“It seems,” the woman resumed, her keen eyes never leaving the fair face opposite to her, “that he has long been very fond of a girl whose surname is the same as mine—­a Miss Mona Montague.  She was a niece of that wealthy Mr. Dinsmore, who died so suddenly in New York a short time ago.”

It seemed to Mona that her heart must leap from her bosom as she listened to this reference to herself; but, with every appearance of perfect composure, she measured off some ribbon that she was making into bows, and severed it with a sharp clip of her scissors.

“Perhaps you do not know whom I mean,” said Mrs. Montague, and paused, determined to make the girl speak.

“Oh, yes, I have heard of him, and I remember reading the notice of his death in a paper,” Mona compelled herself to say, without betraying anything of the pain which smote her heart in recurring thus to her great loss.

Mrs. Montague frowned.

She was not progressing as well as she could have wished in her “pumping” operation; but she meant to probe the matter as far as she dared.

“Well,” she went on, “this niece was supposed by everybody to be Mr. Dinsmore’s heiress; but a discarded wife suddenly made her appearance, after his death, and claimed the whole of his property, and the girl was left without a penny.  She must have been terribly cut up about it, for she suddenly disappeared, and cannot be found, and it is this that has so upset young Palmer.  He had not committed himself, his father informed me, but was just on the point of declaring his love when Mr. Dinsmore died; and the girl, evidently crushed by her loss, has hidden herself so securely that no one can find her.”

It was fortunate for Mona that her recent troubles had taught her something of self-control, or she must have betrayed herself at this point.

She realized that Mrs. Montague must have a purpose in relating all this to her, and feared it was to verify some suspicion regarding herself.

She now believed that the woman must know all her mother’s history, and certain facts regarding her own birth, which she felt that Mr. Dinsmore had, for some reason, withheld from her.  This conviction had grown upon her ever since she had been a member of her family, and she hoped, by some means, if she remained long enough with her, to learn the truth.  Still she feared that if Mrs. Montague should discover that she was her husband’s daughter she might be so prejudiced against her she would at once dismiss her from her employ, and she would then lose her only chance to solve the questions that puzzled her.  But she found it very hard to conceal the great and sudden joy that went thrilling through her as she listened to these facts regarding Ray Palmer’s affection for and his loyalty to her.

He had not been unworthy and faithless, as she had imagined; there had been some good reason why he had not come to her during the early days of her trouble.  He might have been called suddenly away from New York on business and not been able to return until her home was broken up; and now he was grieving—­“wearing the willow,” as Mrs. Montague expressed it—­because he could not find her.  He loved her! he had been upon the point of telling her so, and this blissful knowledge made the world seem suddenly bright again to the hitherto depressed and grieving girl.