"Who I am; what my name may be; who were my parents—everything that I ought to know."
"Why do you speak to me about it?"
"Because you know, I am certain; because you can tell me, if you will. Tell me, Miriam—tell me!"
She leaned forward, her ringed hands clasped, her blue eyes lighted and eager, her pretty face aglow. But Miriam drew back with a frown.
"I have nothing to tell you, Mollie—nothing that would make you better or happier to hear. Be content and ask no questions."
"I can't be content, and I must ask questions!" the girl cried, passionately. "If you cared for me, as you seem to, you would tell me! What is Mr. Walraven to me? Why has he brought me here?"
"Ask him."
"He won't tell me. He says he took a fancy to me, seeing me play 'Fanchon' at K——, and brought me here and adopted me. A very likely story! No, Miriam; I am silly enough, Heaven knows, but I am not quite so silly as that. He came after me because you sent him, and because I have some claim on him he dare not forego. What is it, Miriam? Am I his daughter?"
Miriam sat and stared at her a moment in admiring wonder, then her dark, gaunt face relaxed into a grim smile.
"What a sharp little witch it is! His daughter, indeed! What do you think about it yourself? Does the voice of nature speak in your filial heart, or is the resemblance between you so strong?"