g with impatience.

"I make no conditions--I am your friend, and ask nothing but your
friendship--a lucky chance has given me the opportunity to serve
you--all I bargain for is, that you do not inquire further how that
chance arose."

Mark stood in mute amazement, while Talbot, unlocking his writing desk,
drew forth a dark leather pocket-book, tied with a string, and laid it
leisurely on the table before him.

"There is a condition I will bargain for, Mark," said Talbot, after a
pause--"although I'm sure it is a weakness, I scarcely ever thought to
feel. We shall soon be separated, who knows when we shall meet again,
if ever. Now, if men should speak of me in terms unworthy of one who has
been your friend, laying to my charge acts of dishonour----"

"Who will dare to do so before me?" said Mark, indignantly.

"It will happen, nevertheless, Mark; and I ask not your defence of me
when absent--as much as that you will yourself reject all belief in
these calumnies. I have told you enough of my life to let you know in
what circumstances of difficulty and danger different parts have been
forced upon me, and it may be that, while I have personated others, they
in revenge have masqueraded under my name. This is no mere suspicion. I
know it has already happened; bear it well in mind, and when your
friend Henry Talbot is assailed, remember the explanation and your own
promise."

Mark grasped Talbot's hand firmly, and shook it with the warmth of true
friendship.

"Sit down beside me, Mark," said he, placing the chairs at the table,
"and read this."

With these words, he unfastened the string of the pocket-book, and took
forth a small paper from an envelope, of which the seal was already
broken.

"This is addressed to your father, Mark," said he, showing him the
superscription.

"I know that hand-writing," said Mark, gazing fixedly at it; "that is
Father Rourke's."

"Yes, that's the name," said Talbot, opening the letter. "Read this,"
and he handed the paper to Mark, while he himself read aloud--

"Mark O'Donoghue, son of Miles O'Donoghue, and Mary his wife, born 25th
December, 1774, and christened on the morning of the 27th December,
same year, by me Nicholas Rourke, P.P., Ballyvourney and Glengariff.
Witnessed by us, Simon Gaffney, steward, and Sam. Wylie, butler."

"And what of all that," said Mark, with a voice of evident
disappointment. "Do you think I wanted this certificate of birth or
baptism to claim my n