When Winifred had returned to the convent, I waited patiently for Roderick's coming, which I knew could not be long delayed. Indeed, before the week was out his card was brought to me where I sat at my sitting-room fire. I glanced up at him as he entered the room. His face was grave, even stern in its expression, reminding me forcibly of Niall. After the ordinary salutations had been exchanged, he stood before me silent a moment; then he said, with an abruptness quite foreign to his manner:

"I think you will agree with me that this is no time for commonplaces. I have come to know the meaning of this mystery."

"Mystery!" I repeated vaguely; for, with all my planning and thinking what I should say when he came, I was still hopelessly at a loss, and resolved to be guided by the event.

"Yes, mystery," he declared emphatically. "I saw in your company the very child of whom I told you I had had a glimpse and whom I was so eager to see again."

"But how could I know that the child with me was the one who had attracted your attention?"

"Well, in the first place," he answered, looking at me keenly, "I gave you a tolerably accurate description of the girl in question. The type is not a very common one, and might, I think be easily recognized."

He paused; and I remaining silent, he went on again:

"I hope you will not consider it rude if I say that I think you did know it was the child I was in search of."

"And why?" I asked, still with a mere helpless idea of gaining time.

"Because of your manner and your course of action the other day in the parlor of the Waldorf. I saw at once that, for some reason or another, you were disturbed at my presence there. When the girl spoke and thus attracted my attention, you were distressed; and while I was in the act of addressing her you seized her by the hand and fled from the hotel." (An irrepressible smile came over his face at the recollection.) "You left in such haste that you forgot the letter you had been writing. However, I posted that for you. And you went along Thirty-third Street, I should be afraid to say at what rate of speed. Did you suppose I was going to pursue you and forcibly wrest away the child?"

I could not help laughing in sympathy at the drollery which shone out through the anxiety of his face, like sunshine from a cloud.

"Well, not exactly," I observed; "but, truth to tell, I had no desire to hold any conversation with you just then. And, besides, I was in a hurry."

"Oh, you were in a hurry—there was no possible doubt about that!" he assented, still laughing.

"Will you not sit down?" I inquired. "You look so very unsociable standing, and the night is cold enough to make this fire agreeable."

He took the chair I indicated, but he did not turn from the subject.

"May I ask," he resumed, "if the child whom I saw on that occasion is here with you?"

"She is not," I responded briefly, elated that I could do so truthfully.

"Where is she?"

"That I can not tell."

"Can not tell!" he repeated musingly. "Surely that is a very strange answer. Perhaps, at least, you will tell me who she is?"

"I am not at liberty to tell that either," I replied firmly.

"Mystery on mystery!" he cried, with an impatient gesture. "What in the name of common-sense—if you will forgive my bluntness—is the purpose of this mystification?"

"The mystification arises," I declared, "from the fact that I am solemnly pledged to keep both her identity and her whereabouts a secret."

"From whom?"

The question was a shrewd one. I hesitated how to answer it; but at last I said:

"From all inquirers."

"Are there likely to be many?" he asked, quizzically.

"That I can not say."

Roderick lay back in his chair and pondered, keeping his eyes fixed upon my face.

"Under ordinary circumstances," he said, after a pause, "I should, of course, respect your desire for secrecy and say no more about the matter. But there are reasons which make the identity of this child of vital interest to me."

I could not answer: there was now nothing I could say without revealing the secret I was pledged to keep.

"You will pardon me for saying further that I strongly suspect I am the person toward whom you are pledged to maintain this secrecy."

"You!" I repeated. "Why, surely you are in a singular mood to-night, full of fancies and suspicions!"

"For which I have good and sufficient reasons. Are yours equally so for maintaining this secrecy?"

"I believe that they are," I replied gravely.

He rose and paced the floor a while. Then he sat down again, and drew his chair nearer mine, as if impelled by some sudden resolve.

"Since you will not give me your confidence—" he began.

"Since I can not," I corrected quietly.

"Well, since you can not or will not, I shall give you mine instead, and open for your inspection a page of my life which I fancied was closed forever."

He paused, and an expression so sad and troubled crossed his face that, in my deep pity, I almost regretted my promise to Niall.

"I was brought up," he went on, "in the neighborhood of the Dargle. That beautiful glen and stream were alike familiar to me. I inhabited an old family mansion, which, to say the least, stood sadly in need of repair. I was under the guardianship of a kinsman who, though eccentric, was of sterling worth."

There was a touch of emotion in his voice, as he thus referred to Niall, which pleased me.

"When I was about twenty-three we had a serious difference of opinion, which arose in part from my marriage. For at that time I married a very beautiful girl, who lived only a few years, and left one child—a girl."

He hurried over this part of the story, which seemed deeply painful to him.

"It is always unpleasant to go into family affairs, but my relations with my wife's family were such that I removed the child from their influence and took her back to the old dwelling. There I placed her in charge of an old woman who had been my nurse. I refused to accept any of my wife's money, even for the maintenance of the child; and, my own circumstances being not of the best, I came to America. I had but one object in view—to make money, that I might return, claim my child and restore the old dwelling of my fathers to something of its former state."

Again there was a long, troubled pause; and I did not interrupt him by so much as a word, nor did I give any sign that some of his story was already familiar to me. When he resumed it was in a different tone. His face was drawn and haggard, his voice tremulous:

"For some time I sent the half-yearly remittance faithfully to my little Winifred, and I was happy in so doing. Then I received a letter—from whom precisely I know not, though I believe it purported to be from a priest. It was written in the third person and it simply informed me that my child was dead."

"Dead!" I exclaimed—"dead! How cruel!—how—"

I was about to say untrue, but I checked myself in time. Roderick glanced quickly toward me but said nothing.

"It was indeed a cruel blow," he resumed at last; "and after that I gave up all desire to see Ireland again. I drifted on here, doing whatever good I could and working still, but with little personal hope or interest to cheer me in my labors."

His weary, despondent tone went to my heart, which was beating just then with exultation; for I was truly rejoiced to know that Winifred's father was worthy of her, that poor Niall's dreams might one day come true—at least in so far as seeing the reunion of father and child, with Roderick's return to the home of his youth. I resolved to write to Niall without delay, tell him of what I had discovered and obtain his permission to reveal all to Roderick. In the meantime, however, I must, of course, be true to my promise and give Roderick no hint of the knowledge I possessed.

"And you never found out from whom that letter came?" I inquired.

"Never: there was no means of finding out. Father Owen was at that time absent in Rome. I presumed it was from the priest who had replaced him. I wrote to him; the letter followed him to a distant parish in a remote part of Ireland, whither he had already returned. He had never written to me, he replied, and had no knowledge of the matter at all. I wrote to Granny Meehan, the woman who had charge of Winifred. She never answered. I suppose on the death of the child she had wandered away. I then sent a letter to Niall, the eccentric kinsman to whom I before referred. He, I suppose, was either dead or away on some of his wanderings."

"Your story is indeed a sad one," I put in, grieved that I could do nothing to dispel his sorrow. I could not let him know that Granny Meehan was still faithful to her post, that Niall was still dreaming and planning for his welfare and for the restoration of the old place; and that, best of all, Winifred was still living and such a child as might delight a father's heart—in fact, that she was the child who had so deeply interested him already. Whether he suspected that such was the case or merely saw in her some chance resemblance I could not yet tell.

"You may well say it is a sad story," Roderick answered. "To me it seems all the more so that since the receipt of that letter which dashed all my hopes Fortune has smiled upon me. Everything I touch seems to turn to money. The novel, rejected before, has since been accepted, and has run through several editions; articles from my pen are in demand by leading magazines; all my speculations have turned out well, and my insurance business has prospered. It is the old, old story of Fortune coming too late."

I sat still, joyful, yet amazed; thinking within myself:

"How wonderful are the ways of Providence! Niall's dream of restoring the old place shall certainly be realized now. Father and child, reunited, shall dwell amongst those lovely scenes; while the faithful hearts of Niall and Granny Meehan shall be filled with joy. How seldom does life work out events so happily!"

"Would you like to see the old place again?" I asked.

"What use now?" he cried. "Some day I may take the journey to see if Niall be still amongst the living; but I shrink from that as yet."

We sat silent after that for some moments, I afraid to break the spell lest I should in any way betray the knowledge which so filled my heart. But presently Roderick roused himself with the remark:

"That child whom I first saw in the carriage on Broadway, and whom I next saw in your company, has awakened a strange train of thought in my mind. I have even dared to hope that I have been the victim of a trick and that my child still lives. Her voice, when she spoke in the Waldorf parlor the other day, seemed as an echo of my vanished youth. It was the voice of my wife; and when the child rose from the chair and confronted me, for an instant I believed that the grave had given up its dead. It was my wife herself as I saw her first, many years before our marriage."

"Resemblances are very delusive," I said lamely.

"But was this resemblance delusive?" he asked, leaning forward and looking me in the face.

"How can I answer? I never saw your wife," I replied.

It was an evasion, and perhaps he saw it; but he only sighed deeply.

"I had expected better things of you," he went on; "for we are old enough friends that I might have looked to you for help in clearing up a mystery. As it is, you will not or can not; and I must drag on in the same weary, hapless fashion or follow out the clue for myself. Indeed, I trust you will think it no discourtesy when I tell you that I must and will find out who this child is."

His resemblance to Niall was once more almost startling; though, needless to observe, there was no wildness nor violence of any sort in his manner.

"I wish I were able to give you the information you desire," I said formally. "But at present it is impossible."

He rose to take his leave.

"In that case I must not intrude upon you any longer," he answered coldly. "I am afraid I have been thoughtless in occupying so much of your time with my personal affairs."

I felt at that moment that a valued friendship of many years was endangered, but I could not be false to my trust. Niall must hear all, and then it would be for him to act. I held out my hand. Roderick took it but there was no warmth in the handshake; and as he disappeared down the corridor, I stood looking after him sadly, fully realizing that for the time being I had lost much in his estimation. Yet I hoped to be able to repair all and explain all in good time.

I did not lose a moment in getting out my writing-desk and writing to Niall a full account of all that I had heard. My pen moved rapidly and joyfully over the page. I had so much to tell! Roderick still true to his child, his kinsman, and his old home; Roderick having acquired wealth which he would be only too happy to spend in fulfilling the old man's dream. I also wrote to Father Farley and begged him to let Granny Meehan know the good news as speedily as possible. How I wished that I could fly over the ocean and be myself the bearer of those good tidings! I fancied the patient old face of Granny brightening, and the loving, tender voice giving forth thanks to her Creator.

The scene rose so vividly before me that I sat back in my chair, with pen uplifted, to ponder it over. There was the hearth in the great kitchen, near which Granny Meehan sat. A fire was burning there—a clear peat fire; beside it the tranquil figure of the blind woman, with the cat, Brown Peter, purring against her dress; and Barney and Moira in the background, hanging about to hear the great news which good Father Owen had to tell. And I conjured up the fine face of the priest beaming with the glad tidings; and I seemed to hear once more his genial voice reading aloud the welcome letter from America.

I returned to my task and wrote on, while the clock on my mantel tolled out eleven, and the din of the street below began to give place to the silence of night. I had a curious impression that Winifred stood beside me as I wrote, her image seemed so very vivid. I resolved to go to see her on the morrow, which was Thursday—visiting-day at the convent. But I knew it would be another trial to refrain from telling her of her father and of the mystery concerning him which had just been cleared up. My original intention of striving to kindle her affection and admiration for the father she scarcely remembered was strengthened by the knowledge I had gained. Knowing her father to be entirely worthy of her love and to be devotedly attached to her, I could with a clear conscience describe him as he really was, and clothe the phantom she remembered with the lovable attributes of the real man.

My letters finished, I rang for a bell-boy, and had them posted at once; for it seemed to me that they would never get over to Ireland, and that I would never have an answer back again. Then I stood for a moment at the window and looked out at the still brightly lighted streets, where the passers-by were fewer; though many still hurried to and fro from the theatres, concerts, or lectures—all intent on business or pleasure. Carriages swept by, cars with belated passengers in them still ran, and the hum of the great city was audible from afar even at that late hour.