"So it seems," he retorted. "Then you will not suffer any great amount of pain if I tell you that Mark Brace is not your father, nor his kindly wife your mother?"
"Now, Earle, you are inventing a romance to please yourself."
"Does it please you, Doris? I leave inventions to yourself; I tell you the plain, honest truth—you are no relation of theirs."
"Who am I, then? If you take my old identity from me, you must, at least, give me a new one," she said, laughingly.
Her utter want of feeling and absence of all emotions annoyed him greatly.
"I will tell you a story," he said.
And with a grace and pathos all his own, he told the history of that night so long ago, when the little child was found at the door of the farm-house.
She looked incredulous.
"Do you mean to tell me that I was that child? A wretched little foundling! I do not believe one word of it. This is your revenge—to humiliate me."
"You will know better soon," he replied, quietly. "Yes, you were that little child. Patty Brace took you to her arms, and honest Mark Brace treated you like his own."