are quite unknown; and you, as I understand, are
about to engage a new nurse for the journey when
you come to see us. Under these circumstances,
the child may appear as my child, brought back to
me under my sister's care. The only servant we
take with us from our old home is my own maid,
who can be safely trusted. As for the lawyers in
England and in Switzerland, it is their profession
to keep secrets and we may feel quite easy in that
direction. So there you have our harmless little
conspiracy! Write by return of post, my love, and tell
me you will join it." * * * *

"Do you still conceal the name of the writer
of that letter?" asked Vendale.

"I keep the name of the writer till the last,"
answered Obenreizer, "and I proceed to my
second proof—a mere slip of paper, this time,
as you see. Memorandum given to the Swiss
lawyer, who drew the documents referred to in
the letter I have just read, expressed as
follows:—'Adopted from the Foundling Hospital
of England, 3rd March, 1836, a male infant,
called, in the Institution, Walter Wilding.
Person appearing on the register, as adopting
the child, Mrs. Jane Anne Miller, widow, acting
in this matter for her married sister, domiciled
in Switzerland. 'Patience!" resumed
Obenreizer, as Vendale, breaking loose from Bintrey,
started to his feet. "I shall not keep the
name concealed much longer. Two more little
slips of paper, and I have done. Third proof!
Certificate of Doctor Ganz, still living in
practice at Neuchâtel, dated July, 1838. The doctor
certifies (you shall read it for yourselves directly)
first, that he attended the adopted child in its
infant maladies; second, that, three months
before the date of the certificate, the gentleman
adopting the child as his son died; third, that
on the date of the certificate, his widow and her
maid, taking the adopted child with them, left
Neuchâtel on their return to England. One
more link now added to this, and my chain of
evidence is complete. The maid remained with
her mistress till her mistress's death, only a
few years since. The maid can swear to the
identity of the adopted infant, from his
childhood to his youth—from his youth to his
manhood, as he is now. There is her address in
England—and there, Mr. Vendale, is the fourth,
and final proof!"

"Why do you address yourself to me?"
said Vendale, as Obenreizer threw the written
address on the table.

Obenreizer turned on him, in a sudden frenzy
of triumph.

"Because you are the man! If my niece
marries you, she marries a bastard, brought up
by public charity. If my niece marries you,
she marries an impostor, without name or
lineage, disguised in the character of a
gentleman of rank and family."

"Bravo!" cried Bintrey. "Admirably put,
Mr. Obenreizer! It only wants one word more
to complete it. She marries—thanks entirely to
your exertions—a man who inherits a handsome
fortune, and a man whose origin will make him
prouder than ever of his peasant-wife. George
Vendale, as brother-executors, let us congratulate
each other! Our dear dead friend's last
wish on earth is accomplished. We have found
the lost Walter Wilding. As Mr. Obenreizer
said just now—you are the man!"

The words passed by Vendale unheeded.
For the moment he was conscious of but one
sensation; he heard but one voice. Marguerite's
hand was clasping his. Marguerite's voice was
whispering to him: "I never loved you, George,
as I love you now!"

THE CURTAIN FALLS.

May-Day. There is merry-making in Cripple
Corner, the chimneys smoke, the patriarchal
dining-hall is hung with garlands, and Mrs.
Goldstraw, the respected housekeeper, is very
busy. For, on this bright morning the young
master of Cripple Corner is married to its young
mistress, far away: to wit, in the little town of
Brieg, in Switzerland, lying at the foot of the
Simplon Pass where she saved his life.

The bells ring gaily in the little town
of Brieg, and flags are stretched across the
street, and rifle shots are heard, and sounding
music from brass instruments. Streamer-decorated
casks of wine have been rolled out under
a gay awning in the public way before the Inn,
and there will be free feasting and revelry. What
with bells and banners, draperies hanging from
windows, explosion of gunpowder, and
reverberation of brass music, the little town of Brieg
is all in a flutter, like the hearts of its simple
people.

It was a stormy night last night, and the
mountains are covered with snow. But the sun
is bright to-day, the sweet air is fresh, the tin
spires of the little town of Brieg are burnished
silver, and the Alps are ranges of far-off white
cloud in a deep blue sky.

The primitive people of the little town of
Brieg have built a greenwood arch across the
street, under which the newly married pair shall
pass in triumph from the church. It is inscribed,
on that side, "HONOUR AND LOVE TO
MARGUERITE VENDALE!" for the people are proud of her
to enthusiasm. This greeting of the bride under
her new name is affectionately meant as a
surprise, and therefore the arrangement has been
made that she, unconscious why, shall be taken
to the Church by a tortuous back way. A
scheme not difficult to carry into execution in
the crooked little town of Brieg.

So, all things are in readiness, and they are
to go and come on foot. Assembled in the
Inn's best chamber, festively adorned, are the
bride and bridegroom, the Neuchâtel notary,
the London lawyer, Madame Dor, and a certain
large mysterious Englishman, popularly known
as Monsieur Zhoé-Ladelle. And behold Madame
Dor, arrayed in a spotless pair of gloves of
her own, with no hand in the air, but both hands
clasped round the neck of the bride; to
embrace whom Madame Dor has turned her
broad back on the company, consistent to the
last.

"Forgive me, my beautiful," pleads Madame
Dor, "for that I ever was his she-cat!"