The children glanced curiously at the strangers, half expecting them to laugh at such a boast from so poor a man as their father; but they both looked perfectly grave, and Mr. Sharp dipped his pen, and wrote something in his book. "From what source do you derive your information—I mean, how do you know the fact which you assert?" inquired Mr. Garway. "I have heard my grandfather speak about it often, when I was a boy," answered Silas; "he died afore I was ten years old." Mr. Sharp set down the reply. "But have you only oral—I mean, do you only draw upon your own memory?" asked the lawyer. "Can you trace up the family links which connect you with Hugh Mytton, who lived in the reign of Queen Anne? Have you any proofs to give that you are descended from him?" "May I be bold, sir, to ask why you put these questions?" asked Mytton, the strong brawny fist which he was resting on the table actually trembling with nervous excitement. "It may be of consequence to you, my good friend, that I should know all that you can tell me. I put these questions in no spirit of idle curiosity. The fact is, that the last inheritor of Oaklands, in the direct line, has died, and there is considerable difficulty in tracing out to whom the succession legally belongs." The little rustics stared at each other; they could not understand the lawyer's long words, but they could see that they powerfully excited their father. The veins in his forehead swelled, his hand trembled more than before. A dim idea dawned on the minds of the young Myttons that the fairy tale of the coach and six horses might turn out to be true after all! "Now, let me ask you again," continued Mr. Garway. "Have you any means of proving your descent from Hugh Mytton of Oaklands?" "I remember my grandfather telling me all about him forty years ago, as well as if it were yesterday," stammered forth Mytton. "Ah—you remember, but that's not quite enough. Can you tell me the names of your grandfather's parents, when they lived, and at what church they were married?" Silas rubbed his brow, passed his fingers through his hair—looked first to the right, and then to the left—but could make no reply to the question. It was very clear that his memory could not go beyond his grandfather, and the tales which the old man had told. He was unable to declare, with certainty, even where his own parents had been married. Mytton could give no distinct evidence on any point, except as to his having heard in his childhood of the great property in Shropshire, owned by one of his ancestors, who used to go up to London once a year in a coach drawn by six fine grey horses. "But have you no documents, no certificates, no family papers of any kind?" asked Mr. Sharp, upon whose steel pen the ink had dried, while his companion was vainly trying to draw information from Mytton. Mytton caught at the lawyer's suggestion, as a drowning man might at a rope. "There was a box holding papers somewhere," cried he.