He then as briefly as possible made confession of the base part he had acted toward his brother, and the means employed to ruin him with his father; the selfish motives which led to the exchange of the children; related the incident of the picture, and consequent removal from Oak Villa—for well did he divine _who_ the deformed was. He then spoke of Louisa; of her uniform loveliness of character, and the gentleness with which she had borne, as he acknowledged, his oft repeated unkindness. “She knows all,” said he in conclusion, “and waits even now to receive a mother’s embrace. I will send her to you, and may her tears and caresses plead my forgiveness!” So saying, Mr. Oakly quickly withdrew. A moment—an age to Mrs. Sullivan—the door gently unclosed and mother and child were folded in each other’s arms! There are feelings which no language can convey—and which to attempt to paint would seem almost a sacrilege! In a short time Mr. Oakly re-entered, accompanied by his wife. The meeting between the mothers was painful—for each felt there was still another trial for them! Mrs. Oakly now really loved Louisa, and that Mrs. Sullivan was most fondly attached to poor Agatha the reader already knows. “O she has been a solace and a comfort to me!” said she to Mrs. Oakly. “A more noble-minded—a more unselfish, pure being never lived than our dear Agatha! believe me, to part from her will cause a pang nearly as great as when I first gave my darling Louisa to your arms!” Another hour was spent in free communion, and then tenderly embracing her new found daughter, the happy mother returned home—the events of the morning seeming almost too blissful to be real! It was sometime ere she could command herself sufficiently to the task before her. At length summoning all her resolution she made known to her astonished husband and Ruth the strange secret she had so long buried in her breast. Mr. Sullivan undertook to break the intelligence to Agatha. Poor Agatha was very much overcome, and for several hours her distress was such as made them almost tremble for her reason. Although the circumstances were related in the most guarded and delicate manner, nor even a hint given as to the motives of an act so unnatural as her father had been guilty of toward her—her sensitive mind too well divined the cause. “Yet how can I blame them,” said she, glancing in a mirror as she spoke, “who could love such a being! Ah forgive me,” she cried, throwing her arms around the neck of Mrs. Sullivan, who now joined them—“forgive me—_you_—_you_ received me—my best, my dearest, my only mother—_you_ took the little outcast to your arms—_you_ could love even the mis-shapen child whom others loathed!” Mrs. Sullivan strove by the most gentle caresses to sooth her agitation, and at length succeeded so far that Agatha listened calmly to all she had to say, and expressed her desire to be guided by her in every thing relating to this (to her) painful disclosure.