"Well, we are near to the town of Lynton--it is not twenty minutes walk;
we will go to an hotel, and get a carriage. I--I can hardly endure this
suspense."
He never thought to ask her how she had come thither; it never occurred
to him. His whole soul was wrapped in the one idea--that he was to see
his child again--Madaline's child--the little babe he had held in his
arms, whose little face he had bedewed with tears--his own child--the
daughter he had lost for long years and had tried so hard to find. He
never noticed the summer woods through which he was passing; he never
heard the wild birds' song; of sunshine or shade he took no note. The
heart within him was on fire, for he was going to see his only
child--his lost child--the daughter whose voice he had never heard.
"Tell me," he said, stopping abruptly, and looking at Margaret "you saw
my poor wife when she lay dead--is my child like her?"
Margaret answered quickly.
"She is like her; but, to my mind, she is a thousand times fairer."
They reached the principal hotel at Lynton, and Lord Mountdean called
hastily for a carriage. Not a moment was to be lost--time pressed.
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