"Where is my daughter ?" "She lives not far from here; but we cannot walk--the distance is too great," replied Margaret.
"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.