general, she delighted in a spicy scandal.

A handsome stranger had married a beautiful heiress. For a time all went merry as a marriage-bell. Suddenly a second wife appeared on the scene, of which no one previously knew the existence. The husband had sincerely believed himself separated by law from wife number one, but through some technicality of the law, the separation was pronounced illegal, and the beautiful heiress bitterly realized to her cost that she was no wife.

“It must be a terrible calamity to be placed in such a predicament,” cried Mrs. Tudor, energetically. “I blame the husband for not finding out beyond a doubt that he was free from his first wife.”

A sudden thought seemed to come to Daisy, so startling it almost took her breath away.

“Supposing a husband left his wife, and afterward thought her dead, even though she were not, and he should marry again, would it not be legal? Supposing the poor, deserted wife knew of it, but allowed him to marry that some one else, because she believed he was unhappy with herself, would it not be legal?” she repeated in an intense voice, striving to appear calm.

“I can scarcely understand the question, my dear. I should certainly say, if the first wife knew her husband was about to remarry, and she knew she was not separated from him by law or death, she was certainly a criminal in allowing the ceremony to proceed. Why, did you ever hear of such a peculiar case, my dear?”

“No,” replied Daisy, flushing crimson. “I was thinking of Enoch Arden.”

“Why, there is scarcely a feature in Enoch Arden’s case resembling the one you have just cited. You must have made a mistake?”

“Yes; you are right. I have made a mistake,” muttered Daisy, growing deadly pale. “I did not know. I believed it was right.”

“You believed what was right?” asked Mrs. Tudor, in amazement.

“I believed it was right for the first wife to go out of her husband’s life if she had spoiled it, and leave him free to woo and win the bride he loved,” replied Daisy, pitifully embarrassed.

“Why, you innocent child,” laughed Mrs. Tudor, “I have said he would not be free as long as the law did not separate him from his first wife, and she was alive. It is against the law of Heaven for any man to have two wives; and if the first wife remained silent and saw the sacred ceremony profaned by that silence, she broke the law of Heaven––a sin against God beyond pardon. Did you speak?” she asked, seeing Daisy’s white lips move.

She did not know a prayer had gone up to God from that young tortured heart for guidance.

Had she done wrong in letting Rex and the whole world believe her dead? Was it ever well to do a wrong that good should come from it?

And the clear, innocent, simple conscience was quick to answer, “No!”

Poor Daisy looked at the position in every possible way, and the more she reflected the more frightened she became.

Poor, little, artless child-bride, she was completely bewildered. She could find no way out of her difficulty until the idea occurred to her that the best person to help her would be John Brooks; and her whole heart and soul fastened eagerly on this.

She could not realize she had lain ill so long. Oh, Heaven, what might have happened in the meantime, if Rex should marry Pluma? She would not be his wife because she––who was a barrier between them––lived.