“Neither,” said Harris, and he looked white and pained; “but if you had been my own child I could not have cared more for you, and you could not have given me more joy through all these years. Your parents both died of cholera in Spain—one two days after the other. There were perils that beset their only child; and from these you were rescued by Mr. Dallington, who was under an obligation to your father, and who, in order to pay it, adopted you; and whose will provided for you by leaving this house and all that is in it to you after me.”
“And is my name Margaret Miller, really?”
“Yes, that is your name.”
“But there is a secret somewhere?”
“There is; but the secret belongs to the dead. No person living is affected by it; and it will die with me, for I swore not to reveal it; nor will I, neither at the bidding of hate, nor of love. You know enough, Margaret. Be content.”
Margaret bowed her head. “Thank you for telling me so much,” she said; “and for the years of love and kindness which have made my life so happy that I have scarcely missed my father and mother.”
“I have but done my duty and kept my promise. And you see that you owe me nothing, Margaret, not even the obedience and love of a granddaughter.”
“Dear Graf, I owe you everything—all the gratitude, goodwill, and affection of which I am capable. And I will never forget it. We will be just as happy together now as we have always been, and forget the anonymous letter. I am sure that there is not a grain of truth in the insinuation that we are enjoying money that ought to belong to others.”
“You know quite well, Margaret, that a man has a right to leave his property to whomsoever he pleases. Mr. Dallington was an eccentric man; but he was only right and just when he took care that you should want for nothing. It was his duty to do this—mark what I am saying, Margaret—his duty. He would have been culpable if he had not done it. But he did it in a curious, unusual way. Some day I will tell you where you will find, on these premises, enough hard cash to maintain you in the comfort you have been used to, and, at the rate at which it is spent now, until you are eighty years old. Now, Madge, my child, you know all that I can tell you; and it is nobody’s business but ours. I want to talk to you on another subject. We have all our troubles, my dear”—the old man sighed as he said it—“and they are not very big ones either, for they give us more worry than pain. But a very little worry is large enough to spoil a life if we will let it. You will not let this thing overshadow your life—if I know you, I am sure you will not—for you are a believer in the Christ——”
“And so are you, Graf,” interpolated Margaret.