“I should think it could not require much experience to teach you that when a man’s name is Kightly Montgomery and he calls himself Randolph Hay, he is a liar, swindler and an impostor.” “But consider, dear, he may he next of kin and heir-at-law, and his name now have been legally changed as the condition of his inheritance. His mother or his grandmother may have been born a daughter of Hay, of Haymore. The estate may have ‘fallen to the distaff,’ as it is called—that is, to the female line, and so the heir through that line might be obliged to take the family name as the condition of his heirship. Now do you see?” “Yes, I see what you mean. But your theory has so many ‘mays’ that it won’t do. As for me, I prefer to think the villain a fraudulent claimant as well as a bigamous bridegroom.” They were interrupted by a ring at the doorbell. Mr. Campbell went to answer it. It was his custom always, when at home, to do so, to save the steps of the rectory’s one elderly servant-woman. There was a hanging lamp in the little hall between the parlor and the study that gave but a subdued light. They had no gas, and oil was dear, and economy necessary. Mr. Campbell opened the door, expecting to see no one but the little old sexton. He saw, instead, the tallest and finest looking athlete he had ever seen in or out of a circus; but he could not distinguish his features. “The Rev. Mr. Campbell?” said the stranger interrogatively. “That is my name. What can I do for you?” inquired the curate, who, now that his eyes had got used to the obscurity, saw that the collossus was clothed from head to heel in an outlandish costume of dressed buckskin trimmed with fur, and that his stature was heightened, and his face shortened by the tall fur cap he wore pulled low down over his forehead and ears, for the night was cold. “My name is Longman—Samson Longman, at your service, sir. I have been directed by the people at Chuxton to come to you, sir, for information concerning one Elizabeth Longman, widow——” The speaker’s voice trembled and broke. “Your mother!” said the curate gravely. “She is well and happy as she can be, without the son she is always pining for and praying for.” “Heaven be praised for that! And may the Lord forgive me. Where is she, sir, if you please?” “With us here in the house, our cherished housekeeper, almost our mother——” “Thank the Lord! Can I see her, sir, now, at once? I have come a long way to ask her forgiveness at last, and to stay with her forever.” “Come into my study. We must prepare her for the sight of her son, for although she seems to be always expecting you, yet the sudden meeting might be too much for her,” said the curate as he closed the front door after the entrance of his visitor and led the way into the study.