when urging him to come to the
Saviour. At last she looked up quickly.

"Father," she said, "I will nurse this man with more anxious care and
interest, for his mother's sake."

"You may do it, dear lass, for his own sake," returned Paul,
impressively, "for he is your own brother."

"My brother?" gasped Betty. "Why, what do you mean, father? Surely you
are jesting!"

"Very far from jesting, lass. Stalker is your brother Edwin, whom you
haven't seen since you was a small girl, and you thought was dead. But,
come, as the cat's out o' the bag at last, I may as well make a clean
breast of it. Sit down here on the bank, Betty, and listen."

The poor girl obeyed almost mechanically, for she was well-nigh stunned
by the unexpected news, which Paul had given her, and of which, from her
knowledge of her father's character, she could not doubt the truth.

"Then Stalker--Edwin--must be your own son!" she said, looking at Paul
earnestly.

"Nay, he's not my son, no more than you are my daughter. Forgive me,
Betty. I've deceived you throughout, but I did it with a good
intention. You see, if I hadn't passed myself off as your father, I'd
never have bin able to git ye out o' the boardin'-school where ye was
putt. But I did it for the best, Betty, I did it for the best; an' all
to benefit your poor mother an' you. That is how it was."

He paused, as if endeavouring to recall the past, and Betty sat with her
hands clasped, gazing in Paul's face like a fascinated creature, unable
to speak or move.

"You see, Betty," he resumed, "your real father was a doctor in the
army, an' I'm sorry to have to add, he was a bad man--so bad that he
went and deserted your mother soon after you was born. I raither think
that your brother Edwin must have got his wickedness from him, just as
you got your goodness from your mother; but I've bin told that your
father became a better man before he died, an' I can well believe it,
wi' such a woman as your mother prayin' for him every day, as long as he
lived. Well, when you was about six, your brother Edwin, who was then
about twenty, had got so bad in his ways, an' used to kick up sitch
shindies in the house, an' swore so terrible, that your mother made up
her mind to send you to a boardin'-school, to keep you out o' harm's
way, though it nigh broke her heart; for you seemed to be the only
comfort she had in life.

"About that time I was goin' a good deal about the house, bein', as I'v