Virgie stopped short as she met that glance, all the color leaving her face, while a startled cry escaped her lips.
The man flushed, and his eyes sank guiltily before hers as he said, in a low tone:
“You know me, then, Virgie?”
“Uncle Mark!” she gasped, and then sank weakly into a chair.
“Yes, I am your Uncle Mark,” the man returned, a touch of bitterness in his tone; “but I scarcely expected that you would acknowledge me as such. Where is your father?”
“Dead.”
Mark Alexander staggered as if some one had struck him a sudden blow.
“When did he—die?” he asked, with whitening lips.
“Six years ago last November.”
The man sank back into his chair, and bowed his head upon the table, with a groan.