JENNIE LEARNS A SECRET.

Jennie Bernard had had good reason for sending the letter to Lieutenant Carey, which she had given to Owl Eyes to hand to him.

Just before the arrival of the Indian courier at the ranch, Mr. Bernard had called to her to accompany him to a favorite retreat of the young girl's upon the bank of the creek, where Herbert had erected a rustic arbor.

The face of the settler was pale and stern, more so than Jennie had ever seen it before, and she wondered why it was so.

"Sit there, Jennie, and hear what I have to say to you," he said, sternly.

She obeyed in silence, dropping upon the rustic seat in the arbor, while he stood in the door, leaning with folded arms against a post.

"Why, father, why do you appear so stern to me? Have I done aught to offend you?" she asked.

"No, but it is the fear that you may do so, that causes me to speak to you now."

"I am ready to listen, father."

"Child, have I not always been a kind father to you?" he said, with sudden emphasis.

"Yes, father, though I could have wished that you would let me show my affection more, and not rebuff me as you have often done."

"Do not speak of that, child; but tell me if your mother has not been all that a mother could be to you?"

"Everything, father, only I wish mother would have let me help her to bear the sorrow I know she carries in her heart. Ah! yes, mother has been ever so loving and kind."

"And your brother Herbert, Jennie, what of him?"

Jennie sighed and answered after a moment of hesitation.

"I fear, father, that Herbert loves himself more than all else in the world. He is a strange being, and one I confess I cannot understand."

"Yet you love him devotedly?" eagerly asked Vance Bernard.

"I would not be a true woman, father, could I not love my own brother, for he has been good to me, and means well; but why all these questions, father?"

"Because I have a secret to tell you."

"A secret to tell me?"

"Yes, and one that may grieve you deeply, must do so, in fact; but still it is best for you to know it now, especially since that young coxcomb of a lieutenant has been here."

"You surely do not refer to Lieutenant Carey as a coxcomb, father?"

"I surely do, for what is he but a handsome fool in uniform?" was the angry reply.

"His record does not show him to be a fool, father, though handsome, exceedingly so, I admit that he is."

"That is just it! I knew he had turned your head with his fine manners, handsome face, and fine form, all of which I grant he possesses."

"I admire him, yes, father; but I have met Lieutenant Carey but once, and I have too good sense to make a fool of myself about any man," was the indignant reply.

"Well, his coming caused me to tell you the secret I now must do, for I see that otherwise it would end in your crazy regard for him, and matters would not go as I wish, and am determined to have them."

"I think, father, that I have ever proven myself an obedient girl to you and to mother."

"Oh, yes, I have no complaint to make, Jennie. But now to the secret I have to tell you."

"Yes, father."

The man seemed deeply confused, and moved as well.

His face flushed and paled alternately, and he hesitated in what he had to say in a painful manner, until Jennie became alarmed lest the secret she was to learn was to be something terrible, indeed.

"Come, father, you seem deeply moved, so tell me what it is, be it what it may, and, perhaps, I can help you to bear some great sorrow which now I know nothing of," and Jennie arose and stepped toward the man; but he started back, and cried excitedly:

"No, no, do not touch me, do not speak kindly to me, child, for I have deceived you."

"Deceived me, father?"

"I have."

"But how?"

"That is what I wish to tell you, only I do not know how to begin."

"I forgive you beforehand, father, if you have done me a wrong."

"No, you must not do that, girl, you must hate me," and he spoke almost savagely.

But, seeing the alarmed look upon her face, he controlled himself by a great effort, and said:

"I will delay no longer, for you must know, and at once, as the happiness of us all depends upon it. Jennie, did you never note how wholly unlike myself, your mother and brother you are?"

"I have, father, both in looks and feelings. I have wondered how it could be that Herbert was so like you and mother, for he resembles you both, and I so wholly unlike you."

"The reason is plain, for not a drop of my blood, or your mother's, flows in your veins."

"Father!" and the girl was upon her feet again in an instant, her face white, her form quivering, while her eyes gazed unflinchingly upon the man before her, for he would not meet her gaze.

Again he mastered himself, and said:

"It is true, Jennie, you are our child only by adoption. When a little girl I adopted you, and we decided to bring you up in ignorance of your true parentage, and so kept the secret from you."

"Was there dishonor in my parentage, sir, that you so decided? Was it to shield me from dishonor that you gave me your name?" and the voice of the young girl was cold and stern now.

"No, oh, no! your father was a nobleman. We were friends from boyhood, and we sought our fortunes together in the mines. Your mother died of grief at hearing of his death, for he was killed in the mines, my child. Then it was that I decided to adopt you, and my wife was more than willing to do so."

"Then, why have you now told me, sir, if you intended to keep the secret from me?" asked Jennie, in a tone that caused the man to glance anxiously into her face, for the child, as he called her, seemed to have suddenly become a woman.