Geoffrey turned abruptly around and faced Mr. Huntress as Mrs. Mapleson reached this point in her story. Never until that moment had he suspected that Gladys was not his kind friend’s own daughter. But he knew that he had formerly resided in Boston. He remembered that Mrs. Mapleson had addressed him as August Damon, and how she had been overcome upon meeting him. He remembered, too, how, when he had proposed leaving the room while she made her confession to her husband, she had said “if any one had a right to hear her story, he had,” and putting all these things together, it flashed upon him that Gladys might have been that little girl who was born, under such peculiar circumstances, in Boston. Mr. Huntress met his inquiring glance, and smiled faintly; but he was very pale and sorrowful. It had not been an easy matter for him to sit there and listen to that story, and to have it revealed that Gladys was not his very own. He had always hoped to be able to keep the secret of her adoption. “Is it true, Uncle August?” Geoffrey questioned. Mr. Huntress nodded gravely. “How very, very strange!” said the young man, with a perplexed face. Then his countenance suddenly brightened! He leaned eagerly forward, laid his hand on Mr. Huntress’ knee, and whispered, excitedly: “Then _he_—Everet Mapleson, is _her half-brother, and that marriage was nothing but an illegal farce_!” “That is true—I have been thinking of that very thing,” returned Mr. Huntress, grasping the hand upon his knee with cordial sympathy, “and though it has been very hard to have the fact revealed, that our dear girl was not quite our own, yet my joy at having that great trouble so easily wiped out of existence, counteracts all the pain.” “What is it?” Mrs. Mapleson asked, wondering at their eager whispering and excited manner. “I will tell you later, madame,” Mr. Huntress replied. “Pardon the interruption, and pray go on.” “William, the worst of my story is yet to come,” Mrs. Mapleson resumed, turning with a pathetic look to her husband. He reached forth one hand, and laid it affectionately upon hers. “Do not think me so hard, Estelle,” he said, in a low, kind tone; “I do not forget the ‘beam’ that was in my own eye, and I have no right to criticise the ‘mote’ in yours, especially when you have been so great a sufferer, and your hands were so tied by your dependent mother and sister. Your heart was all right—you would never have concealed anything but for the force of circumstances.”