ory. I wish," she went on, thoughtfully, "you would tell
me just how you came to have it. Did it descend to you from your father's
or your mother's ancestors?"

The man sat down again before he replied, and turned his face slightly
away from her gaze as he said:

"It really belonged to your mother, dear, instead of to me, for it has
always been given to the eldest daughter on the mother's side; so, after
your mother died, I treasured it to give to you when you should be old
enough to appreciate it."

"I wish you would tell me more about my mother, Uncle Walter," the young
girl said, wistfully, after a moment of silence. "You have never seemed
willing to talk about her--you have always evaded and put me off when I
asked you anything, until I have grown to feel as if there were some
mystery connected with her. But surely I am old enough now, and have a
right to know her history. Was she your only sister, and how did it
happen that she died all alone in London? Where was my father? and why
was she left so poor when you had so much? Really, Uncle Walter, I think
I ought to insist upon being told all there is to know about my parents
and myself. You have often said you would tell me some time; why not
now?"

"Yes, yes, child, you are old enough, if that were all," the man
returned, with livid lips, a shudder shaking his strong frame from
head to foot.

Mona also grew very pale as she observed him, and a look of apprehension
swept over her face at his ominous words.

"Was there anything wrong about mamma?" she began, tremulously.

"No, no!" Mr. Dinsmore interposed, almost passionately; "she was the
purest and loveliest woman in the world, and her fate was the saddest in
the world."

"And my father?" breathed the girl, trembling visibly.

"Was a wretch! a faithless brute!" was the low, stern reply.

"What became of him?"

"Do not ask me, child," the excited man returned, almost fiercely, but
white to his lips, "he deserves only your hatred and contempt, as he has
mine. Your mother, as you have been told, died in London, a much wronged
and broken-hearted woman, where she had lived for nearly three months in
almost destitute circumstances. The moment I learned of her sad condition
I hastened to London to give her my care and protection; but she was
gone--she had died three days before my arrival, and I found only a wee
little baby awaiting my care and love."

A bitter sob burst from the man's lips at this point, b