od night, lad."

"Father! mother!" cried George, striking more passionately on the
window, "what do you mean?"

"Whoy, ha'n't I told thee?" answered the voice that had spoken to him
before. "Thou art no zon of ours. Thou moost go to Coomberland, man, to
Zquire Morris--to his zeketors,[*] I mean, for he is dead. They may tell
thee who thou art; I can't. We ha'n't been paid for what we have done
for thee already. However, thou may'st coom in for t'night;" and as the
old man who had professed to be his father spoke, he arose and opened
the door.

[note *: Executors.]

George entered the house, trembling with agitation.

"Father," he said--"for thou hast taught me to call thee father; and if
thou art not, tell me who I am."

"Ha'n't I told thee, lad?" answered the old man. "Go to Coomberland; I
know noughts about thee."

"To Cumberland!" exclaimed George; and he thought of the young officer
whom he had twice met, who belonged to that county, and whose features
were the picture of his own. "Why should I go to Cumberland?"

"Whoy, I can't tell thee whoy thou shouldst go," said the old man; "but
thou was zent me from there, and there thou moost go back again, vor a
bad bargain thou hast been to me. Zquire Morris zent thee here, and
forgot to pay for thee; and if thou lodgest here to-night, thou won't
forget to be a-moving, bag and baggage, in the morning."

George was wearied, and glad to sleep beneath the inhospitable roof of
those whom he had considered as his parents; but on the following
morning he took leave of them, after learning from them all that they
knew of his history.

But I must again leave him, and return to Colonel Morris, and his son
Charles.

They came to England together, and hastened towards Morris House; and
there the long disowned son learned that his father was dead, and that
his mother and his sisters knew not where his child was, or what had
become of him. But his kindred had ascertained that he was now rich, and
they repented of their unkindness towards him.

"Son," said his mother, "I know nothing of thy child. Thy father was a
strange man--he told little to me. If any one can tell thee aught
concerning thy boy, it will be John Bell, the old coachman; but he has
not been in the family for six years, and where he now is I cannot tell,
though I believe he is still somewhere in the neighbourhood."

With sad and anxious hearts the colonel and his son next visited the
house of Mr. Sim--