But there was a far more overwhelming consideration which had been gathering strength for eight years between him and the idea of recognizing Jan as his eldest son, and his heir. He had another son, Lady Adelaide’s only child. If he had hesitated when the boy was only a baby to tell her that her darling was not his only son, it was less and less easy to him to think of bringing Jan,—of whom he knew nothing—from the rough life of the mill to supplant Lady Adelaide’s child, when the boy grew more charming as every year went by. Clever, sweet-tempered, of aristocratic appearance, idolized by the relatives of both his parents, he seemed made by Providence to do credit to the position to which he was believed to have been born. Mr. Ford’s client had almost made the resolve against which that fair face that was not Lady Adelaide’s for ever rose up in judgment: he was just deciding to put Jan to school, and to give up all idea of taking him home, when death seemed once more to have solved his difficulties. An unwonted ease came into his heart. Surely Heaven, knowing how sincerely he wished to be good, was making goodness easy to him,—was permitting him to settle with his conscience on cheaper terms than those of repentance and restitution. (And indeed, if amendment, of the weak as well as of the strong, be GOD’S great purpose for us, who shall say that the ruggedness of the narrow road is not often smoothed for stumbling feet?) The fever seemed quite providential, and Mr. Ford’s client felt quite pious about it. He was conscious of no mockery in dwelling to himself on the thought that Jan was “better off” in Paradise with his mother. And he himself was safe—for the first time since he could remember,—free at last to become worthier, with no black shadow at his heels. Very touching was his resolve that he would be a better father to his son than his own father had been to him. If he could not train him in high principles and self-restraint, he would at least be indulgent to the consequences of his own indulgence, and never drive him to those fearful straits. “But he’ll be a very different young man from what I was,” was his final thought. “Thanks to his good mother.” His mind was full of Lady Adelaide’s goodness as he entered his house, and she met him in the hall. “Ah, Edward!” she cried, “I am so glad you’ve come home. I want you to see that quaint child I was telling you about.” “I don’t remember, my dear,” said Mr. Ford’s client. “You’re looking very tired,” said Lady Adelaide, gently; “but about the child. It is Lady Louisa Ammaby’s little girl. You know I met her just before we left Brighton. I only saw the child once, but it is the quaintest, most original little being! So unlike its mother! She and her mother are in town, and they were going out to luncheon to-day I found, so I asked the child here to dine with D’Arcy. Her _bonne_ is taking off her things, and I must go and bring her down.”