"Then, she is not my half-sister?" he exclaimed, utterly dazed, but aware of the exquisite sensation of relief that was taking hold of him. "She is no blood relation of yours." "But she is,--yes, now I understand,--she is my step-sister," he said, with a swift fall of spirits. "I suppose that is what you might call her," said Rachel Gwyn, indifferently. "I have not given it much thought." "Does she know that she is not my father's daughter?" "No. She believes herself to be his own flesh and blood,--his own daughter," said she with the deliberateness of one weighing her words, that they might fall with full force upon her listener. "Why are you telling me all this?" he demanded abruptly. "What is your object? If she does not know the truth, why should I? Good God, woman, you--you do not expect ME to tell her, do you? Was that your purpose in getting me here? You want me to tell her that--" "No!" she cried out sharply. "I do not want you or any one else to do that. Listen to me. I sha'n't beat about the bush,--I will not waste words. So far as Viola and the world are concerned, she is Robert Gwyn's daughter. That is clear to you, is it not? She was less than two years old when we came away,--too young to remember anything. We were in the wilderness for two or three years, and she saw but one or two small children, so that it was a very simple matter to deceive her about her age. She is nearly twenty-two now, although she believes she is but nineteen. She does not remember any other father than Robert Gwyn. She has no recollection of her own father, nor does she remember you. She--" "Last night she described her father to me," he interrupted. "Her supposed father, I mean. She made it quite plain that he did not love her as a father should love his own child."