Walraven--yes, sold her."

"You wretch! Well?"

"Well, I went to see her occasionally afterward, but not often, for the
strolling troupe were here, there, and everywhere--from pillar to post.
But I never lost sight of her, and I saw her grow up a pretty, slender,
bright-eyed lass, well dressed, well fed, and happy--perfectly happy in
her wandering life. Her great-grandmother--old Peter Dane's wife--was a
gypsy, Mr. Walraven, and I dare say the wild blood broke out. She liked
the life, and became the star of the little band--the queen of the
troupe. I kept her in view even when she crossed the Atlantic last year,
and paid her a visit a week ago to-night."

"Humph!" was Carl Walraven's comment. "Well, Mistress Miriam, it might
have been worse; no thanks to you, though. And now--what does she know
of her own story?"

"Nothing."

"What?"

"Nothing, I tell you. Her name is Mary Dane, and she is seventeen
years old on the twenty-fifth of November. Her father and mother are
dead--poor but honest people, of course--and I am Aunt Miriam, earning
a respectable living by washing clothes and scrubbing floors. That is
what she knows. How much of that is true, Mr. Walraven?"

"Then she never heard of me?"