"Yes, sir, it is--I am intimate with his oldest child, Carrie. And I know that he is a Scotchman, and they used to live in Charleston, and his name is Alan, and his little boy is called Malcom! that's after Margaret's father, I am sure. Carrie told me he had been named after an uncle in Scotland who was dead!" "Is it possible?" replied Mr. Wyndham. "It really does look like it--if it be actually so, my dear wife, here is another reverse of fortune for your heroine, which you did not expect. The contrast would be great indeed, between the little whitewashed cottage, and the magnificent mansion on Walnut-street!" "I hope it will not turn her head!" said Charlie Bolton. "There is little fear of that, I think," rejoined Mrs. Wyndham. "Margaret has early been tried in the furnace of affliction, and she has come out gold: I believe she really possesses that gospel charity, one of the marks of which is, that it is not, and cannot be, puffed up. But what shall we do? shall we tell her of our hopes?" "By no means," replied her husband. "It would only excite expectations which, after all, may be disappointed--although I am strongly convinced that our suppositions are correct. For the first time in my life, I regret that to-morrow will be Sunday; but early on Monday morning I shall set out for the city, and for Mr. Roscoe's house or counting-room. With my good wife's permission, I will take this medallion with me, and show it to Mr. Roscoe--then I shall know in a moment if he is really Margaret's uncle." "Will you be so kind as to take me with you?" asked a dozen voices at once. "No, I will not," replied Mr. Wyndham, laughing. "The carriage cannot possibly hold you all. If Alice wishes it, I will take her, both as a reward for her quickness in making this discovery, and as a means of introduction to Mr. Roscoe, with whom I am not acquainted. And if our surmises prove correct, I expect to bring Mr. Roscoe back with me, which is another reason for not riding twenty or thirty in a carriage." "Oh, uncle! uncle! twenty or thirty!" "Well, you are a baker's dozen, at least, that you cannot deny. I quite long to get to town! I believe I am as much of a boy as Harry, there, or Lewis--I _really_ wish I could put off Sunday just for one day, I am so impatient!" "It will be an admirable exercise of your noblest faculties, uncle," said Cornelia, slyly. "I am rather impatient myself, even at my mature age. But the _moral discipline_, uncle, that is so invaluable that we ought not to wish it to be otherwise." "Ah, you witch! I believe in my heart this is your revenge for my refusing to take you to town with me," rejoined her uncle. "Not a bit of it--I bear no malice--it is only my native and unconquerable pertness, which I sometimes fear may get me into a difficulty with some one yet. But I am not at all afraid of you, dear uncle; I know you understand that it's only my way."