shall be protected and rewarded
for the discovery."

"Goody," said Oswald, "confess the whole truth, and I will protect
you from harm and from blame; you may be the means of making Edmund's
fortune, in which case he will certainly provide for you; on the
other hand, by an obstinate silence you will deprive yourself of all
advantages you might receive from the discovery; and, beside, you will
soon be examined in a different manner, and be obliged to confess all
you know, and nobody will thank you for it."

"Ah," said she, "but Andrew beat me the last time I spoke to Edmund;
and told me he would break every bone in my skin, if ever I spoke to him
again."

"He knows it then?" said Oswald.

"He know it! Lord help you, it was all his own doing."

"Tell us then," said Oswald; "for Andrew shall never know it, till it is
out of his power to punish you."

"'Tis a long story," said she, "and cannot be told in a few words."

"It will never be told at this rate," said he; "sit down and begin it
instantly."

"My fate depends upon your words," said Edmund; "my soul is impatient
of the suspense! If ever you loved me and cherished me, shew it now, and
tell while I have breath to ask it."

He sat in extreme agitation of mind; his words and actions were equally
expressive of his inward emotions.

"I will," said she; "but I must try to recollect all the circumstances.
You must know, young man, that you are just one-and-twenty years of
age."

"On what day was he born," said Oswald?

"The day before yesterday," said she, "the 21st of September."

"A remarkable era," said he.

"'Tis so, indeed," said Edmund; "Oh, that night! that apartment!"

"Be silent," said Oswald; "and do you, Margery, begin your story."

"I will," said she. "Just one-and-twenty years ago, on that very day, I
lost my first-born son; I got a hurt by over-reaching myself, when I was
near my time, and so the poor child died. And so, as I was sitting all
alone, and very melancholy, Andrew came home from work; 'See, Margery,'
said he, 'I have brought you a child instead of that you have lost.'
So he gave me a bundle, as I thought; but sure enough it was a child; a
poor helpless babe just born, and only rolled up in a fine handkerchief,
and over that a rich velvet cloak, trimmed with gold lace. 'And where
did you find this?' says I. 'Upon the foot-bridge,' says he, 'just below
the clayfield. This child,' said he, 'belongs to some great folk, and
perhaps i