During this time he had every six months sent regular remittances to
England, and had received in return most encouraging letters about
little Madaline. She was growing strong and beautiful; she was healthy,
fair, and happy. She could say his name; she could sing little
baby-songs. Once, the doctor cut a long golden-brown curl from her
little head and sent it to him; but when he received it the earl lay
dying, and the son could not show his father his little child's hair. He
died as he had lived, loving and trusting his son, clasping his hand to
the last, and murmuring sweet and tender words to him. Lord Charlewood's
heart smote him as he listened, he had not merited such implicit faith
and trust.
"Father," he said, "listen for one moment! Can you hear me? I did marry
Madaline--I loved her so dearly, I could not help it--I married her; and
she died one year afterward. But she left me a little daughter. Can you
hear me, father?"
No gleam of light came into the dying eyes, no consciousness into the
quiet face; the earl did not hear. When, at last, his son had made up
his mind to reveal his secret, it was too late for his father to
hear--and he died without knowing it.
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