The little house in Pemborough Square had been vacant for many years.

No lights through the closed shutters—

No smoke from the chimneys—

Evening—

An old woman was sitting on the doorstep muttering to herself in some strange tongue—

Her vague eyes saw neither the square nor its straight rows of trees—

Only something far away—a memory perhaps

Some tragedy lay hidden in her heart.

Many years ago this small house had been occupied by a family with several children—children that played games in the great garden behind.

A young woman had been much with the little troop of children.

They had all loved her who played with them as if a child herself and in happy hours had sung French songs to them.

She had gone away, they had heard to the Island of Madeira.
—and the children soon forgot their sweet friend.

On the steps of this now abandoned house sat the muttering old woman.

The sound of quick steps aroused her—she peered through the gathering gloom—

A young man was coming nearer

The woman rose slowly to her feet and waited rigidly

It is you—you! she whispered hoarsely—

Her words went like shots at the slight figure, now perceptible

He stopped abruptly and shuddered like one accused of crime.

I do not know you, he managed to say. He had a flat thin voice.

You once lived in this house, the woman said menacingly.

He shuddered again and stepped back

The young man began to wonder. Could she be the sweet French woman that the village children had loved—
that he, the eldest of the little group had in his boyish awakening been romantic over—

The gypsy sensed his admission of her charge.

She went on—Do you know who you are?

Do you know where you got your black hair?

He lifted his hand unsteadily in the direction of his head.

The old creature nodded and fixed him with her fierce eyes.

I am not your mother

Neither was the woman you called by that name.

The young man gasped.

His body grew tense.

He remembered his adored mother whose grave he visited every Sunday morning.

He made an effort to think that this was only a gypsy—an impostor—

The woman was speaking—

Neither your father nor mother ever knew that you were not their child.

Their little boy is dead

You filled his place.

Her voice sank almost to a breath.

I placed you in his cradle.

An intolerable silence.

I loved your father

You never knew that he was a Portuguese nobleman.

Did you ever hear of Madeira, she asked sharply

It was there that one by one all the passions of love—hatred—revenge had torn my heart. He married and came to England—I followed—repulsed, ignored.

My only weapon against him—was to contrive—the death—of his little son.

But to kill a child—

She caught a shuddering breath.

I could not—

I hid it securely.

Once again I visited Madeira. On the steps of the Church I stabbed my enemy among the flowers in that land of beauty—a crime to darken its perfection.

So you belong to me—

You owe me much—

All that you can pay.

The little sum of money he had in the Postal Savings rose into his mind—and gave him amazing steadiness

His voice sounded loud and full in his own ears

You lie! he shouted suddenly.

You lie! you fiend! Come into the daylight.

He was tearing his mind free from the influence of the place, the shadows—the possessing voice of the woman.

She crouched back toward the door.

It is you—you! she muttered accusingly.

No, by Heaven, it's you! he cried. I see through you now

Two men came running attracted by his loud voice

They lead the gypsy to a place of security

It is you, she kept muttering to each in turn.

The young man walked behind with straightened back and shining eyes.