"You know the way," he said to Margaret, "will you direct the driver?"
He did not think to ask where his daughter lived, if she was married or
single, what she was doing or anything else; his one thought was that he
had found her--found her, never to lose her again.
He sat with his face shaded by his hand during the whole of the drive,
thanking Heaven that he had found Madaline's child. He never noticed the
woods, the high-road bordered with trees, the carriage-drive with its
avenue of chestnuts; he did not even recognize the picturesque, quaint
old Dower House that he had admired so greatly some little time before.
He saw a large mansion, but it never occurred to him to ask whether his
daughter was mistress or servant; he only knew that the carriage had
stopped, and that very shortly he should see his child.
Presently he found himself in a large hall gay with flowers and covered
with Indian matting, and Margaret Dornham was trembling before him.
"My lord," she said, "your daughter is ill, and I am afraid the
agitation may prove too much for her. Tell me, what shall I do?"
He collected his scattered thoughts.
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