“Listen, honey,” said Tamsin, as she stroked the girl’s brown hair fondly. And thereupon, only in different words, and homelier phraseology, she proceeded to state the case to almost the same effect that it had been stated by Miss Matilda already. The mere fact that a certain piece of information, hitherto, for wise reasons, kept from her, had been told her to-day, did not and could not in the remotest degree affect the relations which had existed for so long a time between herself and her supposed aunts. They had chosen to adopt her as their niece when she was an infant, and such she would continue to be to them so long as it should please Providence to leave unsevered the thread of their earthly existence. She, Ethel, must strive to forget that Miss Matilda and Miss Jane were not her aunts in reality, and must continue to regard them in precisely the same light that she had always done. Ethel sat awhile in silence after Tamsin had finished speaking. Then she said: “Just now it all seems so strange and incredible to me, that I find it almost as hard to believe as I should one of the fairy tales I used to read when a girl. In time, no doubt, I shall get used to it, so that it will seem as if I must have known of it all along; but that will not be to-day, nor to-morrow.” A sigh broke from her. She sat staring out of the window without seeing anything of that which her eyes rested upon. Presently she resumed: “But now that I have been told so much, I want to know more. There are several questions, Tamsin, which I do not care to ask my aunts, but which I don’t in the least mind asking you.” Tamsin screwed up her mouth, but said nothing. It altogether depended on the nature of the girl’s questions whether they would be answered by her or no. “First of all,” resumed Ethel, “Uncle Matthew, in his letter, states it as his belief that the—the person who passed me off on board ship as being her child was not in reality my mother, but he omits to give any reason for such a belief. You were there. Can you tell me what his reasons were, or what was your own belief in the matter?” Tamsin’s needle stopped in the middle of a stitch. She did not reply at once, but seemed to be considering within herself in what terms she should answer the question. “My belief was the same as Mr. Matthew’s,” at length she replied. “Mrs. Vane had not been two days on board before I said to myself, ‘It’s very strange to me if that woman is that child’s mother.’ It was not merely that she didn’t seem to care about you, and was never so pleased as when you were out of her sight, but from a score of different things, each a trifle in itself, that I so judged her.” “Was she—was she a lady?”