it too; you would believe it now—you would, indeed. Two men look so differently at the same story—one deeply interested that it should be true—one determined, if possible, to find it false. Is it not so?"
Darrell smiled slightly, but could not be induced to assent even to so general a proposition. He felt as if he were pitted against a counsel who would take advantage of every concession.
Waife continued. "And whatever seems most improbable in this confession is rendered probable at once—if—if—we may assume that my unhappy son, tempted by the desire to—to—"
"Spare yourself—I understand—if your son wished to obtain his wife's fortune, and therefore connived at the exchange of the infants, and was therefore, too, enabled always to corroborate the story of the exchange, whenever it suited him to reclaim the infant. I grant this—and I grant that the conjecture is sufficiently plausible to justify you in attaching to it much weight. We will allow that it was his manifest interest at one time to represent his child, though still living, as no more; but you must allow also that he would have deemed it his interest, to fasten upon me, as my daughter's, a child to whom she never gave birth. Here we entangle ourselves in a controversy without data, without facts. Let us close it. Believe what you please. Why should I shake convictions that render you happy? Be equally forbearing with me. I do full justice to your Sophy's charming qualities. In herself, the proudest parent might rejoice to own her; but I cannot acknowledge her to be the daughter of Matilda Darrell. And the story that assured you she was your grandchild, still more convinces me that she is not mine!"
"But be not thus inflexible, I implore you—you can be so kind, so gentle—she would be such a blessing to you! later—perhaps—when I am dead. I am pleading for your sake—I owe you so much! I should repay you, if I could but induce you to inquire—and if inquiry should prove that I am right."
"I have inquired sufficiently."
"Then I'll go and find out the Nurse. I'll question her. I'll—"
"Hold. Be persuaded! Hug your belief! Inquire no farther!"
"Why—why?"
Darrell was mute.
Waife passed and repassed his hand over his brow, and then cried, suddenly, "But if I could prove her not to be my grandchild, then she might be happy!—then—ah, Sir, young Haughton tells me that if she were but the daughter of honest parents
