"There must be some mistake," she faltered.
"No, there is no mistake; but I fancy the proud Vincent Carew is at the bottom of it all. He would not care for his child to know her humble relatives on her mother's side. Why, he was governor of his state eight years, and was in Congress also. The Franklyns were plain simple people; my grandfather and my father were mechanics, although nobler hearts never beat in human breasts, and they were never rich. It is from the life-insurance money they left us that we are enabled to live in comparative comfort now."
Her eager, interested eyes made him go on rather diffidently:
"As for me, I have no taste that way. My desire is for a literary life. I have written some trifles that the critics praised."
"Your name?" the girl asked, curiously, gazing with interest at his handsome face.
"Chester Franklyn," he replied.
"Would you like to meet your unknown cousin—the daughter of the proud Vincent Carew?" she pursued.
His face grew grave.
"I do not know how to answer you," he replied. "She would not care for us. Perhaps her father has never told her about the Franklyns."
She looked at him with a strange expression, and held out to him her little white hand.