A shy, sweet smile wreathed Mona’s lips as she again left the room.

But she was not gone, long—­scarcely five minutes had elapsed before she returned, and gliding to Mr. Dinsmore’s side, she said, with quiet resolution: 

“Now, Uncle Walter, I want to hear the remainder of what you have to tell me about my father and mother.”

CHAPTER IV.

MONA ASKS SOME PERTINENT QUESTIONS.

Mr. Dinsmore’s face clouded instantly at Mona’s request, but after thinking a moment, he threw back his head with a resolute air, and said: 

“There is not so very much more to tell, Mona—­it is the oft repeated story of too much love and trust on the part of a pure and lovely woman, and of selfish pleasure and lack of principle on the part of the man who won her.  When your mother was eighteen—­just your age to-day, dear—­she fell in love with Richmond Montague, and secretly married him.”

“Then she was legally his wife!” burst forth Mona, with pale and trembling lips.  “Oh, I have so feared, from your reluctance to tell me my mother’s history, that—­that there was some shame connected with it.”

“No—­no, dear child; set your heart at rest upon that score.  She was legally married to Richmond Montague; but his first sin against her was in not making the fact public.  He was just starting on a tour abroad and persuaded her to go with him.  He claimed that he could not openly marry her without forfeiting a large fortune from an aunt, whose only heir he was, and who was determined that he should marry the daughter of a life-long friend.  She was in feeble health and wanted him to be married before he went abroad, as she feared she might not live until he should come back.  This he refused to do, although he allowed her to believe that he intended to marry Miss Barton upon his return.  But he did marry your mother, and they sailed for Europe.

“They spent a few months traveling together, but while they were in Paris, your father suddenly disappeared, and it became evident to your mother that she had been deserted.  To make matters worse, the people of the house where they had been living became suspicious of her, accused her of having been living unlawfully, and drove her away.  She was desperate, and went directly to London, intending to return to America, but was taken ill there, and was unable to go on.

“Three months later I learned, indirectly, of her wretched condition, and I hastened to her, as I have already told you, only to find that I was too late—­she had died just three days before my arrival, and only a few hours after your birth.  Oh, Mona!  I was heartbroken, for she was all I had, and the knowledge of her wrongs and sufferings drove me nearly wild; but—­I cannot live over those wretched days—­I simply endured them then because I could not help myself.  But, as time passed, I gradually learned to love you—­you became my one object in life, and I vowed that I would do everything in my power to make your life happy, for your mother’s sake, as well as for your own,” he concluded in tremulous, husky tones, while tears stood in his eyes.