“How can you tell it so lightly?” cried Venters, passionately. “Haven’t you any sense of—of—” He choked back speech. He felt the rush of pain and passion. He seized her in rude, strong hands and drew her close. He looked straight into her dark-blue eyes. They were shadowing with the old wistful light, but they were as clear as the limpid water of the spring. They were earnest, solemn in unutterable love and faith and abnegation. Venters shivered. He knew he was looking into her soul. He knew she could not lie in that moment; but that she might tell the truth, looking at him with those eyes, almost killed his belief in purity.
“What are—what were you to—to Oldring?” he panted, fiercely.
“I am his daughter,” she replied, instantly.
Venters slowly let go of her. There was a violent break in the force of his feeling—then creeping blankness.
“What—was it—you said?” he asked, in a kind of dull wonder.
“I am his daughter.”
“Oldring’s daughter?” queried Venters, with life gathering in his voice.
“Yes.”
With a passionately awakening start he grasped her hands and drew her close.
“All the time—you’ve been Oldring’s daughter?”