Verona's tears were more than she could endure. Verona, who rarely wept, even as a child; Verona, who had scarcely grieved for the dog.
"Come, come, come, lovey, don't! I cannot bear it. No! since you are so foolish, then I will tell you."
The girl turned to her instantly, her eyes were wet, her lips were parted.
"Your father and mother are both alive—in India—and well, for all I know—there now!"
For a moment her listener remained silent and motionless; she seemed stunned; twice she endeavoured to articulate, but failed. At last she said:
"My father and mother! Oh, thank God! Auntie, isn't it wonderful?"
"No-ah! there is nothing wonderful at all," retorted Madame de Godez, "I knew the family. They were hard up, they had debts, and children, and as I was leaving India a widow, alone, I offered to take you to be my own daughter, and never to see them again."
"And they agreed?" exclaimed the girl, and her words were faint and tremulous.
"Why, of course. It was a fine bargain for them, and you. Oh, you were a pretty child! Just like a little angel on a Christmas card. Now, Verona, I would never have spoken of this, and let you think what you pleased, only—you have worried it out of me!"
"Are my people related to you?" she faltered.