on me which seemed to ask it more than
the rest.

There was not really very much to tell, and
I had gone on without interruption nearly to
the end, and was just telling them how I
called her Fortune because we thought the
name she said she had so strange, when, as I
said the word "Willie," a sudden cry rang
through the room.

It fell upon my heart with a strange terror,
and in an instant every eye was turned to
whence it came.

Pale as death, her figure eagerly bent
forward, her hand grasping Fortune's shoulder,
Mrs. Haughton sat. From my child's cheek
too all colour had fled; motionless, like two
marble figures, they fronted one another;
their eyes fixed on each other's faces, with a
wild hope, a wild doubt in each: it lasted
but a moment, then both, as by one impulse,
rose. Mrs. Haughton stretched out her hands.
"Mother!" burst from Fortune's lips. There
was a passionate sob, and they were wrapped
in one another's arms.

I saw like one in a dream – not feeling, not
understanding, not believing. A giddiness
came over me; a sudden dimness before my
eyes; a feeling of deadly sickness, as we
feel when we are fainting. There began to
be a buzz of voices, but I could distinguish
nothing clearly until I heard my own name
spoken.

"Dinah," my father was saying hurriedly,
"you have that little portrait—give it to
me."

I roused myself by a great effort, and taking
the locket from my bosom, put it in his hand.
Another moment, and there was a second cry;
but this time it was a cry only of joy.

"Yes, yes!" I heard Mrs. Haughton
passionately saying, in a voice all broken with
emotion, "I knew it, I knew it! It is my
child – my Willie – my little Willie!" and
she pressed the portrait to her lips, and looked
on it as even I had scarcely ever done.

Ah! I needed no other proofs. I needed
nothing more than that one look to tell me I
had lost my child.

Mrs. Haughton had sunk upon her seat
again, and my darling was kneeling at her
feet, clasping her hand, and weeping. They
spoke no more; they, nor any one: then,
when a minute or two had passed, Colonel
Haughton raised my child kindly from the
ground, and placing her mother's hand again
in hers, led them silently together from the
room.

I closed my eyes and turned away, but still
the tears would force their way through the
closed lids upon my cheek. And, as I wept,
feeling – that night I could not help it – so
lonely and so sad, a warm, firm clasp came
gently and closed upon my hand. It was
Nevill who was standing by my side, and
as I felt that friendly pressure, and met the
look that was bent upon me, I knew that
there was one at least who, rejoicing in
my Fortune's joy, could yet feel sympathy
for me.

It was not long before Colonel Haughton
came back, and from him we learnt all
that there was to tell. Mrs. Haughton, when
very young, had married a Captain Moreton
and accompanied him to India, where my
child was born, and called after her mother
Wilhelmina. But she was delicate, and the
doctors said that the Indian climate would
kill her; so, before she was two years old,
they were forced to send her home to England,
to relations in the north. An English servant
was sent in charge of her, and both were
committed to the care of an intimate friend
of theirs who was returning to England in
the same vessel; but the lady died during
the passage, and neither of child nor nurse
were there ever more any tidings heard,
except the solitary fact – which the captain
proved – that they did arrive in England. It
was fifteen years ago. The woman had money
with her belonging to Mrs. Haughton, as
well as the whole of the child's wardrobe;
quite enough to tempt her to dishonesty.

And such was the history of my Fortune's
birth.

I went away as soon as I could to my room,
and lay there waiting for my child; for I
knew that she would come. The moonlight
streamed in brightly and softly, and the
shadow of the trees without the window came
and waved upon my couch, rocking gently to
and fro, with a low music, like a song of rest.
It stilled my heart, that quiet sound; and
lying there alone, I prayed that I might have
strength to rejoice, and not to mourn at all,
and then after a long time I grew quite calm,
and waited quietly.

My darling came at last, but not alone.
Her mother entered the room with her, and
they came together, hand in hand, up to my
couch, and stood beside me, with the
moonlight falling on them and shining on my
child's white dress, as if it was a robe of
silver. We spoke little, but from Mrs.
Haughton's lips there fell a few most gentle,
earnest, loving words, which sank into my
heart, and gladdened me; and then she left
me with my child, alone.

My darling clung around my neck and
wept, and, calmer now myself, I poured out
all my love upon her, and soothed her as I
could, and then we talked together, and she
told me all her joy. And there were some
words that she said that night that I have
never since forgotten, nor ever will forget –
words that have cheered me often since – that
live in my heart now, beautiful, distinct, and
clear as when she spoke them first. God bless
her – my own child!

Brightly as ever the sun rose upon an
August morning, did his first rays beam
through our windows to welcome Arthur's
birthday. There was nothing but joy
throughout the house, and happy faces
welcoming each other, and gay voices, and merry