"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. CHAPTER XXIII. 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?"