"Nothing, Mollie—less than nothing. Not one drop of his black blood flows in your veins. Are you sorry, Mollie?"
"No," said Mollie, drawing a long breath. "No!" she repeated, more decidedly. "I am glad, Miriam—mother."
"You can call me mother, then, despite all?"
"Surely," Mollie said, gravely; "and now tell me all."
"Ah, it is a long, sad story—a wicked and miserable story of shame, and sin, and suffering! It is a cruel thing to blight your young life with the record of such horrible things."
"I may surely bear what others have to endure. But, Miriam, before you begin, do you really mean to tell me Mr. Walraven thinks me his daughter?"
"He believes it as surely as he believes in Heaven. He thinks you are his child—Mary Dane's daughter."
"Who was Mary Dane?"
"Your father's sister by marriage—done to death by Carl Walraven."
Mollie turned very pale.