“Ah! You are going to Mr. Bruce’s. I have just come from there. I will turn about and see you safely to the house; or, if you could manage to sit on a man’s saddle, you shall ride, and I will lead my horse,” Geoffrey said, kindly; for now that he had been accustomed to the dim light he could discern that the woman looked worn and weary, and his sympathies were enlisted for her. “No, no; thank you, sir, I will not trouble you,” the woman returned. “But tell me,” she continued, rising and coming toward his side, “is Farmer Bruce still alive? Is the family well?” Something in her anxious tone and her agitated manner, as well as these questions, sent a sudden thrill through the young man’s heart. He bent and looked searchingly into her face, which was upraised to his. “Yes, Farmer Bruce is living. You said you were on your way home. Do you belong to the family?” he asked. “No—I—I used to live near them; I have come for a visit,” was the confused reply. Geoffrey bent still nearer to her, when the woman suddenly uttered a startled cry, and laid her hand upon his arm. “Oh, sir! who are you?” she cried. “I am sure you must be Master Geoffrey. You are so like your father. I should know you anywhere, and I never could forget the boy I loved. You are Geoffrey, aren’t you? and don’t you remember—Margery?” She ended with a sob, and her hold tightened on his arm as if she feared to lose him. Geoffrey had half-suspected her identity when she had inquired so eagerly about Farmer Bruce; but it was a shock to him, nevertheless, to find his suspicions thus verified, and he felt that, if he should never learn anything more definite regarding his father, he should feel more than repaid for his journey hither, just to have found Jack and Margery, seen them restored to each other, and the shadow removed from their lives. He seized the trembling hand that lay upon his arm, and shook it heartily. “Yes, I am Geoffrey, and I do remember Margery,” he said, in a glad, earnest tone. The poor, long-suffering, wandering creature dropped her head against his horse’s neck, and burst into a passion of tears. “Heaven bless you, Master Geoffrey, for owning it at last—my heart’s been well-nigh crushed since you denied it, and ran away from me in New York,” she said, brokenly, between her sobs. “Denied it, and ran away from you in New York!” repeated the young man, astonished. “Yes, sir; sure you haven’t forgotten that day when you bought the roses of me, and I asked you if you wasn’t Geoffrey Dale? You told me no—your name was Everet, and you didn’t know anything about Jack, nor about any of the other things I talked of.” A light broke upon Geoffrey’s mind. She had seen Everet Mapleson, and made a very natural mistake; she had believed him to be the child she had loved and cared for, and it was no wonder she was pained by his refusal to recognize her.