“But I have read it, grandfather; I could not help that, and I want you to read it, too.” “I think it would be better not.” “Please, because I wish it.” The old man read it through twice, and then looked at Margaret, with a curious smile. “You need not mind this in the least,” he said. “I suppose you know who wrote it?” “I have not the slightest idea.” “No? It was Mrs. Hunter, John Dallington’s mother.” “Mrs. Hunter! Oh! surely not? What can make you think that?” “I do not think it; I am sure of it. There has been an attempt to disguise the writing, but it is certainly Mrs. Hunter’s. Now, my dear, never tell any one that you have had it as long as you live. Burn it, and forget all about it. That is the only thing to do.” “Graf, you must be mistaken; it could not be Mrs. Hunter.” “Very well, my dear. Settle it so, and welcome. But I do not believe there is any one else in Darentdale who would have done it, unless her stepson did it, and I am sure he did not. Never mind who wrote it, Margaret, nor what is in it. Somebody is afraid that Dallington has fallen in love with you. It is a proof of his great good sense and intelligence that the suspicion is correct.” “Grandfather,” said Margaret, in grave tones and with trembling lips, “you have seen what this letter says. Please tell me, who am I?” Mr. Harris began to look troubled, but he answered, “You are Margaret Miller. I can tell you no more than that.” “Oh, but you must!” said the girl, pleadingly. “It is not kind to me; it is not right to withhold anything from me that touches me so closely.” “Margaret, I can tell you one fact. You are fit to mate with John Dallington or any other man. Your parents were good people, and occupied a high position. They were married in Spain, and I was present at their wedding.” “Which of them was your child, grandfather?” Harris hesitated, but Margaret was urgent. “The time has surely come for you to be open with me,” she said. “Dear old Graf, I cannot bear to trouble you; I hate myself for doing it. If you think I ought not to ask you, I will try to be silent; but it is hard to have a stigma resting upon me.” “Child,” he said, angrily, “there is no stigma of any kind attaching to you! Have I not told you so already?” “Graf, do not be angry with me. Which of my parents was your child?” Margaret repeated. “Neither,” said Harris, and he looked white and pained; “but if you had been my own child I could not have cared more for you, and you could not have given me more joy through all these years. Your parents both died of cholera in Spain—one two days after the other. There were perils that beset their only child; and from these you were rescued by Mr. Dallington, who was under an obligation to your father, and who, in order to pay it, adopted you; and whose will provided for you by leaving this house and all that is in it to you after me.” “And is my name Margaret Miller, really?” “Yes, that is your name.” “But there is a secret somewhere?”