“I will obey, Charles; but let me say one word first. When I was alone in London, and hardly sensible, might not this child have been imposed upon me and you? I'm sure he was.” “By whom?” “How can I tell? I was alone--that woman in the house had a bad face--the gypsies do these things, I've heard.” “The gypsies! And why not the fairies?” said Sir Charles, contemptuously. “Is that all you have to suggest--before we close the subject forever?” “Yes,” said Lady Bassett sorrowfully. “I see you take me for a mad-woman; but time will show. Oh that I could persuade you to detach your affections from that boy--he will break your heart else--and rest them on the children that resemble us in mind and features.” “These partialities are allowed to mothers; but a father must be just. Reginald is my first-born; he came to me from Heaven at a time when I was under a bitter trial, and from the day he was born till this day I have been a happy man. It is not often a father owes so much to a son as I do to my darling boy. He is dear to my heart in spite of his faults; and now I pity him, as well as love him, since it seems he has only one parent, poor little fellow!” Lady Bassett opened her mouth to reply, but could not. She raised her hands in mute despair, then quietly covered her face with them, and soon the tears trickled through her white fingers. Sir Charles looked at her, and was touched at her silent grief. “My darling wife,” said he, “I think this is the only thing you and I cannot agree upon. Why not be wise as well as loving, and avoid it.” “I will never seek it again,” sobbed Lady Bassett. “But oh,” she cried, with sudden wildness, “something tells me it will meet me, and follow me, and rob me of my husband. Well, when that day comes, I shall know how to die.” And with this she burst away from him, like some creature who has been stung past endurance. Sir Charles often meditated on this strange scene: turn it how he could he came back to the same conclusion, that she must have an hallucination on this subject. He said to himself, “If Bella really believed the boy was a changeling, she would act upon her conviction, she would urge me to take some steps to recover our true child, whom the gypsies or the fairies have taken, and given us poor dear Reginald instead.” But still the conversation, and her strange looks of terror, lay dormant in his mind: both were too remarkable to be ever forgotten. Such things lie like certain seeds, awaiting only fresh accidents to spring into life. The month rolled away, and the day came for Reginald's liberation. A dogcart was sent for him, and the heir of the Bassetts emerged from a county jail, and uttered a whoop of delight; he insisted on driving, and went home at a rattling pace.