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Tedham took a few thin, worn letters from his breast-pocket “There is Mr. March’s letter,” he said, laying one on his knee. He handed my wife another.

She read it, and asked, “May Mr. March see it?”

Tedham nodded, and I took the little paper in turn. The letter was written in a child’s stiff, awkward hand. It was hardly more than a piteous cry of despairing love. The address was Mrs. Hasketh’s, in Somerville, and the date was about three months after Tedham’s punishment began. “Is that the last you have heard from her?” I asked.

Tedham nodded as he took the letter from me.

“But surely you have heard something more about her in all this time?” my wife pursued.

“Once from Mrs. Hasketh, to make me promise that I would leave the child to her altogether, and not write to her, or ask to see her. When I went to the cemetery to-day, I did not know but I should find her grave, too.”

“Well, it is cruel!” cried my wife. “I will go and see Mrs. Hasketh, but–you ought to feel yourself that it’s hopeless.”

“Yes,” he admitted. “There isn’t much chance unless she should happen to think the same way you do: that I had suffered enough, and that it was time to stop punishing me.”

My wife looked compassionately at him, and she began with a sympathy that I have not always known her to show more deserving people, “If it were a question of that alone it would be very easy. But suppose your daughter were so situated that it would be–disadvantageous to her to have it known that you were her father?”

“You mean that I have no right to mend my broken-up life–what there is left of it–by spoiling hers? I have said that to myself. But then, on the other hand, I have had to ask myself whether I had any right to keep her from choosing for herself about it. I sha’n’t force myself on her. I expect to leave her free. But if the child cares for me, as she used to, hasn’t that love–not mine for her, but hers for me–got some rights too?”

His voice sank almost to a hush, and the last word was scarcely more than a breathing. “All I want is to know where she is, and to let her know that I am in the world, and where she can find me. I think she ought to have a chance to decide.”

“I am afraid Mrs. Hasketh may think it would be better, for her sake, not to have the chance,” my wife sighed, and she turned her look from Tedham upon me, as if she wished me rather than him to answer.

“The only way to find out is to ask her,” I answered, non-committally, and rather more lightly than I felt about it. In fact, the turn the affair had taken interested me greatly. It involved that awful mystery of the ties by which, unless we are born of our fathers and mothers for nothing more than the animals are, we are bound to them in all the things of life, in duty and in love transcending every question of interest and happiness. The parents’ duty to the children is obvious and plain, but the child’s duty to its parents is something subtler and more spiritual. It is to be more delicately, more religiously, regarded. No one, without impiety, can meddle with it from the outside, or interfere in its fulfilment. This and much more I said to my wife when we came to talk the matter over after Tedham left us. Above all, I urged something that came to me so forcibly at the moment that I said I had always thought it, and perhaps I really believed that I had. “Why should we try to shield people from fate? Isn’t that always wrong? One is fated to be born the child of a certain father, and one can no more escape the consequences of his father’s misdeeds than the doer himself can. Perhaps the pain and the shame come from the wish and the attempt to do so, more than from the fact itself. The sins of the fathers shall be visited upon the children. But the children are innocent of evil, and this visitation must be for their good, and will be, if they bear it willingly.”