"'His name is Humphrey,'" he read. "A servant's handwriting, one would think. What was the use of writing what everybody knew?" "Perhaps some servant was practising the art of penmanship. Well"--she tied up the parcel again--"I shall keep these things myself." She put the parcel on the table, and presently carried it to her room. Her son immediately forgot all about the old nurse's strange last words, and the parcel of clothes, and everything. This was not unnatural, because he presently went back to Cambridge, where there is very little sympathy with the sentiment of baby linen. When the door closed upon her son, his mother sprang to her feet. "Oh!" she clasped her hands. Can we put her thoughts into words--the thoughts that are so swift, into words that are so slow--the thoughts that can so feebly express the mind with words that are so imperfect? "I have never felt myself free until to-day. She is dead; she is buried. On her death-bed she kept the secret. She never wrote it down; she never told any one: had she written it I should have found it; had she told any one I should have heard of it before now. And all, as she said, for the sake of the boy. She meant her long silence. I feared that at the last, when she lay a-dying, she might have confessed. I sat in terror when I knew that the boy was at her death-bed. I thought that when Sir Humphrey died, and the boy succeeded, she might have confessed. But she did not. Good woman, and true! Never by a word, or by a look, or by a sigh, did she let me know that she remembered." She breathed deeply, as if relieved from a great anxiety. "I have thought it all over, day after day. There is nothing that can be found out now. The doctor would not recognize me. I suppose he is still slaving at Birmingham; he did not know my name. The mother never saw me. At last, I am free from danger! After all these years, I have no longer any fear." Over the mantel hung a portrait of her late husband. "Humphrey," she said, talking to it familiarly, "I did it for your sake. I could not bear that you should lose your boy. All for your sake--all for your sake I screened the child from you. At least you never knew that there is not--there has never been--the least touch of your nobility in the gutter child. He is mean; he is selfish. He has never done a kind action, or said a generous word. He has no friends, only companions. He has already all the vices, but is never carried away; he will become a sensualist, a cold and heartless sensualist. I am sorry, Humphrey, truly sorry, my most noble and honourable husband, that I have given you so unworthy a successor. Yet he is careful; he will cause no scandal. So far, my husband, your name is safe." CHAPTER III. THE THREE COUSINS. "Is it possible?" they repeated, gazing each upon each in the triangular fashion.