Edgar’s courage came back to him in some degree, as he entered Lady Augusta’s little boudoir. Imagination had no longer anything to do with it, the moment for action had come. He sat down by her in the dainty little chamber, which was hung with portraits of all her children. Just opposite was a pretty sketch of Gussy, looking down upon him with laughing eyes. They were all there in the mother’s private sanctuary, the girls who were her consolation, the boys who were her plague and her delight. What a centre it was of family cares and anxieties! She turned to him cheerfully as she took her chair. She was not in the least afraid of what was coming. She had not even remarked as yet how much agitated he was. “Well, Mr. Arden!” she said. “I have come to make a very strange confession to you,” said Edgar. “You will think I am mad, but I am not mad. Lady Augusta, I meant to have come to-day to ask you---- to ask if I might ask your daughter to be my wife.” “Gussy?” said Lady Augusta, with the tears coming to her eyes. There was something in his tone which she did not understand, but still his last words were plain enough. “Mr. Arden, I don’t know what my child’s feelings are,” she said; “but if Gussy is pleased I should be more than content.” “Oh, stop, stop,” he said. “Don’t think I want you to commit yourself--to say anything. Something has happened since then which has torn my life in two--I cannot express it otherwise. I parted from you happy in the thought that as Arden was so near and everybody so kind---- But in the meantime I have made a dreadful discovery. Lady Augusta, I am not Edgar Arden; I am an impostor--not willingly, God knows, not willingly----” “Mr. Arden,” Lady Augusta said, loudly, in her consternation, “you are dreaming--you are out of your mind. What do you mean?” “I said you would think I was mad. It looks like madness, does not it?” said Edgar, with a smile, “but, unhappily, it is true. You remember how my father--I mean Mr. Arden--always treated me?--how he kept me away from home? I was not treated as his son ought to have been. I have never said a word on the subject, because I never doubted he was my father--but I have the explanation now.” “Good God!” said Lady Augusta; she was so horror-stricken that she panted for breath. But she too put upon the news the interpretation which Arthur Arden put upon it. “Oh, Mr. Arden!” she cried, “don’t be so ready to decide against your poor mother! A jealous man takes things into his head which are mere madness. I knew her. I am sure she was not a wicked woman. I am a mother myself, and why should I hesitate to speak to you? Oh, my dear boy, don’t condemn your mother! Your father was a proud suspicious man, and he might doubt her without cause. I believe he doubted her without cause. What you have discovered must be some ravings of jealousy. I would not believe it. I would not, whatever he may say!”