"Tell them about it," said Mr. Bell.
"No. She has not yet recovered from the shock of the discovery," said
Pierce Budd softly. "Let me do it. When Mortlake ruined me, and I fled
from my former surroundings," he said, "I left behind me a baby girl.
Mrs. Mortlake, a good woman if ever there was one, took care of that
child. All this I have only just learned. She grew up with the Mortlake's,
and when that man's wife died he did the only good thing I've ever heard
of him doing--he took care of her and brought her up as his daughter.
To-day in the hut you saw me looking at her closely. It was because I
thought I recognized a bit of jewelry--a tiny gold locket she wore. It
contained the picture of her mother, who died soon after her birth. When I
heard her name was Regina, and on the top of that heard you mention the
name of Mortlake, I knew that fate, in its strange whirligig, had brought
my daughter back to me."
"To-night, with Mr. Bell, I sought her, and she has consented to forgive
me for my years of neglect. The rest of my life will be spent in atoning
for the past. That is all."
His voice broke, and Regina--a different Regina from the old defiant one,
gazed up at him tenderly.
"So," said Mortlake, "I'm left alone at last, eh? Regina, haven't you a
word for me? Won't you forgive me for deceiving you about your father all
these years?"
"Of course I forgive, freely and wholly," said the girl, stepping toward
him, "but it is hard to forget.
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