“Very well, my dear. Settle it so, and welcome. But I do not believe there is any one else in Darentdale who would have done it, unless her stepson did it, and I am sure he did not. Never mind who wrote it, Margaret, nor what is in it. Somebody is afraid that Dallington has fallen in love with you. It is a proof of his great good sense and intelligence that the suspicion is correct.”
“Grandfather,” said Margaret, in grave tones and with trembling lips, “you have seen what this letter says. Please tell me, who am I?”
Mr. Harris began to look troubled, but he answered, “You are Margaret Miller. I can tell you no more than that.”
“Oh, but you must!” said the girl, pleadingly. “It is not kind to me; it is not right to withhold anything from me that touches me so closely.”
“Margaret, I can tell you one fact. You are fit to mate with John Dallington or any other man. Your parents were good people, and occupied a high position. They were married in Spain, and I was present at their wedding.”
“Which of them was your child, grandfather?”
Harris hesitated, but Margaret was urgent.
“The time has surely come for you to be open with me,” she said. “Dear old Graf, I cannot bear to trouble you; I hate myself for doing it. If you think I ought not to ask you, I will try to be silent; but it is hard to have a stigma resting upon me.”
“Child,” he said, angrily, “there is no stigma of any kind attaching to you! Have I not told you so already?”
“Graf, do not be angry with me. Which of my parents was your child?” Margaret repeated.