“What makes you fancy such a thing?” she faltered.
“Because there is certainty in my heart,” replied
Merle bravely. “It came to me first when he bade me good-bye in the garden. And now I see it in your face.”
The young girl dropped on her knees, and, an arm around her mother’s waist, gazed up imploringly.
Eyes met eyes. Falsehood was impossible in either case. Mrs. Darlington stooped and folded the kneeling girl in a fond embrace. Both were weeping now. No word had been spoken, but Merle knew that she had correctly divined.
It was a few minutes before there was sufficient self-control for the conversation to be resumed. But then, Merle still kneeling by her side, Mrs. Darlington spoke:
“I had promised to keep this secret, dear,” she began, fondling the girl’s tresses. “But you have gained your knowledge apart from me, so I cannot be held to have betrayed my trust. Yes, Mr. Robles is your father—your loving and devoted father. Your real name is his—Merle Robles you should always have been called.”
“And why not?” asked Merle. “Oh, I am proud and overjoyed to think of him as my father.”
“Because he has some important reason to have the world think otherwise. I know you will believe me, dear Merle, when I say I do not know that reason. He is too grand and honorable a man for me to have ever pressed for an explanation. I just accepted you as a gift from his hands—his child and the child of my girlhood chum, named Merle, as you know, like yourself.”
“So, if I have solved one mystery, there is still another mystery beyond,” murmured Merle.