gh she was sick at the inn for upwards
of three weeks. But Mrs. Vine, the landlady, she saw her twice; and she
told me what a pretty young creeter she was--and a lady, if there ever
was a lady yet."

"Then the child was born in Berkshire--how was it?"

"Well, your ladyship, it was an accident, seeing as how the carriage
broke down with Mr. Vyking and the lady, a driving furious to catch the
last London train. The lady was so much hurted that she had to be
carried to the inn, and went quite out of her head, raving and dangerous
like. Mr. Vyking had the landlady to wait upon her until he could
telegraph to London for a nurse, which one came down next day and took
charge of her. The baby wasn't two days old when he brought it to me;
and the poor young mother was dreadful low, and out of her head all the
time. Mr. Vyking and the nurse were all that saw her, and the doctor, of
course; but she didn't die, as the doctor thought she would, but got
well; and before she came right to her senses, Mr. Vyking paid the
doctor, and told him he needn't come back. And then, a little more than
a fortnight after, they took her away, all sly and secret-like--and what
they told her about her poor baby I don't know. I always thought there
was something dreadful wrong about the whole thing."

"And this Mr. Vyking--was he the child's father--the woman's husband?"

Martha Brand looked sharply at the speaker, as if she suspected _she_
could answer that question best.

"Nobody knew, but everybody thought so. I've always been of opinion,
myself, that Guy's father and mother were gentlefolks, and I always
shall be."

"Does the boy know his own story?"

"Yes, your ladyship--all I've told you."

"Where is he? I should like to see him."

Mrs. Brand's daughter, all this time hushing her baby, started up.

"I'll fetch him. He's up stairs in Legard's, I know."

She left the room and ran up stairs. The painter, Legard, still was
touching up Miss Jenkins, and the bright haired boy stood watching the
progress of that work of art.

"Guy! Guy!" she cried, breathlessly, "come down stairs at once. You're
wanted."

"Who wants me, Ellen?"

"A lady, dressed in the most elegant and expensive manner--a real lady,
Guy; and she has come about that advertisement, and she wants to see
you."

"What is she like, Mrs. Darking?" inquired the painter--"young or old?"

"Young, I should think; but she hides her face behind a thick veil, as
if she didn't wa