“This woman!” and Christine’s voice rang out awfully clear and distinct, as she threw her arm toward the two girls. “Say no more of _this woman_, nor pity Margery because she is her mother; Margery’s parentage is as good as yours. Yes, better—better, Queenie Hetherton, for she is Frederick Hetherton’s _own_ child, and you—” She did not finish the sentence, for, with a wild cry, Margery put Queenie’s clinging arms from her neck, and rushing to Christine, laid her hand upon her lips. “Mother, mother,” she cried, in a voice of intense entreaty, “are you mad? Have you forgotten your vow, your promise to me? Will you kill Queenie outright?” “Kill her? No. She is not the kind which such things kill,” Christine answered, fiercely, as she pushed Margery from her. “You ask if I am crazy. Yes, and well I may be—I, who have kept this horrible secret for so many years. Twenty and more—twenty and more; kept it since you were born. How old are you, Margery? How long since you were born in Rome? There’s a buzzing in my brain, and I do not quite remember.” She was softening a little, and taking advantage of this Margery took her hand to lead her from the room, saying very gently. “Poor mother, you are not right to-day. Come with me and rest; and you, Queenie, don’t mind anything she may have said. She is not responsible when she is this way.” “But I do mind,” Queenie said, stepping before the door through which Margery would have passed. “I _do_ mind, and I cannot forget. Christine has said strange things to and of me—things she must explain. If you are Frederick Hetherton’s own child, as she affirms, and were born at Rome, _who am I_?” “I tell you she is not in her right mind, and you are not to believe what she says,” Margery replied, trying to put Queenie aside, so that she might lead her mother from the room. But Queenie kept her place by the door, against which she leaned heavily, while her breath came in quick gasps, and her voice was unsteady as she said again, and this time to Christine, whose eyes were fastened upon her, holding her by a strange spell she could not resist. “Tell me, Christine, as you hope for pardon hereafter when you stand with me face to face with God, is Margery my sister?” “Yes, Margery is your sister,” Mrs. La Rue replied, still holding Queenie with her awful eyes. “Margery is your sister—your father’s child.” “My father’s own lawful child?” was the next question, and then Margery cried out, “Oh, mother, have pity; remember all it involves!” “Hush, Margery. Be still, and let me know the worst,” Reinette said, lifting her hand with the manner of one who would be obeyed at any cost. “Tell me, Christine,” she continued, “Is Margery the lawful child of Frederick Hetherton?” “Yes, she is.” “And was she born in Rome?” “Yes, she was born in Rome, and her mother was Margaret Ferguson,” Christine replied, without the slightest quaver in her voice or change of expression in her pitiless face.