"In a perfectly natural manner," he answered, coolly. "The story of your mother's past is better known to me than to yourself, Irene." She could not speak for a moment. A hand of ice seemed to grip her throat, her brain reeled, the sound of the river came to her faintly as in a dream. The hot color rushed to her face and her lashes fell. She could not look at this man who held the story of her mother's past--that secret so full of shame and sorrow. "I know it far better than you do; better than she does," he repeated. "Do not hang your head so heart-brokenly, Irene. You have nothing to blush for." "Nothing," she echoed, bitterly. "No," he said, "I can tell you good news, little one. But first raise your head and look at me. I want to see the joylight flash into your eyes when you hear what I have to tell you." She obeyed him, lifting her sweet eyes in wonder, with half-parted crimson lips that seemed to ask mutely what joy life could yet hold for her. "You have nothing to blush for," he repeated. "Your mother was a lawfully wedded wife. You are not the child of shame as you have been taught to believe." "Can I believe you?" she exclaimed, and he was dazzled by the flash of joy in her eyes. "You may, for it is true, and I can produce proofs of what I say," he answered. "Your mother has been fearfully wronged, but it lies in my power to restore her to her rights again." "God forever bless you, Mr. Revington, if you can lift the cloud of sorrow from the hearts and lives of a wronged woman and her child," exclaimed the lovely girl, fervently. "It rests with you, Irene, whether I do so or not," he replied, flashing a look of admiration on her beautiful, agitated face. "With me!" she echoed, blankly. "You are the daughter of a wealthy, high-born, noble gentleman, who would be delighted to claim you if he knew that you lived, and who would rejoice to clasp your mother to his devoted heart," said Mr. Revington, watching her closely as he uttered the words. Her eyes beamed, her face glowed with joy; then suddenly a shadow fell on its brightness. "You are deceiving me?" she said. "No, I swear that I am not," he asseverated. "I can prove what I say, and I am ready to do so--on one condition!" "And that?" she asked, innocently. His shifting gaze fell before that eager, hopeful, unconscious look, but he answered, boldly: "That you be my wife, Irene." "I have told you that was impossible," she answered, growing suddenly pale to the lips. "Why?" he inquired, chagrined at the prompt reply. "I do not love you," she replied, evasively. "Granted that you do not," he said, selfishly, "is your hand too great a price to pay to secure to your mother ease, honor, end happiness?"