r telling me of another person at the Foundling,
to whose kindness she owed a debt of gratitude. When she first parted
with me, as an infant, one of the nurses informed her of the name that
had been given to me in the institution. You were that nurse?"

"God forgive me, sir--I was that nurse!"

"God forgive you?"

"We had better get back, sir (if I may make so bold as to say so), to my
duties in the house," said Mrs. Goldstraw. "Your breakfast-hour is
eight. Do you lunch, or dine, in the middle of the day?"

The excessive pinkness which Mr. Bintrey had noticed in his client's face
began to appear there once more. Mr. Wilding put his hand to his head,
and mastered some momentary confusion in that quarter, before he spoke
again.

"Mrs. Goldstraw," he said, "you are concealing something from me!"

The housekeeper obstinately repeated, "Please to favour me, sir, by
saying whether you lunch, or dine, in the middle of the day?"

"I don't know what I do in the middle of the day. I can't enter into my
household affairs, Mrs. Goldstraw, till I know why you regret an act of
kindness to my mother, which she always spoke of gratefully to the end of
her life. You are not doing me a service by your silence. You are
agitating me, you are alarming me, you are bringing on the singing in my
head."

His hand went up to his head again, and the pink in his face deepened by
a shade or two.

"It's hard, sir, on just entering your service," said the housekeeper,
"to say what may cost me the loss of your good will. Please to remember,
end how it may, that I only speak because you have insisted on my
speaking, and because I see that I am alarming you by my silence. When I
told the poor lady, whose portrait you have got there, the name by which
her infant was christened in the Foundling, I allowed myself to forget my
duty, and dreadful consequences, I am afraid, have followed from it. I'll
tell you the truth, as plainly as I can. A few months from the time when
I had informed the lady of her baby's name, there came to our institution
in the country another lady (a stranger), whose object was to adopt one
of our children. She brought the needful permission with her, and after
looking at a great many of the children, without being able to make up
her mind, she took a sudden fancy to one of the babies--a boy--under my
care. Try, pray try, to compose yourself, sir! It's no use disguising
it any longer. The child the stranger