He greeted his guests courteously, and even in the first moments of introduction he was struck by the sweetness of the lady’s face. He almost fancied there was something familiar in the cast of the features, but, however that might be, there was no doubt at all as to the charm of her voice and manner,—a charm which seemed to arise in part from the shadow of some settled sadness bravely borne, that had faded away in the sunshine of a present happiness. “Squire,” said Uncle Fred (he may as well be called Uncle Fred to the end of the chapter, to avoid confusion), “we have brought you a piece of news that will astonish you greatly. I have had my suspicions for long, and my wife has been indulging hopes that the sight of that picture there has completely verified. The little waif you took in and befriended so well is the only child of my wife. We have lost no time in coming to tell you the news; more especially as she could not rest one moment without seeing the boy, and thanking you in person for your great goodness to him.” The Squire sat perfectly still, not attempting a reply. He looked like a man who has received a blow, and requires time to recover from its effects. The lady’s tears were falling fast, and Uncle Fred had to continue his tale, as nobody else seemed able to speak. “You will ask what made me guess the secret. The first clue was the child’s likeness to his mother, whom I had known as a child and as a young girl. It attracted me to Bertie from the first, but I only looked upon it as an accidental circumstance, and paid no serious heed to the matter. When, however, some months ago, my wife and I met once again in a far-off land, when I learned that she had lost her only child, a boy of nine years of age, in a storm that wrecked the little sailing-vessel she had elected to cross in from Antwerp to Hull, at the very time that Bertie had been drifted ashore here,—when I heard this story, my suspicions were powerfully awakened, and all that I heard tended to increase my conviction. I learned that the child had divided his time between London and Normandy, that he had a grandfather, in whose library he continually sat, learning lessons and turning over books. What I heard of his disposition and habits coincided entirely with Bertie’s ways; and the story of the wreck seemed to make assurance doubly sure. I heard how the water came suddenly pouring into the cabin where the child lay, how she had only time to wrap a rough pilot coat over his little nightdress and tie a life-belt about him, whilst she bade him be brave and try to say always, ‘Thy will be done.’ The child had told me almost as much himself in one of his moments of partial remembrance, and I knew how he had been drifted ashore just in these garments her child wore. The sea had overwhelmed them all, almost as soon as they reached the deck. My wife and two seamen were picked up by a steamer bound for Holland, and when she did return to England, no tidings reached her of