erheard. "Let me speak to him, and at least
ask the question."

"No, no, Walter," the lady replied, in a low tone. "Changed as are our
situations now, I could not wish, even if it be them, to intrude upon
their remembrance."

An exclamation of suppressed impatience escaped from the lips of the
young man, but instantly checking it, he said, respectfully and
tenderly--

"Dearest mother, do not say so, if" (the name was lost) "grew up as she
was a child, she would be glad to welcome the friend of her father, the
companion of her childhood."

"But it cannot be, Walter; that beautiful girl is not like my poor
child, though her brother may strangely resemble those we have known."

"Have you not often told me, mother, we never change so much as from
childhood into youth? Ellen was always ill, now she may be well, and
that makes all the difference in the world. I am much mistaken if those
large, mournful eyes can belong to any but"--

He paused abruptly; for convinced that they must be the subject of
conversation, and feeling they were listening to language not meant for
their ears, Edward and Ellen turned towards the speakers, who to the
former appeared perfect strangers, not so to the latter. Feelings,
thoughts of her earliest infancy and childhood, came thronging over her
as a spell, as she gazed on the lady's countenance, which, by its
expression, denoted that sorrow had been her portion; it was changed,
much changed from that which it had been; but the rush of memory on
Ellen's young soul told her that face had been seen before. A night of
horror and subsequent suffering flashed before her eyes, in which that
face had beamed in fondness and in soothing kindness over her; that
voice had spoken accents of love in times when even a mother's words
were harsh and cold.

"Forgive me, sir, but is not your name Fortescue?" inquired the young
man, somewhat hesitatingly, yet frankly, as he met Edward's glance.

"You have the advantage of me, sir," he replied, with equal frankness;
"such is my name, but yours I cannot guess."

"I beg your pardon, but am I speaking to the son of Colonel Fortescue,
who fell in India during a skirmish against the natives, nearly ten
years ago?"

"The same, sir."

"Then it is--it is Mrs. Cameron; I am not, I knew I could not be
mistaken," exclaimed Ellen, in an accent of delight, and bounding
forward, she clasped the lady's eagerly-extended hand in both hers, and
gazing in her face with ey