property; but the two together were too much for
him. A man haunted by twin ghosts, he
became deeply depressed. The inseparable spectres
sat at the board with him, ate from his
platter, drank from his cup, and stood by his
bedside at night. When he recalled his
supposed mother's love, he felt as though he had
stolen it. When he rallied a little under the
respect and attachment of his dependents, he
felt as though he were even fraudulent in making
them happy, for that should have been the
unknown man's duty and gratification.

Gradually, under the pressure of his brooding
mind, his body stooped, his step lost its
elasticity, his eyes were seldom lifted from the
ground. He knew he could not help the
deplorable mistake that had been made, but he
knew he could not mend it; for the days and
weeks went by, and no one claimed his name or
his possessions. And now there began to creep
over him, a cloudy consciousness of often-recurring
confusion in his head. He would
unaccountably lose, sometimes whole hours,
sometimes a whole day and night. Once, his
remembrance stopped as he sat at the head of the
dinner-table, and was blank until daybreak.
Another time, it stopped as he was beating time
to their singing, and went on again when he and
his partner were walking in the courtyard by
the light of the moon, half the night later. He
asked Vendale (always full of consideration,
work, and help) how this was? Vendale only
replied, "You have not been quite well; that's
all." He looked for explanation into the faces
of his people. But they would put it off with,
"Glad to see you looking so much better, sir;"
or "Hope you're doing nicely now, sir;" in
which was no information at all.

At length, when the partnership was but five
months old, Walter Wilding took to his bed,
and his housekeeper became his nurse.

"Lying here, perhaps you will not mind my
calling you Sally, Mrs. Goldstraw?" said the
poor wine-merchant.

"It sounds more natural to me, sir, than any
other name, and I like it better."

"Thank you, Sally. I think, Sally, I must
of late have been subject to fits. Is that so,
Sally? Don't mind telling me now."

"It has happened, sir."

"Ah! That is the explanation!" he quietly
remarked. "Mr. Obenreizer, Sally, talks of the
world being so small that it is not strange how
often the same people come together, and come
together, at various places, and in various stages
of life. But it does seem strange, Sally, that I
should, as I may say, come round to the Foundling
to die."

He extended his hand to her, and she gently
took it.

"You are not going to die, dear Mr. Wilding."

"So Mr. Bintrey said, but I think he was
wrong. The old child-feeling is coming back
upon me, Sally. The old hush and rest, as I
used to fall asleep."

After an interval he said, in a placid voice,
"Please kiss me, Nurse," and, it was evident,
believed himself to be lying in the old Dormitory.

As she had been used to bend over the fatherless
and motherless children, Sally bent over
the fatherless and motherless man, and put her
lips to his forehead, murmuring:

"God bless you!"

"God bless you!" he replied, in the same
tone.

After another interval, he opened his eyes in
his own character, and said: "Don't move me,
Sally, because of what I am going to say; I
lie quite easily. I think my time is come. I
don't know how it may appear to you, Sallv,
but——"

Insensibility fell upon him for a few minutes;
he emerged from it once more.

"—- I don't know how it may appear to you,
Sally, but so it appears to me."

When he had thus conscientiously finished
his favourite sentence, his time came, and he
died.

Act II.

VENDALE MAKES LOVE.

The summer and the autumn had passed.
Christmas and the New Year were at hand.

As executors honestly bent on performing
their duty towards the dead, Vendale and
Bintrey had held more than one anxious
consultation on the subject of Wilding's will. The
lawyer had declared, from the first, that it was
simply impossible to take any useful action in
the matter at all. The only obvious inquiries
to make, in relation to the lost man, had been
made already by Wilding himself; with this
result, that time and death together had not
left a trace of him discoverable. To advertise
for the claimant to the property, it would be
necessary to mention particulars—a course of
proceeding which would invite half the
impostors in England to present themselves in the
character of the true Walter Wilding. "If we
find a chance of tracing the lost man, we will
take it. If we don't, let us meet for another
consultation on the first anniversary of
Wilding's death." So Bintrey advised. And so,
with the most earnest desire to fulfil his dead
friend's wishes, Vendale was fain to let the
matter rest for the present.

Turning from his interest in the past to his
interest in the future, Vendale still found
himself confronting a doubtful prospect. Months
on months had passed since his first visit to
Soho-square—and through all that time, the one
language in which he had told Marguerite that
he loved her was the language of the eyes,
assisted, at convenient opportunities, by the
language of the hand.

What was the obstacle in his way? The one
immovable obstacle which had been in his way
from the first. No matter how fairly the
opportunities looked, Vendale's efforts to speak with
Marguerite alone, ended invariably in one and
the same result. Under the most accidental
circumstances, in the most innocent manner
possible, Obenreizer was always in the way.

With the last days of the old year came an
unexpected chance of spending an evening with