“Mrs. Bentley thought,” continued his mother, “that perhaps you had some clew to Thea’s parentage which you could follow up so as to remove the stain upon her and satisfy the world. Unless this could be done, she and her husband would withhold their consent to Cameron speaking to Thea as he had planned to do at our ball.” “Are they so sure of her consent?” he asked, scornfully. “I suppose so. It would be a great match for Thea, you know, and if she has a spark of ambition she could not but accept him. Even outside of his gifts of good birth and wealth, the young man is personally very attractive. It would seem quite natural for Thea to love him.” “Yes,” her son said, in a strange voice. He paused a minute, then added: “Does Sweetheart, poor child, know this miserable thing?” “No.” “Of course you told Mrs. Bentley that I knew nothing, absolutely nothing, of Sweetheart’s past--not even her name?” “Yes.” “And her answer?” “She said it was most unfortunate, because the scandal was being circulated to so great an extent that it was beyond doubt the work of a most malicious enemy--one who hated you or Thea, or both. They were some women, she said, who had decided to drop Thea’s acquaintance--among them the young beauty from New York now visiting Orange Grove. She sent this morning a regret for the ball.” “Miss Faris? Pshaw! that is the merest spite. She is in love with Cameron Bentley herself,” he said, contemptuously. “I fancied so,” said his mother. “She is one of the most industrious in fanning the flame of scandal. She asserts that her mother knew Camille in New York, and that Camille told her that she left you forever because of your bringing your illegitimate child to Verelands.” His face grew livid. He began to stride impatiently up and down the long apartment. “A curse on their false tongues!” he muttered, hoarsely. “It is this Faris girl, then, most probably, who has revived that wicked falsehood out of jealous determination to oust a rival. But Cameron Bentley is less a man than I deemed him if he can turn to her even though he loses Thea.” She sat wringing her hands in silent distress, while he continued his slow, thoughtful march up and down the floor, speaking no more until he heard her mutter half to herself: “Poor little Sweetheart! It is hard to lose her happiness like this for a cruel lie.” He turned upon her abruptly. “Are you so sure she loves him?” “No, I am not sure; but I was thinking how this bitter story will follow the poor child, until she is some day confronted with it. It will kill her, she is so proud, so high-spirited--without a suspicion of any shameful mystery attached to her origin only in the minds of the evil and malicious.” He did not answer for many minutes, but, pausing at last in his weary tramp, turned on her his pale face and strangely gleaming dark eyes.