CHAPTER XXI
THE PASSING OF WANANEBISH
Stepping across to a duffle bag, Brent produced a shirt and an undershirt which he tossed to the girl who, in the weakness of sudden reaction had thrown herself sobbing upon the bunk.
"There, there, darling," he soothed, as with his back toward her, his eyes roved about the room seeking to picture, in the wild disorder, the terrific struggle that had taken place. "Put on those things, and then you can tell me all about it. You're all right now, dear. I will never leave you again."
"But—oh, if you had not come!" sobbed the girl.
"But, I did come, sweetheart—and everything is all right. Forget the whole horrid business. Come, we will go straight to Wananebish. Not another hour, nor a minute will we wait. And we will make her tell the truth. I have never believed you were her daughter—and now I know!"
"But," faltered the girl, as she slipped into the warm garments, "If I am not her daughter, who am I? Oh, it is horrible—not to know who you are! If this is true—she must tell—she has got to
tell me! I have the right to know! And, my mother and my father—where are they? Who are they?"
"We will know soon, darling," assured Brent, drawing her to him and looking down into her up-lifted eyes, "But, first let me tell you this—I don't care who you are. You are mine, now, dearest—the one woman for me in all the world. And no matter who, or what your parents were, you are mine, mine, mine!" His lips met hers, her arms stole about his neck, and as she clung to him she whispered:
"Oh, everything seems all strange, and unreal, and up-side-down, and horrible, and in all the world, darling, you are the one being who is good, and sane and strong—oh, I love you so—don't ever leave me again——"