"Twenty dollars, indeed!" she sneered, mockingly. "Twenty thousand will not answer my purpose. From this time forth I intend to live as befits a lady. I want that necklace you are wearing, as security that you will produce the required sum for me before to-morrow night." The coarse proposal amazed Pluma. "I thought Whitestone Hall especially guarded against thieves," she said, steadily. "You seem to be a desperate woman; but I, Pluma Hurlhurst, do not fear you. We will pass over the remarks you have just uttered as simply beyond discussion." With a swift, gliding motion she attempted to reach the bell-rope. Again the woman intercepted her. "Arouse the household if you dare!" hissed the woman, tightening her hold upon the white arm upon which the jewels flashed and quivered. "If Basil Hurlhurst knew what I know you would be driven from this house before an hour had passed." "I--I--do not know what you mean," gasped Pluma, her great courage and fortitude sinking before this woman's fearlessness and defiant authority. "No, you don't know what I mean; and little you thank me for carrying the treacherous secret since almost the hour of your birth. It is time for you to know the truth at last. You are not the heiress of Whitestone Hall--you are not Basil Hurlhurst's child!" Pluma's face grew deathly white; a strange mist seemed gathering before her. "I can not--seem--to--grasp--what you mean, or who you are to terrify me so." A mocking smile played about the woman's lips as she replied, in a slow, even, distinct voice: "I am your mother, Pluma!" CHAPTER XXXIX. At the self-same moment that the scene just described was being enacted in the study Rex Lyon was pacing to and fro in his room, waiting for the summons of Pluma to join the bridal-party in the corridor and adjourn to the parlors below, where the guests and the minister awaited them. He walked toward the window and drew aside the heavy curtains. The storm was beating against the window-pane as he leaned his feverish face against the cool glass, gazing out into the impenetrable darkness without. Try as he would to feel reconciled to his marriage he could not do it. How could he promise at the altar to love, honor, and cherish the wife whom he was about to wed? He might honor and cherish her, but love her he could not, no matter for all the promises he might make. The power of loving was directed from Heaven above--it was not for mortals to accept or reject at will. His heart seemed to cling with a strange restlessness to Daisy, the fair little child-bride, whom he had loved so passionately--his first and only love, sweet little Daisy! From the breast-pocket of his coat he took the cluster of daisies he had gone through the storm on his wedding-night to gather. He was waiting until the monument should arrive before he could gather courage to tell Pluma the sorrowful story of his love-dream.