the treacherous secret since almost the hour of your birth. It is time
for you to know the truth at last. You are not the heiress of
Whitestone Hall--you are not Basil Hurlhurst's child!"

Pluma's face grew deathly white; a strange mist seemed gathering
before her.

"I can not--seem--to--grasp--what you mean, or who you are to terrify
me so."

A mocking smile played about the woman's lips as she replied, in a
slow, even, distinct voice:

"I am your mother, Pluma!"

CHAPTER XXXIX.

At the self-same moment that the scene just described was being
enacted in the study Rex Lyon was pacing to and fro in his room,
waiting for the summons of Pluma to join the bridal-party in the
corridor and adjourn to the parlors below, where the guests and the
minister awaited them.

He walked toward the window and drew aside the heavy curtains. The
storm was beating against the window-pane as he leaned his feverish
face against the cool glass, gazing out into the impenetrable darkness
without.

Try as he would to feel reconciled to his marriage he could not do it.
How could he promise at the altar to love, honor, and cherish the wife
whom he was about to wed?

He might honor and cherish her, but love her he could not, no matter
for all the promises he might make. The power of loving was directed
from Heaven above--it was not for mortals to accept or reject at
will.

His heart seemed to cling with a strange restlessness to Daisy, the
fair little child-bride, whom he had loved so passionately--his first
and only love, sweet little Daisy!

From the breast-pocket of his coat he took the cluster of daisies he
had gone through the storm on his wedding-night to gather. He was
waiting until the monument should arrive before he could gather
courage to tell Pluma the sorrowful story of his love-dream.

All at once he remembered the letter a stranger had handed him outside
of the entrance gate. He had not thought much about the matter until
now. Mechanically he picked it up from the mantel, where he had tossed
it upon entering the room, glancing carelessly at the superscription.
His countenance changed when he saw it; his lips trembled, and a hard,
bitter light crept into his brown eyes. He remembered the chirography
but too well.

"From Stanwick!" he cried, leaning heavily against the mantel.

Rex read the letter through with a burning flush on his face, which
grew white as with the pallor of death as he read; a dark mist