blessed me. And now, after all these years, to
be told she was not my mother! O me, O me! I
don't know what I am saying!" he cried, as the
impulse of self-control under which he had
spoken a moment since, flickered, and died out.
"It was not this dreadful grief—it was
something else that I had it in my mind to speak of.
Yes, yes. You surprised me—you wounded me
just now. You talked as if you would have
hidden this from me, if you could. Don't talk
in that way again. It would have been a crime
to have hidden it. You mean well, I know. I
don't want to distress you—you are a kind-
hearted woman. But you don't remember what
my position is. She left me all that I possess,
in the firm persuasion that I was her son. I am
not her son. I have taken the place, I have
innocently got the inheritance of another man.
He must be found! How do I know he is not
at this moment in misery, without bread to eat?
He must be found! My only hope of bearing
up against the shock that has fallen on me, is
the hope of doing something which she would
have approved. You must know more, Mrs.
Goldstraw, than you have told me yet. Who
was the stranger who adopted the child? You
must have heard the lady's name?"

"I never heard it, sir. I have never seen
her, or heard of her, since."

"Did she say nothing when she took the
child away? Search your memory. She must
have said something."

"Only one thing, sir, that I can remember.
It was a miserably bad season, that year; and
many of the children were suffering from it.
When she took the baby away, the lady said to
me, laughing, 'Don't be alarmed about his
health. He will be brought up in a better
climate than this—I am going to take him to
Switzerland.'"

"To Switzerland? What part of
Switzerland?"

"She didn't say, sir."

"Only that faint clue!" said Mr. Wilding.
"And a quarter of a century has passed since
the child was taken away! What am I to do?"

"I hope you won't take offence at my freedom,
sir," said Mrs. Goldstraw; "but why
should you distress yourself about what is to be
done? He may not be alive now, for anything
you know. And, if he is alive, it's not likely he
can be in any distress. The lady who adopted
him was a bred and born lady—it was easy to
see that. And she must have satisfied them at
the Foundling that she could provide for the
child, or they would never have let her take him
away. If I was in your place, sir—please to
excuse my saying so—I should comfort myself
with remembering that I had loved that poor
lady whose portrait you have got there—truly
loved her as my mother, and that she had truly
loved me as her son. All she gave to you, she
gave for the sake of that love. It never altered
while she lived; and it won't alter, I'm sure,
as long as you live. How can you have a better
right, sir, to keep what you have got than
that?"

Mr. Wilding's immovable honesty saw the
fallacy in his housekeeper's point of view at a
glance.

"You don't understand me," he said."It's
because I loved her that I feel it a duty—a
sacred duty to do justice to her son. If he is
a living man, I must find him: for my own sake,
as well as for his. I shall break down under this
dreadful trial, unless I employ myself—actively,
instantly employ myself—in doing what my
conscience tells me ought to be done. I must
speak to my lawyer; I must set my lawyer at
work before I sleep to-night." He approached
a tube in the wall of the room, and called down
through it to the office below. "Leave me for
a little, Mrs. Goldstraw," he resumed; "I shall
be more composed, I shall be better able to
speak to you later in the day. We shall get on
well—I hope we shall get on well together—in
spite of what has happened. It isn't your fault;
I know it isn't your fault. There! there! shake
hands; and—and do the best you can in the
house—I can't talk about it now."

The door opened as Mrs. Goldstraw advanced
towards it; and Mr. Jarvis appeared.

"Send for Mr. Bintrey," said the wine-merchant."
Say I want to see him directly."

The clerk unconsciously suspended the
execution of the order, by announcing "Mr. Vendale,"
and showing in the new partner in the
firm of Wilding and Co.

"Pray excuse me for one moment, George
Vendale," said Wilding. "I have a word to
say to Jarvis. Send for Mr. Bintrey," he
repeated—- "send at once."

Mr. Jarvis laid a letter on the table before
he left the room.

"From our correspondents at Neuchâtel, I
think, sir. The letter has got the Swiss
postmark."

NEW CHARACTERS ON THE SCENE.

The words, "The Swiss Postmark," following
so soon upon the housekeeper's reference to
Switzerland, wrought Mr. Wilding's agitation
to such a remarkable height, that his new
partner could not decently make a pretence of
letting it pass unnoticed.

"Wilding," he asked hurriedly, and yet
stopping short and glancing around as if for
some visible cause of his state of mind: "what
is the matter?"

"My good George Vendale," returned
the wine-merchant, giving his hand with an
appealing look, rather as if he wanted help to
get over some obstacle, than as if he gave it in
welcome or salutation: "my good George
Vendale, so much is the matter, that I shall never
be myself again. It is impossible that I can
ever be myself again. For, in fact, I am not
myself."

The new partner, a brown-cheeked
handsome fellow, of about his own age, with a quick
determined eye and an impulsive manner,
retorted with natural astonishment: "Not
yourself?"

"Not what I supposed myself to be," said
Wilding.