Laying great stress on the repetition of these two words, Mr. Bumble fixed his hat on very tight, and putting his hands in his pockets followed his helpmate down stairs. “Young lady,” said Mr. Brownlow, turning to Rose, “give me your hand. Do not tremble; you need not fear to hear the few remaining words we have to say.” “If they have—I do not know how they can, but if they have—any reference to me,” said Rose, “pray let me hear them at some other time. I have not strength or spirits now.” “Nay,” returned the old gentleman, drawing her arm through his; “you have more fortitude than this, I am sure. Do you know this young lady, sir?” “Yes,” replied Monks. “I never saw you before,” said Rose faintly. “I have seen you often,” returned Monks. “The father of the unhappy Agnes had two daughters,” said Mr. Brownlow. “What was the fate of the other—the child?” “The child,” replied Monks, “when her father died in a strange place, in a strange name, without a letter, book, or scrap of paper that yielded the faintest clue by which his friends or relatives could be traced—the child was taken by some wretched cottagers, who reared it as their own.” “Go on,” said Mr. Brownlow, signing to Mrs. Maylie to approach. “Go on!” “You couldn’t find the spot to which these people had repaired,” said Monks, “but where friendship fails, hatred will often force a way. My mother found it after a year of cunning search—ay, and found the child.” “She took it, did she?” “No. The people were poor, and began to sicken—at least the man did—of their fine humanity; so she left it with them, giving them a small present of money which would not last long, and promising more, which she never meant to send. She didn’t quite rely, however, on their discontent and poverty for the child’s unhappiness, but told the history of the sister’s shame with such alterations as suited her, bade them take good heed of the child, for she came of bad blood, and told them she was illegitimate, and sure to go wrong one time or other. The circumstances countenanced all this; the people believed it; and there the child dragged on an existence miserable enough even to satisfy us, until a widow lady, residing then at Chester, saw the girl by chance, pitied her, and took her home. There was some cursed spell against us, for in spite of all our efforts she remained there and was happy: I lost sight of her two or three years ago, and saw her no more until a few months back.” “Do you see her now?” “Yes—leaning on your arm.” “But not the less my niece,” cried Mrs. Maylie, folding the fainting girl in her arms,—“not the less my dearest child. I would not lose her now for all the treasures of the world. My sweet companion, my own dear girl—” “The only friend I ever had,” cried Rose, clinging to her,—“the kindest, best of friends. My heart will burst. I cannot—cannot—bear all this.”