A hot flush stained his cheek. "It is the way I feel, nevertheless, Rachel Carter," he said deliberately. "You can think of me only as Rachel Carter," she said. "My name is Rachel Gwyn. Still it doesn't matter. I am past the point where I can be hurt. You may tell the story if it suits your purpose. I shall deny nothing. It may even give you some satisfaction to see me wrap my soiled robes about me and steal away, leaving the field to you. I can sell my lands to-morrow and disappear. It will matter little whether I am forgotten or not. The world is large and I am not without fortitude. I wanted you to come here to-day, to see me alone, to hear what I have to say,--not about myself,--but about another. I am a woman of quick decisions. When I learned early this morning that you would be in Lafayette to-day, I made up my mind to take a certain step,--and I have not changed it." "If you are referring to your daughter--to my half-sister, if you will--I have only to remind you that my mind is already made up. You need have no fear that I shall do or say anything to hurt that innocent girl. I am assuming, of course, that she knows nothing of--well, of what happened back there in Kentucky." "She knows nothing," said the woman, in a voice strangely low and tense. "If she ever knew, she has forgotten." "Forgotten?" he cried. "Good God, how could she have forgotten a thing so--" She moved a step nearer, her burning eyes fixed on his. "You remember Rachel Carter well enough. Have you no recollection of the little girl you used to play with? Minda? The babe who could scarcely toddle when you--" "Of course I remember her," he cried impatiently. "I remember everything. You took her away with you and--why did you not leave her behind as my father left me? Why could you not have been as fair to your child as he was to his?" She was silent for a moment, pondering her answer. "I do not suppose it has ever occurred to you that I might have loved my child too deeply to abandon her," she said, a strange softness in her voice. "My father loved me," he cried out, "and yet he left me behind." "He loved you,--yes,--but he would not take you. He left you with some one who also loved you. Don't ever forget that, Kenneth Gwynne. I would not go without Minda. No more would your mother have gone without you. Stop! I did not mean to offend. So you DO remember little Minda?" "Yes, I remember her. But she is dead. Why do you mention her--" "Minda is not dead," said she slowly. "Not--why, she was drowned in the--" "No. Minda is alive. You saw her last night,--at Phineas Striker's house." He started violently. "The girl I saw last night was--Minda?" he cried. "Why, Striker told me she was--" "I know,--I know," she interrupted impatiently. "Striker told you what he believed to be true. He told you she was Robert Gwyn's daughter and your half-sister. But I tell you now that she is Minda Carter. There is not a drop of Gwyn blood in her body."