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person whom I most wronged in the transaction was myself. Her name was not Myra Cray, but Myra Keir. She was my wife.

She had sworn to me she would not, knowing how fatal the consequences might be of such a confession. Now, Moxon,

'Your wife!' repeats Joel, staring you know all. Had my wife revacantly.

'Good God!' exclaims Saville Moxon.

'Muiraven! are you mad?' says Stratford.

'My dear fellows, do you think I'd say a thing of this kind for the mere purpose of sneaking out of a scrape? You know what our ideas are on the subject. What man of the world would blame very deeply, a youthful liaison between a college freshman and a pretty barmaid? But this was no passing frailty of mine. I met this girl, formed an attachment for her, brought her up to London, married her privately in the old church of St. Sepulchre, and settled her at Fretterley, whence she-sheLeft me!

And Muiraven, leaning back against the mantelpiece, sets his teeth at that remembrance, and looks sternly down upon the hearth-rug, although it all happened so many years ago.

'She left you-yes,' cries Joel,. 'but not before you had near broke her poor 'art with your unkindness, sir. And she came back, poor lamb, to her own people and her own 'ouse, and died there, like a dog in a ditch.'

'She left the house I had provided for her with-with-some one else,' says Muiraven, frowning.

'She left it with me, sir, her own cousin, who wouldn't have hurt a hair of her 'ead. I searched for her long, and I found her un'appy and wretched, and I persuaded of her to come back 'ome with me; thinking as you had wronged her, for she never said a word of her being married, poor lass, from that day to the day of her death.'

mained with me, I might perhaps have summoned up courage before now to tell my father the truth; but she left me-as I thought to disgrace herself-and though I searched for her in every direction, I was unable to obtain any clue to her destination. Then I went abroad-you remember the time and hoped to forget it all, but the memory has clung to me like a curse ever since, until I met this fellow to-day in the Docks. Else I might have gone on to all eternity, considering myself still fettered by this early mésalliance. And the child died too, you say?' turning again to Joel. Was it a boy?'

The child ain't dead no more than you are,' replies Joel gruffly, for he has been cheated out of his revenge, and no one seems the better for it. He's a strong chap of four year old, all alive and kicking, and if you're the gentleman you pretend to be, you'll provide for him as a gentleman should.'

Alive! Good heavens! and four years old! How this complicates matters! Moxon, that child is my legitimate heir.'

'Of course he is, if you were married. But where is he? that's the next thing to ascertain. With your family, eh?' turning to Joel.

No, he ain't bin along of 'em since his mother's death, for there was a lady at Priestley-the only creetur as was good to my poor lass when she lay dyin'-and she was real kind, God bless 'er; and the poor gal, she died on her bosom, as they tell me; and afterwards Mrs. Mordaunt-that was the lady-she took Tommy along with her up to the Court and

Tommy! The Court! Good God! do you mean to tell me that the boy you speak of, Myra Cray's child, was adopted by Mrs. Mordaunt of Fen Court, the wife of Colonel Mordaunt, of ———.'

In course, the Colonel's lady; and she makes a deal of him, too, so they say. But still, if he's yourn, sir, you're the proper person to look after him, and I shan't call it justice if you don't.'

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Stratford, you know the box of toys we went after to-day?'

That you kicked up such a shindy about? Yes.'

It is for that child that I brought them home.'

'Did you know of this then?' 'Not a word; but I have stayed with the Mordaunts, and seen him. And to think he should be my own. How extraordinary!'

'Deuced inconvenient, I should say. What do you mean to do next?'

'Go down to Priestley at the earliest opportunity. You'll come with me, Hal?'

'Better take Moxon, he may be of use.

I'm none.'

Then Moxon agrees to go; and they talk excitedly together for a few minutes, and almost forget poor Joel, who is anxiously awaiting the upshot of it all.

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Well, are you satisfied, or do you still wish to fight me?' says Muiraven to him presently.

'I suppose I've no call to fight you, sir, if you really married her; but I must say I should like to see the lines.'

'You shall see them, Cray, for her sake as well as mine. And, meanwhile, what can I do for you?'

'I want nothing now, sir, but to go home again and look after mother and the little 'uns.'

'I cannot talk more to you at present, but you may be sure I shall see that none of her re

lations want. Here is my address'-giving him a card-'any one will tell you where it is. Come to me there to-morrow evening, and we will consult what I can do to best prove my friendship to you.' Upon which Muiraven puts out his hand and grasps Joel's rough palm, and the poor, honest, blundering soul, feeling anything but victorious, and yet with a load lifted off his bosom, turns to grope his way downstairs.

'Don't you lose that card,' says Stratford, who steps outside the door to show him where to go; 'for I am sure his Lordship will prove a good friend to you, if you will let him be so.'

'His Lordship!' repeats Joel, wonderingly; which be a Lord? the little 'un?'

'No, no, the gentleman whom you call Hamilton. His real name is Lord Muiraven; you must not forget that.'

'A Lord-a real Lord-and he was married to my poor lass! No wonder it killed her! And that child, Tommy, a Lord's son. Darn it, how little difference there is between 'em when they're covered with dirt.' And the first chuckle that has left Joel's lips for many a long month, breaks from them as he steps carefully down the steep staircase, and ponders on the wonderful truth he has been told. 'A Lord's son,' he repeats, as he gains the street, and proceeds to shuffle back to the Docks again. 'That brat a Lord's son! Now, I wonder if my poor lass knew it all along; or, if not, if it makes her feel a bit easier to know it now.'

Muiraven and Moxon have a long conversation together as they travel down to Glottonbury.

'I conclude this early marriage of yours was what people call a

love-match, eh?" remarks the latter inquisitively.

Muiraven colours.

'Well, yes, I suppose so; but love appears to us in such a different light, you know, when we come to a maturer age.'

'Never having had any experience in that respect, can't say I do know.'

'You are lucky,' with a sigh. 'What I mean to say is, that at the time I certainly thought I loved her. She was just the style of woman to inflame a boy's first passion-pretty features, perfect shape, and a certain air of abandon about her. And then she was several years older than myself!'

"Ah! I understand.'

'I was not "hooked," if you mean that,' says Muiraven quickly.

'I never knew a fellow yet, my dear boy, who acknowledged that he had been. But when a gentleman, under age

'I was two and twenty.'

'Never mind. You were as green as a school-boy. When a man, in your station of life, I repeat, is drawn into marriage with a woman from a class inferior to his own, and older than himself, you may call it what you choose, but the world in general will call it "hooking."'

'Well, don't let us talk of it at all, then,' says Muiraven.

́All right; we'll change the subject. How beastly cold it is.'

Yet, do what they will, the conversation keeps veering round to the forbidden topic till Muiraven has made a clean breast of it to his friend. Arrived at Glottonbury, they make round-about inquiries concerning Priestley and the Mordaunts, and there our hero learns, for the first time, of the Colonel's death and the subsequent departure of his widow. So that it is no surprise to Moxon and himself to be received by

Oliver only when they present themselves at Fen Court.

Of course the natural astonishment excited by the assertion that Tommy is Lord Muiraven's lawful heir has to be allayed by the explanation given above. And then Oliver, who has received the golden key to the mystery that has puzzled them, and knows much more about it than Saville Moxon, becomes quite friendly and intimate with Muiraven, and wants him to stay at the Court, and when his invitation is declined on the score of his visitor's anxiety to find Mrs. Mordaunt and the boy, shakes hands with him warmly, applauding his zeal, and wishing him all success in his undertaking, with an enthusiasm that awakens the barrister's suspicions.

What the deuce was that fellow so friendly about?' he inquires, as they journey back to town. 'Why is he so anxious you should neither eat, drink, nor sleep till you get on the track of old Mordaunt's widow?'

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I Why you know perfectly well she has the boy.'

What of that? she won't eat him, I suppose; and what difference can a day, more or less, make to you before you see him?"

'You have evidently not much idea of paternal affection,' says Muiraven, as he strikes a fusee on the heel of his boot.

'Well, where the father has never seen his child, and didn't even know he had got one-I can't say I have.'

'I have already told you that I have seen him.'

'And liked him?'

Very much! He is a charming little child!'

Indeed! How curious! Now, I wonder if your liking for him arose from a natural instinct, or

from any extraneous circumstances that may have surrounded him. That question would form rather a neat psychological study.'

'I don't follow you, Moxon.'

No? By the way, Muiraven, what became of that girl-now, what was her name ?--MissMiss-- St. John, wasn't it? whom you were so keen after, a few seasons ago?'

'Keen after! How you do exaggerate, Moxon. Why she-she is Mrs. Mordaunt. I thought you knew that!'

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'So wrong, so very wrong she affirms, with just a sufficient chance of breaking down to render it necessary to hold her cambric handkerchief in her hand-' so unusual-so peculiar-so strange of Mrs. Mordaunt to leave us without the slightest clue to her place of residence. And she might die, you know, my Lord, or anything else, and not a soul near her. I'm sure I feel quite ashamed if any one asks after her. And there was not the least occasion for concealment; though, as I always

say, we can expect no one to believe it.'

'Mrs. Mordaunt has probably her own reasons for acting as she does.' 'Oh, you are very good, to make excuses for her, my Lord. But she was always wilfully inclined. And the Colonel, whom we thought so much of, has behaved so badly to her, leaving all his money away to his nephew; and then, to make matters worse, Irene will continue to keep a dirty little boy whom she picked up in the village, although

'That dirty little boy is my son, Mrs. Cavendish.'

Mrs. Cavendish turns palestarts, and puts up her handkerchief to her eyes. It cannot be true; and, if it is, that he should stand there and confess it! What are the aristocracy coming to?

Saville Moxon is so afraid the lady is about to faint, that he rushes to the rescue, giving her the whole story in about two words. Upon which she revives, and becomes as enthusiastic as Oliver was.

'Oh, my Lord, I beg a thousand pardons! I used the word "dirty" most unadvisedly. Of course she has kept him scrupulously clean, and has treated him just like her own child. And I always saidit was the remark of every onewhat an aristocratic-looking boy he was. How surprised - how charmed she will be! Oh, you must find her; I am sure it cannot be so difficult. And I believe she's in England, though that horrid old Walmsley will not tell.' 'You think he knows her address, then?'

'I am sure of it; but it's no use asking him. I've begged and implored of him to tell me, but the most he will do is to forward my letters; and Irene always answers them through him, and there's an end of it.'

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