The man smiled sardonically but gave no reply. “No,” continued Agnes, excitedly; “it is not true. You may have fooled your neighbors and have pretended to them that you are a son of Humphrey Muirhead, but I surely should know. Why, I have seen the family Bible with my own eyes and have read the records--my grandfather’s marriage and my mother’s birth. It is out of the question for you to be my mother’s brother. You are assuming my grandfather’s name for the purpose of holding this property. I say you are not Humphrey Muirhead.” “It ain’t worth while to get so worked up,” said the man, slowly, “and it ain’t worth while to call names. I’m no impostor. People around here know that. Ask Dod Hunter; he knew your grandfather; he knew, too, when he came out here, and that he married my mother straight and honest. I am the first-born, not your mother.” Agnes paled before this statement. “No, no,” she still protested. “Yes,” emphatically declared the man. “I won’t go into particulars; they’re not pleasant. Both of ’em are dead now. Anyhow, he was a young fellow, not more than eighteen, and she was the daughter of a backwoodsman, pretty fiery, wouldn’t stand being driven, didn’t like your grandfather’s perticuler ways, and at last she run off and left him. I was a couple of years old then. Your grandfather saw me just once after thet. I found him out, but we didn’t hit it off. I’ve got a temper like my mother’s and I did some big talking, so he ordered me out of the house and--” The man paused and clenched his fist, “I’m his son for all that, and I’ll have my rights.” Agnes’s eyes were fixed on the speaker. She scanned his countenance slowly, and detected a slight resemblance to her mother about the eyes and brow, though she was reluctant to admit it even to herself. “Show me your proofs,” she whispered. “I will believe when I see them.” The man left the room, and the girl stood with bowed head and hands tightly clasped, her whole attitude one of rigid self-control. She remained thus till the man returned and handed her two papers. One was a certificate of marriage between Humphrey Muirhead and Ellen Doyle; the other was a letter in her grandfather’s own handwriting and bearing his signature. This letter asked his young wife to return to him with the child. “Then it wasn’t grandfather’s fault,” exclaimed Agnes. “That’s neither here nor there,” the man said, frowning. “I’m who I say I am.” “I see that, but even if you are, the half of this place is my mother’s, isn’t it? I claim our share of the property.” Two bright spots were burning in the girl’s cheeks. She was herself again, ready for defiance, for action. “Your share!” The words broke forth in an angry growl. “Haven’t you been living in comfort all these years? Haven’t you had my father’s money spent on you all? This place is mine. You have had your share, and I will fight for my own.”