“Dear Uncle Walter, no one could have been more kind than you have been,” the young girl said, nestling closer to him; “you have been both father and mother to me, and I am very grateful—­”

“Hush, Mona!  Never speak of gratitude to me,” he said, interrupting her, “for you have been a great comfort to me; you have, indeed, taken the place of the little girl who never lived to call me father—­and—­have helped me to bear other troubles also,” he concluded, flushing hotly, while a heavy frown contracted, his brow.

Mona glanced at him curiously, and wondered what other troubles she had helped him to bear; but her mind was so full of her own family history she did not pay much attention to it then.  The remark recurred to her later, however.

“There is one thing more, Uncle Walter,” she said, after a thoughtful pause.  “What became of my father?”

Her companion seemed to freeze and become rigid as marble at this question.

“I wish you would not question me any further, Mona,” he said, in a constrained tone.  “Your father forfeited all right to that title from you before your birth.  Cannot you be satisfied with what I have already told you?”

“No, I cannot,” she resolutely replied.  “Where did he go?  What happened to him after my mother died?  Has he ever been heard of since?” were the quick, imperative queries which dropped from her lips.

“Oh, yes,” said Mr. Dinsmore, replying to the last query; “he married Miss Barton—­the girl his aunt had chosen for him—­shortly after his return to this country.  The woman had set her heart upon the match, and died a month after the marriage, leaving her nephew the whole of her fortune.”

“Did he—­my father—­know that he had a child living?” demanded Mona, in a constrained tone.

“Certainly.”

“And—­and—­” she began, with crimson cheeks and blazing eyes, then choked and stopped.

“I know what you would ask—­’did he ever wish to claim you?’” supplemented her companion, a bitter smile curling his white lips.  “I have never been asked to give you up, Mona,” he continued, apparently putting it thus so as to wound her as little as possible; “but I should not have done so under any circumstances.”

“Did he never offer to settle anything upon me out of his abundance?” the young girl asked, bitterly.

“No; no settlement, no allowance was ever made, I alone have cared for you.  But do not grieve—­it has been a very delightful care to me, dear,” Mr. Dinsmore said, tenderly, while he stroked her soft hair fondly with a hand that was far from steady.

“Is the—­man living now?” Mona demanded, a cold glitter in her usually gentle eyes.

Mr. Dinsmore threw out his hand with a gesture of agony at this question.

Then suddenly pulling himself together, he hoarsely responded: 

“No.”

But he turned his face away from her gaze as he said it.