"That was me," said Alice, hastily. "Nothing of the sort. I said that George--his other name doesn't matter at present, although it can be mentioned if necessary--I said that George was your grandfather. The daughter grew up and married your father, who was a colonel in the Indian army. But both your parents died when you were young. I received you from your dying mother's arms and I sent you to a convent. I couldn't bear the sight of you for months," said the old lady, energetically. "You have a look of handsome George, and handsome he was. Well then, when you grew up and behaved yourself, I took you from the convent, and you have been with me ever since." "You are my second mother," said Alice, embracing her. "The first--the only mother," said Miss Berengaria, sharply. "You never knew any mother but me, and as your grandfather defrauded me of my rights to marry, I look upon you as my child." "But why did you not tell this perfectly plain story to Sir Simon?" "Why didn't I, Durham?" asked Miss Berengaria tearfully. "You may well ask that. Pride, my dear--pride. Sir Simon and I were in society together. He wanted to marry me, and I refused. So I never became your grandmother, Bernard, and I certainly should never have had a son like your father, who is----" "Don't. He is my father after all." "Was, you mean, seeing he is dead. Well, my dear boy, I'll say nothing about him. But Sir Simon loved me and I preferred George, who was a villain. I couldn't bear to think that Sir Simon should know I had forgotten my anger against George to the extent of helping his grand-daughter. An unworthy feeling you all think it--of course--of course. But I am a woman, when all is said and done, my dears. And another thing--Simon Gore was too dictatorial for me, and I wasn't going to give any explanation. Besides which, had he known Alice, that you were George's grand-daughter--and he hated George--he would have been more set against the marriage than ever. And now you know what a wicked woman I have been." "Not wicked, aunt," said Alice, kissing the withered cheek. "Yes, wicked," said Miss Berengaria, sobbing, "I should have told the truth and shamed the--I mean shamed Sir Simon. Perhaps I could have arranged the marriage had I subdued my pride into obeying Sir Simon. But I couldn't, and he was angry, and all these troubles have arisen out of my silly silence." "Oh, no," said Bernard, sorry for her distress. "Oh, yes," cried the old lady, rising and drying her tears. "Don't you contradict me, Bernard. If I had told the truth and let Sir Simon know that Alice was well born, he might have consented." "Not if he knew that Alice was George's grand-daughter."