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