taken you home and
brought you up, but Madam Sanders said they had a large family of their
own, and could not be burdened with other people's children, so you were
sent to me, and I took all the care of you I could, for you had a bad
fever, and were ill for a long time, and used to talk about lords and
ladies, and would often say, if the earl would but forgive your father
and mother you should all be very happy. When you grew better I asked
you what earl you had been talking about, but you neither knew his name,
nor what had been done to offend him.

[Illustration: _The arrival at the inn.--Page 323._]

'Mr. Sanders drew up an advertisement that was put into several
newspapers, describing your mother and you, and telling of her coming to
E----, and of her death, and begging her friends to come and take away
the child, or it must otherwise be sent to the parish poor-house; but
nobody ever sent or came, and the churchwardens would not allow any more
money to be spent upon advertisements, for they said they must keep what
was left to pay them for their care of you, as you were left upon their
hands, and many people said they thought that you and your mother were
only sham ladies, and that there was some trick in it, but, for my part,
I always said that you and your mother were real ladies, and so thinks
Mr. Sanders, for he says he does not know what trick there could be in a
lady being taken ill and dying. He says he hopes to see the day when you
will be restored to your friends, and he keeps the little trunk that
your mother had, and the picture of a gentleman that she wore hung from
her neck, and two rings; one, I suppose, was her wedding ring, the other
is a very handsome one, and has hair in it and letters, and a great many
little pearls, and the clergyman says it is worth a great deal of money,
and that no sham lady could have such a handsome ring, and, besides all
that, he keeps the clothes that you and your mother wore, that in case
you should ever meet with your relations all these things may prove you
are the same child that was lost, and not an impostor.'

Chapter II

Young as I was this relation of my nurse made me weep very much; it
brought to my memory things which I had long thought must have been
dreams. I well remembered my father's picture; I had seen my mother weep
over it, press it to her lips, and address it by the name of her dear
Frederick. I earnestly entreated the nurse to take me to the
clerg