im kinship? I see here one who posed
as my aunt for many years--"

"Posed, Winnie?"

Miss Craik affected a croak of regretful protest.

Winifred's eyes shot lightnings.

"Yes. I am sure you are not my aunt. Many things I can recall prove it
to me. Why do you never mention my father and mother? What wrong have I
done to any living soul that, ever since you were mixed up in the attack
on Mr. Ronald Tower, you should deal with me as if I were a criminal or
a lunatic, and seek to part me from those who would befriend me?"

"Hush, little girl," interposed Voles, with mock severity. "You don't
know what you're saying. You are hurting your dear aunt's feelings. She
is your aunt. I ought to know, considering that you are my daughter!"

"Your daughter!"

Now, indeed, she felt ready to dare dragons. This coarse, brutal giant
of a man her father! Her gorge rose at the suggestion. Almost fiercely
she resolved to hold her own against these persecutors who scrupled not
to use any lying device that would suit their purpose.

"Yes," he cried truculently. "Don't I come up to your expectations?"

"If you are my father," she said, with a strange self-possession that
came to her aid in this trying moment, "where is my mother?"

"Sorry to say she died long since."

"Did you murder her as you tried to murder Mr. Tower?"

The chance shot went home, though it hit her callous hearer in a way she
could not then appreciate. He swore violently.

"You're my daughter, I tell you," he vociferated, "and the first thing
you have to learn is obedience. Your head has been turned, young lady,
by your pretty Rex and his nice ways. I'll have to teach you not to
address me in that fashion. Take her to her room, Rachel."

Driven to frenzy by a dreadful and wholly unexpected predicament,
Winifred cast off the hand her "aunt" laid on her shoulder.

"Let me go!" she screamed. "I will not accompany you. I do not believe a
word you say. If you touch me, I shall defend myself."

"Spit-fire, eh?" she heard Voles say. There was something of a struggle.
She never knew exactly what happened. She found herself clasped in his
giant arms and heard his half jesting protest:

"Now, my butterfly, don't beat your little wings so furiously, or you'll
hurt yourself."

He carried her, screaming, up-stairs, and pushed her into a large room.
Rachel Craik followed, with set face and angry words.

"Ungrateful girl!" was her cry. "After all I've done for you!"