“Sir, what I wish to ask you is--if you can tell me what has become of--of the young Beau--, that is, of your sister’s sons. I understand there were two--and I am told that--that they are both dead. Is it so?” “What is that to you, friend?” “An please you, sir, it is a great deal to them!” “Yes--ha! ha! it is a great deal to everybody whether they are alive or dead!” Mr. Morton, since he had been mayor, now and then had his joke. “But really--” “Roger!” said Mrs. Morton, under her breath--“Roger!” “Yes, my dear.” “Come this way--I want to speak to you about this bill.” The husband approached, and bent over his wife. “Who’s this man?” “I don’t know.” “Depend on it, he has some claim to make--some bills or something. Don’t commit yourself--the boys are dead for what we know!” Mr. Morton hemmed and returned to his visitor. “To tell you the truth, I am not aware of what has become of the young men.” “Then they are not dead--I thought not!” exclaimed the man, joyously. “That’s more than I can say. It’s many years since I lost sight of the only one I ever saw; and they may be both dead for what I know.” “Indeed!” said the man. “Then you can give me no kind of--of--hint like, to find them out?” “No. Do they owe you anything?” “It does not signify talking now, sir. I beg your pardon.” “Stay--who are you?” “I am a very poor man, sir.” Mr. Morton recoiled. “Poor! Oh, very well--very well. You have done with me now. Good day--good day. I’m busy.” The stranger pecked for a moment at his hat--turned the handle of the door--peered under his grey eyebrows at the portly trader, who, with both hands buried in his pockets, his mouth pursed up, like a man about to say “No” fidgeted uneasily behind Mrs. Morton’s chair. He sighed, shook his head, and vanished. Mrs. Morton rang the bell--the maid-servant entered. “Wipe the carpet, Jenny;--dirty feet! Mr. Morton, it’s a Brussels!” “It was not my fault, my dear. I could not talk about family matters before the whole shop. Do you know, I’d quite forgot those poor boys. This unsettles me. Poor Catherine! she was so fond of them. A pretty boy that Sidney, too. What can have become of them? My heart rebukes me. I wish I had asked the man more.” “More!--why he was just going to beg.” “Beg--yes--very true!” said Mr. Morton, pausing irresolutely; and then, with a hearty tone, he cried out, “And, damme, if he had begged, I could afford him a shilling! I’ll go after him.” So saying, he hastened back through the shop, but the man was gone--the rain was falling, Mr. Morton had his thin shoes on--he blew his nose, and went back to the counter. But, there, still rose to his memory the pale face of his dead sister; and a voice murmured in his ear, “Brother, where is my child?” “Pshaw! it is not my fault if he ran away. Bob, go and get me the county paper.”