"No--no, dear child; set your heart at rest upon that score. She was legally married to Richmond Montague; but his first sin against her was in not making the fact public. He was just starting on a tour abroad and persuaded her to go with him. He claimed that he could not openly marry her without forfeiting a large fortune from an aunt, whose only heir he was, and who was determined that he should marry the daughter of a life-long friend. She was in feeble health and wanted him to be married before he went abroad, as she feared she might not live until he should come back. This he refused to do, although he allowed her to believe that he intended to marry Miss Barton upon his return. But he did marry your mother, and they sailed for Europe. "They spent a few months traveling together, but while they were in Paris, your father suddenly disappeared, and it became evident to your mother that she had been deserted. To make matters worse, the people of the house where they had been living became suspicious of her, accused her of having been living unlawfully, and drove her away. She was desperate, and went directly to London, intending to return to America, but was taken ill there, and was unable to go on. "Three months later I learned, indirectly, of her wretched condition, and I hastened to her, as I have already told you, only to find that I was too late--she had died just three days before my arrival, and only a few hours after your birth. Oh, Mona! I was heartbroken, for she was all I had, and the knowledge of her wrongs and sufferings drove me nearly wild; but--I cannot live over those wretched days--I simply _endured_ them then because I could not help myself. But, as time passed, I gradually learned to love _you_--you became my one object in life, and I vowed that I would do everything in my power to make your life happy, for your mother's sake, as well as for your own," he concluded in tremulous, husky tones, while tears stood in his eyes. "Dear Uncle Walter, no one could have been more kind than you have been," the young girl said, nestling closer to him; "you have been both father and mother to me, and I am very grateful--" "Hush, Mona! Never speak of gratitude to me," he said, interrupting her, "for you have been a great comfort to me; you have, indeed, taken the place of the little girl who never lived to call me father--and--have helped me to bear other troubles also," he concluded, flushing hotly, while a heavy frown contracted, his brow. Mona glanced at him curiously, and wondered what other troubles she had helped him to bear; but her mind was so full of her own family history she did not pay much attention to it then. The remark recurred to her later, however. "There is one thing more, Uncle Walter," she said, after a thoughtful pause. "What became of my father?" Her companion seemed to freeze and become rigid as marble at this question.