Margaret Dornham was neither a clever nor a far-seeing woman; had she been either, she would never have acted as she did.

She would have known that in taking little Madaline from Castledene she was destroying her last chance of ever being owned or claimed by her parents; she would have understood that, although she loved the child very dearly, she was committing a most cruel act.

But she thought only of how she loved her.
Yet, undiscerning as she was, she was puzzled about her daughter's happiness.

If she was really so happy, why did she spend long hours in reverie--why sit with folded hands, looking with such sad eyes at the passing clouds?
That did not look like happiness.

Why those heavy sighs, and the color that went and came like light and shade?
It was strange happiness.