"That was the reason I was going to sell out, Dave, but I'm not now. I'm going to stick. And now I'll tell you the secret concerning you--that is as much of it as I know. It isn't much, for I know so little myself, so you will not be much wiser than you are now." "Won't I know who I am?" Dave asked in a low voice. "No, Dave, for I can't tell you myself. I wish I could. I wish I could either really find your parents, or know that I had a good legal claim on you. But that is impossible. "Some years ago, Dave, I was in business in Missouri. I was doing fairly well, but I always had a hankering to get out West and raise cattle. I had lived on a ranch when I was a small lad--in fact all my people were ranchers--and I longed for the life of which I had had only a little taste. "So I planned to sell out, raise all the money I could, and buy a ranch. I had my plans all made when one spring there came a big flood that practically wiped out the town where I was then living, as well as a number of others along that part of the Missouri River. There was rescue work to be done, and I did my share, I guess. "Among the others whom I saved from the wreckage of houses, barns and other debris that rushed down the river was a little baby boy." Dave caught his breath sharply. "You were that little chap, Dave," went on the ranchman, after a pause. "As cute a little chap as I ever saw. I fell in love with you right away, and so did a number of women folks who were helping in the rescue work. They all wanted you, but I said if no one who had a legal claim on you came for you, that I would keep you. "And that's what happened. I could not find out where you came from, nor who your folks were, though I made many inquiries. I had been about to start for the West when the flood came, but I delayed a bit, wanting to give your parents, if they were alive, a fair show. But no one claimed you, so I brought you out West with me, and here we've been ever since, living just like father and son." "And do you think my parents are--are dead?" Dave faltered. "I am afraid so," was the low answer. "There were many grown folk and children who perished in the flood. At any rate, Dave, I have kept you ever since. "How this Whitey Wasson learned the secret I can not say. I did hope it would never be brought to your knowledge, though I made no effort, at the time I rescued you, to conceal the fact that I had, in a measure, adopted you. I suppose Whitey must have heard the story from some one who was in the flooded Missouri district at the time and who has since come West. "But that is how the matter stands. You are not really my son, though you are as dear to me as though you were. I hope this will make no difference to you--knowing this secret. I want you to continue living here just as you always have. In fact it would break my heart if you were to leave me after all these years. You will stay; won't you?" and he held out his hands appealingly.