“And did you visit that house in Swallow street?” asked Madame de Salins, looking at me with an anxious and inquiring glance. “Who did you see there?” I told her all the particulars, Father Bonneville adding a word here and there, and the account seemed to strike both Monsieur de Salins and his wife with much surprise. “He does not know,” said Madame de Salins, in a low and thoughtful tone, turning her eyes upon her husband, “he does not know.” “And so you found Monsieur de Carcassonne in poverty and distress?” said Monsieur de Salins, “the one viper, I suppose, has stung the other. God of heaven, my dear wife, how thankful we should be to Him on high, that we sit here, and eat the daily bread of his mercy, with consciences clear of offense, and hearts unloaded by a weight of guilt. Let them take all from us, but our innocence and our honor, and we shall be rich compared with these men, even were they wealthy and powerful as in days of old.” “And is it possible, Monsieur de Salins,” I asked, following the line of thought in which my mind had been principally running, though there were many other subjects eagerly appealing for attention, “Is it possible that you, and dear Mariette, and Madame de Salins, have been living here in comparative poverty, while I have been enjoying wealth and all that wealth can give? This must be no longer——” I saw a slight shade come over his countenance, and I added, “Madame de Salins has been a mother to me; Mariette has been a sister. I have sought them eagerly, daily since I have been in England, in order to perform toward them the duties of a son and a brother. Surely Monsieur de Salins,” I continued, taking his hand in mine, “you will not suffer my having the good fortune to find you with them, to deprive me of my right of adoption?” “Dear, noble, generous Louis,” said Mariette, throwing her beautiful arm round my neck, as if I had been indeed her brother. “Why, I taught her to read and write,” I said, drawing her gently toward her father. “She was my first and dearest pupil—I have all her little books now, in which she spelt her early lessons.” “And the pictures, and the pictures you drew, Louis,” cried Mariette. “All, all safe through all my wanderings,” I replied. “Come, Monsieur de Salins, I have a beautiful little place hard-by—ample means for all of us. Every thing shall be soon prepared for you, and Madame de Salins, and dear Mariette. We will share house and fortune and all, and be one family again, as we were in our sweet cottage by the Rhine.” I knew not what it was I urged—all the objections that a father’s eye might see—all the difficulties in regard to the world, and the world’s opinion; and I was not aware, till I found that even Father Bonneville remained silent, and did not second me, that I was asking too much.