because you have insisted on my speaking, and
because I see that I am alarming you by my
silence. When I told the poor lady, whose
portrait you have got there, the name by which
her infant was christened in the Foundling, I
allowed myself to forget my duty, and dreadful
consequences, I am afraid, have followed from
it. I'll tell you the truth, as plainly as I can.
A few months from the time when I had
informed the lady of her baby's name, there came
to our institution in the country another lady
(a stranger), whose object was to adopt one of
our children. She brought the needful
permission with her, and after looking at a great
many of the children, without being able to
make up her mind, she took a sudden fancy
to one of the babies—a boy—under my care.
Try, pray try, to compose yourself, sir! It's
no use disguising it any longer. The child the
stranger took away was the child of that lady
whose portrait hangs there!"

Mr. Wilding started to his feet. "Impossible!"
he cried out, vehemently. "What are
you talking about? What absurd story are you
telling me now? There's her portrait! Haven't
I told you so already? The portrait of my
mother!"

"When that unhappy lady removed you from
the Foundling, in after years," said Mrs.
Goldstraw, gently, "she was the victim, and you
were the victim, sir, of a dreadful mistake."

He dropped back into his chair. "The room
goes round with me," he said. "My head! my
head!" The housekeeper rose in alarm, and
opened the windows. Before she could get to
the door to call for help, a sudden burst of tears
relieved the oppression which had at first almost
appeared to threaten his life. He signed entreatingly
to Mrs. Goldstraw not to leave him. She
waited until the paroxysm of weeping had worn
itself out. He raised his head as he recovered
himself, and looked at her with the angry
unreasoning suspicion of a weak man.

"Mistake?" he said, wildly repeating her
last word. "How do I know you are not
mistaken yourself?"

"There is no hope that I am mistaken, sir.
I will tell you why, when you are better fit to
hear it."

"Now! now!"

The tone in which he spoke warned Mrs.
Goldstraw that it would be cruel kindness to
let him comfort himself a moment longer with
the vain hope that she might be wrong. A few
words more would end it—and those few words
she determined to speak.

"I have told you," she said, "that the child of
the lady whose portrait hangs there, was adopted
in its infancy, and taken away by a stranger. I am
as certain of what I say as that I am now sitting
here, obliged to distress you, sir, sorely against
my will. Please to carry your mind on, now,
to about three months after that time. I was
then at the Foundling, in London, waiting to
take some children to our institution in the
country. There was a question that day about
naming an infant—a boy—who had just been
received. We generally named them out of the
Directory. On this occasion, one of the gentlemen
who managed the Hospital happened to be
looking over the Register. He noticed that
the name of the baby who had been adopted
('Walter Wilding') was scratched out—for the
reason, of course, that the child had been
removed for good from our care. 'Here's a name
to let,' he said. 'Give it to the new foundling
who has been received to-day.' Ths name was
given, and the child was christened. You, sir,
were that child."

The wine-merchant's head dropped on his
breast. "I was that child!" he said to
himself, trying helplessly to fix the idea in his
mind. "I was that child!"

"Not very long after you had been received
into the Institution, sir," pursued Mrs. Goldstraw,
"I left my situation there, to be married.
If you will remember that, and if you can give
your mind to it, you will see for yourself how the
mistake happened. Between eleven and twelve
years passed before the lady, whom you have
believed to be your mother, returned to the Foundling,
to find her son, and to remove him to her
own home. The lady only knew that her infant
had been called 'Walter Wilding.' The matron
who took pity on her, could but point out the
only 'Walter Wilding' known in the Institution.
I, who might have set the matter right,
was far away from the Foundling and all that
belonged to it. There was nothing—there was
really nothing that could prevent this terrible
mistake from taking place. I feel for you—I
do indeed, sir! You must think—and with
reason that it was in an evil hour that I came
here (innocently enough, I'm sure), to apply for
your housekeeper's place. I feel as if I was to
blame—I feel as if I ought to have had more
self-command. If I had only been able to keep
my face from showing you, what that portrait
and what your own words put into my mind—
you need never, to your dying day, have known
what you know now."

Mr. Wilding looked up suddenly. The inbred
honesty of the man rose in protest against the
housekeeper's last words. His mind seemed
to steady itself, for the moment, under the
shock that had fallen on it.

"Do you mean to say that you would have
concealed this from me if you could?" he
exclaimed.

"I hope I should always tell the truth, sir,
if I was asked," said Mrs. Goldstraw. "And
I know it is better for me that I should not have
a secret of this sort weighing on my mind. But
is it better for you? What use can it serve
now——?"

"What use? Why, good Lord! if your
story is true—-?"

"Should I have told it, sir, as I am now
situated, if it had not been true?"

"I beg your pardon," said the wine-merchant.
"You must make allowance for me.
This dreadful discovery is something I can't
realise even yet. We loved each other so
dearly—I felt so fondly that I was her son.
She died, Mrs. Goldstraw, in my arms—she
died blessing me as only a mother could have