“It really belonged to your mother, dear, instead of to me, for it has always been given to the eldest daughter on the mother’s side; so, after your mother died, I treasured it to give to you when you should be old enough to appreciate it.”

“I wish you would tell me more about my mother, Uncle Walter,” the young girl said, wistfully, after a moment of silence.  “You have never seemed willing to talk about her—­you have always evaded and put me off when I asked you anything, until I have grown to feel as if there were some mystery connected with her.  But surely I am old enough now, and have a right to know her history.  Was she your only sister, and how did it happen that she died all alone in London?  Where was my father? and why was she left so poor when you had so much?  Really, Uncle Walter, I think I ought to insist upon being told all there is to know about my parents and myself.  You have often said you would tell me some time; why not now?”

“Yes, yes, child, you are old enough, if that were all,” the man returned, with livid lips, a shudder shaking his strong frame from head to foot.

Mona also grew very pale as she observed him, and a look of apprehension swept over her face at his ominous words.

“Was there anything wrong about mamma?” she began, tremulously.

“No, no!” Mr. Dinsmore interposed, almost passionately; “she was the purest and loveliest woman in the world, and her fate was the saddest in the world.”

“And my father?” breathed the girl, trembling visibly.

“Was a wretch! a faithless brute!” was the low, stern reply.

“What became of him?”

“Do not ask me, child,” the excited man returned, almost fiercely, but white to his lips, “he deserves only your hatred and contempt, as he has mine.  Your mother, as you have been told, died in London, a much wronged and broken-hearted woman, where she had lived for nearly three months in almost destitute circumstances.  The moment I learned of her sad condition I hastened to London to give her my care and protection; but she was gone—­she had died three days before my arrival, and I found only a wee little baby awaiting my care and love.”

A bitter sob burst from the man’s lips at this point, but after struggling for a moment for self-control, he resumed: 

“That baby was, of course, yourself, and I named you Mona for your mother, and Ruth for mine.  The names do not go together very well, but I loved them both so well I wanted you to bear them, I gave you in charge of a competent nurse, with instructions that everything should be done for your comfort and welfare; then I sought to drown my grief in travel and constant change of scene.  When I returned to London you were nearly two years old and a lovely, winning child, I brought you, with your nurse, to America, resolving that you should always have the tenderest love and care; and Mona, my darling, I have tried to make your life a happy one.”