“You are my sister. Come to me.”
But Margery did not move, and her face grew whiter and more death-like, as she whispered to her mother:
“What does she mean? Have you told her? Does she know it all, and still call me sister?”
“Hush, Margie. No, she does not know it all,” Mrs. La Rue replied; and, sinking into a chair and bowing her head upon her hands, Margery exclaimed:
“Thank God for that! Oh, Queenie, I don’t know what you know or how you learned it; but if you love me, if you care for your own happiness, seek to know no more. Let the matter end here. If you believe I am your sister, love me as such; I shall be content with that.”
She did not look up, but sat with her head bowed down as if with grief or shame. Queenie thought it the latter, and crossed the room to where Margery sat, and, kneeling beside her, wound both arms around her neck and said:
“Margie, I know you are my father’s child, and I love you so dearly that this shall make no difference with me. You were not to blame, my darling. You had no part in the wrong; it was my father, may God forgive him, and this woman, who I am sorry to say is your mother, and whom I cannot forgive.”
“This woman!” and Christine’s voice rang out awfully clear and distinct, as she threw her arm toward the two girls. “Say no more of this woman, nor pity Margery because she is her mother; Margery’s parentage is as good as yours. Yes, better—better, Queenie Hetherton, for she is Frederick Hetherton’s own child, and you—”
She did not finish the sentence, for, with a wild cry, Margery put Queenie’s clinging arms from her neck, and rushing to Christine, laid her hand upon her lips.
“Mother, mother,” she cried, in a voice of intense entreaty, “are you mad? Have you forgotten your vow, your promise to me? Will you kill Queenie outright?”