rose with a
laugh.

"Oh, it doesn't matter, doesn't it? Well, James, I hope you understand
now how much gratitude you may expect in that quarter. I told you what
would come of showing charity to Papist adventuresses and their----"

"Hush, hush! Never mind that, my dear!"

"It's all nonsense, James; we've had more than enough of this
sentimentality! A love-child setting himself up as a member of the
family--it's quite time he did know what his mother was! Why should
we be saddled with the child of a Popish priest's amourettes? There,
then--look!"

She pulled a crumpled sheet of paper out of her pocket and tossed
it across the table to Arthur. He opened it; the writing was in his
mother's hand, and was dated four months before his birth. It was a
confession, addressed to her husband, and with two signatures.

Arthur's eyes travelled slowly down the page, past the unsteady letters
in which her name was written, to the strong, familiar signature:
"Lorenzo Montanelli." For a moment he stared at the writing; then,
without a word, refolded the paper and laid it down. James rose and took
his wife by the arm.

"There, Julia, that will do. Just go downstairs now; it's late, and I
want to talk a little business with Arthur. It won't interest you."

She glanced up at her husband; then back at Arthur, who was silently
staring at the floor.

"He seems half stupid," she whispered.

When she had gathered up her train and left the room, James carefully
shut the door and went back to his chair beside the table. Arthur sat as
before, perfectly motionless and silent.

"Arthur," James began in a milder tone, now Julia was not there to hear,
"I am very sorry that this has come out. You might just as well not have
known it. However, all that's over; and I am pleased to see that you
can behave with such self-control. Julia is a--a little excited; ladies
often--anyhow, I don't want to be too hard on you."

He stopped to see what effect the kindly words had produced; but Arthur
was quite motionless.

"Of course, my dear boy," James went on after a moment, "this is a
distressing story altogether, and the best thing we can do is to hold
our tongues about it. My father was generous enough not to divorce your
mother when she confessed her fall to him; he only demanded that the
man who had led her astray should leave the country at once; and, as
you know, he went to China as a missionary. For my part, I was very much
against your hav