“When and where did he die?”

“Do not ask me.  Oh, Mona, for pity’s sake, ask me nothing more.  I cannot, I will not bear this inquisition any longer,” the man cried, in a despairing tone.

The young girl’s face blanched suddenly at this, and she turned a wild, startled look upon her companion, as a terrible suspicion flashed into her mind.

Had her uncle avenged her mother’s wrongs?—­was his hand stained with her father’s blood, and was this the reason why he was so fearfully agitated in speaking of these things?

It was an awful thought, and for a moment, every nerve in her body tingled with pain.  All her strength fled, and she dared not question him further on that point, for her own sake, as well as his.

There was a dead silence for several moments, while both struggled for the mastery of their emotions; then Mona said, in a low, awed tone: 

“Just one thing more, Uncle Walter—­is—­his other wife living?”

“I believe so.”

“Where is she?”

“I do not know.”

“Did she care nothing for me?”

“No, she hated your mother, and you a hundred-fold on her account.”

“That is enough—­I have heard all that I wish,” Mona said, coldly, as she started to her feet and stood erect and rigid before him.  “You said truly when you told me that the man deserved hatred and contempt.  I do hate and scorn him with all the hate and strength of my nature.  I am glad he is dead.  Were he living, and should he ever seek me, I would spurn him as I would spurn a viper.  But oh, Uncle Walter, you must let me lean upon you more than ever before, for my heart is very, very sore over the wrong that has been done my poor mother and me.  How good you have been to me—­and I love you—­I will always love and trust you, and I will never ask you any more questions.”

She flung her arms around his neck, buried her face in his bosom, and burst into a passion of tears.  The sorrowful story to which she had listened, and the fearful suspicion which, at the last, had so appalled her, had completely unnerved her.

The man clasped her to him almost convulsively, though a strong shudder shook his frame, laid his own face caressingly against her soft brown hair, and let her weep until the fountain of her tears was exhausted, and he himself had become entirely composed once more.

“My dear child,” he said, at last, “let these be the last tears you ever shed for the wrong done you.  I beg you will not allow the memory of it to make you unhappy, my Mona; for as I have assumed a father’s care for you in the past, so I shall continue to do in the future; you shall never want for anything that I can give you while I live, and all that I have will be yours when I am gone.  I have made an appointment with my lawyer for the day after to-morrow,” he went on, in a more business-like tone, “when I purpose making my will, giving you the bulk of my property.  I ought to have done this before; but—­such matters are not pleasant to think about, and I have kept putting it off.  Now dry your tears, my dear; it pains me to see you weep.  And here,” he added, smiling, and forcing himself to speak more lightly, “I almost forgot that I had something else for your birthday.  Come, try on these trinkets, for you must wear them to the opera to-night.”