A GIRL AT BAY.

At first Vance Bernard made no reply to this direct question put by Jennie.

He had told her the secret, that she was not his child, that she was only his daughter and his wife's by adoption.

He seemed to feel better that this weight was off his mind for some reason, yet she had taken it so calmly, so coldly, where he had expected tears and regret, that he hardly knew what else to say.

It was not until she again put the question to him, as to why he had then told her the secret, that he answered:

"Well, your mother——"

"Not my mother, sir, except by adoption, though she has ever been good and kind to me. What is my real name, sir?"

"Come, Jennie, don't be so formal, but call me father again, for I have tried to be all to you that your own father could have been."

"I know no other, sir, so I will call you father, if you wish; but you did not tell me what my father's name was?"

"His name was Woodbridge."

"His first name, please, father?"

"Brookes Woodbridge."

"Thank you, and my mother's name?"

"She was a Miss Virginia Margrave."

"Where was their home, sir?"

"In New York City."

"And are they buried there?"

The man seemed to grow nervous under this questioning, and replied:

"Your mother is buried in New York, your father in the Black Hills, where he died."

"He was killed, you say?"

"Yes."

"By whom?"

"It was never known, my child; but it was supposed that a brother miner did the deed, for he was found dead in his cabin, and had been robbed."

"My poor, poor father. Would that I knew his murderer, for never would I rest until I had seen him ascend the gallows," said Jennie, in a tone that showed she was in deadly earnest.

"You will never know, Jennie, for I tried in vain to find out. As I told you, your father and I were friends, the dearest of friends, and his interests and mine were the same. I had gone East, on account of the illness of my wife, and returned after an absence of several months to find that he had been killed and robbed of his savings, which were considerable. What money he had was in his wife's hands at home, but she died, and, of course, you are the heir, and it amounts to some twenty thousand dollars, that I now hold in trust for you. Not a large fortune, but a nice little sum, my child. I gave up the mine after your poor father's death, and went elsewhere and one day struck it rich. It was when I took my first large savings home that I went to see you, and so took you into my keeping, for it had been your father's wish, as his papers showed. Then I returned to the mines, worked at my mine until I got the cream out of it, and sold out for a fair price, when I looked about for a home and established myself here. When settled I sent for your mother and brother to come here with you. Now, Jennie, you know my story, and the secret we have long kept from you."

"Yes, and I thank you, father, for telling me, for I would rather have it so. You have, indeed, been most kind to me, and I will do all in my power to repay you—you and my adopted mother. But, father, may I ask if Herbert knows me as I am, as not being his sister?"

"He does."

"Ah!"

"You see he was a good-sized boy when you, a little one of five, came to our home to live as our own child. So we told him the truth, and urged upon him that he should never betray the secret to you."

"And now again I ask, sir, why have you told me to-day, now, at this time?"

Again the question appeared to embarrass the man.

But as the eyes of the young girl were fixed firmly upon him, and he knew that an answer must be given, he said:

"It is because Herbert knew the secret, Jennie."

"Because Herbert knew?"

"Yes."

"He has always known that I was his sister by adoption?"

"Yes."

"Well, why now, sir, raise that as an argument?"

"It is because, knowing that you were not his sister, he has learned to love you other than as he could love a sister."

"Oh, father!"

"Yes, such is the case, and he has forced me to tell you the truth, that you may know just how he feels toward you, that you may understand that he is to make you his wife?"

"What! he expects me, one believing herself his sister, to wed him? Never! I have regarded him ever as a brother, and as a brother only. I have never felt the love for him as a brother that I could have wished to feel, for there was that about Herbert that would not win my sisterly regard more. Perhaps it has been his knowledge of the truth, that we had no kindred blood in our veins, that has made him act toward me as he has, but I regard him now as though he were in reality my brother, and no power on earth can make me love him otherwise, or hear one word of love from him. Tell him so, sir, tell him that if he does not wish me to hate him, to despise him, he must never hint of love to me other than what he could feel for an own sister."

She had risen now and spoke with a suppressed passion that showed how deeply she felt her position, and, gazing upon her, and her determined expression, Vance Bernard said, anxiously:

"Herbert was right, after all; you do love that accursed cavalry officer, Kit Carey!"