own children. Of course he can't help seeing that. But we both do our
best for the girl."

"Good for you, Mrs. Maynard; that's fine!"

"Do you really think so, Mrs. Corey? I'm afraid that----"

But Marjorie heard no more. She had stopped her practising at the first
words of these awful disclosures.

Not her mother's own child! She, Marjorie Maynard! It couldn't be
possible! But as the conversation went on, perfectly audible, though not
in loud tones, she could no longer doubt the truth of what her mother
was saying.

Dreadful it might be,--unbelievable it might be,--but true it must be.

"One--two--three--four," mechanically she tried to strike the keys, but
her fingers refused to move.

She left the piano, and went slowly up to her own room.

Her pretty room that her mother,--no, that Mrs. Maynard,--had fixed up
for her with flowering chintz hangings and frilly white curtains.

_Not_ her mother! Who, then, was or had been her mother?

And then Marjorie's calm gave way. She threw herself on her little white
bed, and burying her face in the pillow she sobbed convulsively. Her
thoughts flew to her father,--but no, he wasn't her father! King wasn't