are wonderful. Last evening I had an explanation
with the young cavalier, Don Pedro, and he proves to be--that son whose
loss you have so much lamented."

"Merciful Heaven!" cried the old lady, and she fainted away. As soon as
she recovered, she cried out, "Oh where is he! bring him to me--let a
mother's eyes be blessed with his sight--let the yearnings of a mother's
heart be recompensed in his embraces--let the tears of affection be wept
upon his bosom."

"Calm yourself, my dear madam," replied I: "the proofs you have not yet
seen. First be satisfied, and then indulge in your delightful
anticipation. When I pressed Don Pedro upon the subject of his family,
I told him candidly that his only chance of success was unlimited
confidence: he acknowledged that he had been sent to the Asylum when an
infant, and that he did not know his parents; that the mystery and
consequent stigma on his birth had been a source of mortification to him
through life. I asked him if he knew his age, or had a copy of the
register of his reception. He took it out of a small cabinet; it was on
the 18th of February, in the same year that your child was sent there.
Still as I was not sure, I stated that I would call upon him this
morning, and see what could be done; assuring him that his candid avowal
had created strong interest in his favour. This morning I repaired to
the Asylum, when I examined the register. Two children were brought in
on that night: here is the extract, and I feel much mortified, as you
will observe, that no marks are mentioned. If, therefore, the wart you
spoke of was not still remaining, the uncertainty would have been as
great as ever. When I returned to him about an hour since, I renewed
the subject, and stated that I thought it was the custom to make a note
of any particular marks upon the children, by which they might be
eventually reclaimed. He replied that it was customary when they were
indelible, but not otherwise: that he had no indelible mark, although a
large wart had been on the back of his neck as long as he could
remember; `but,' added he, `it is of no use,--all hopes of finding my
parents have long since been abandoned, and I must submit to my
unfortunate destiny. I have thought upon what has passed, and I feel
that I have acted wrong. Without family and without name, what right
have I to aspire to the hand of any young lady of good parentage? I
have made the resolution to conquer my feelings; an