Although outwardly calm, Jean’s heart was beating fast.  She expected to hear the man deny what she had said, or say something in his own defence.  When, however, he remained silent, she glanced at him, and then turned her eyes upon the open page.

“Ye have heard that it was said, Thou shalt love thy neighbour and hate thine enemy.  But I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you and pray for them that despitefully use you, and persecute you.”

“Stop, stop!” the man cried.  “I can’t stand those words.  They are not meant for me.  I can’t pray for my enemies.  Do you think I can pray for King George?”

“That is for you to decide, Mr. Timon.  I am sure that I can pray for those who carried me away from home.  Don’t you think that they need it?”

Jean was about to close the book, when her eyes rested upon some words on the front page.  As she looked, her face turned pale, and she gave a slight gasp of astonishment.

“What is the matter?” the man asked.

But the girl did not hear him.  Her eyes were fixed upon the words

  “To darling Dane,
    With Mother’s best love. 
      May God bless and keep you.”

Her heart almost stopped beating as she stared at the writing, especially the word “Dane.”  What did it mean? she asked herself.  It must be her own Dane; there could not be two.  Was this his book?  Was this his home?  Then a sudden thought flashed into her mind, and something which had greatly worried and puzzled her passed like the mist before the morning sun.  It must be so, and she understood now why Dane had not told her.

Rising swiftly to her feet, she approached the couch.

“Are you Dane Norwood’s father?” she asked in a voice that trembled with emotion and excitement.

With a gurgling cry, the man sat bolt upright, and glared at the girl.

“Why do you ask me that?” he demanded.  “How dare you mention that name in this house?  What do you know about him?”

“I know him to be one of the best men I have ever met.  Next to my father I love him more than any one in the world.”

“You do!” It was all the man could say, so great was his astonishment.  He dropped back upon the pillow, breathing heavily, and clutching hard at his side.

“Yes, I know him,” Jean continued, “and I think I understand now why he never told me about you.  And he had good reason, too.”

“And he never told you what kind of a being I am?” the man asked in a hoarse whisper.

“He said nothing about you at all.”

“Are you sure, Miss?  Didn’t he tell you how I forced him to leave home, and told him never to come here again?”

“He said nothing to me about it, Mr. Timon.  He never mentioned your name, and when I asked him about his father, he always changed the subject.”

“My God!  Did he!” The man’s hands clutched hard at the blanket, and his eyes turned upon the girl’s face expressed something of the agony of his soul.  “And he never betrayed me,” he murmured as if to himself.  “Did he tell you about his mother?”