"Yes, they are my own."
"She doesn't know this, does she?"
"Oh, no, we have never let her suspect it. She thinks I am her mother, and she thinks I love her as I do my own children. But it is hard for me to pretend affection for her, when I remember her humble origin."
"Your husband? Does he care for her?"
"He feels much as I do. You see, she is not of as fine a nature as our own children. Of course he can't help seeing that. But we both do our best for the girl."
"Good for you, Mrs. Maynard; that's fine!"
"Do you really think so, Mrs. Corey? I'm afraid that——"
But Marjorie heard no more. She had stopped her practising at the first words of these awful disclosures.
Not her mother's own child! She, Marjorie Maynard! It couldn't be possible! But as the conversation went on, perfectly audible, though not in loud tones, she could no longer doubt the truth of what her mother was saying.
Dreadful it might be,—unbelievable it might be,—but true it must be.