“Or as he has always condemned himself,” rejoined Herriot, with an air of deep self-abasement. “But I thank God for giving me the means, and the will, for making ample restitution to such as remain of my injured brother's family, or of my own. Harry, I am that uncle. I am the erring Charles Woodburn.” “I am surprised, deeply surprised,” said the other; “for, attributing the interest you have taken in me to other causes, I have, till within a few minutes, been totally unprepared for such a revelation. And now it seems as if it could not be. You could not have much resembled my father, and you bear another name.” “I did not strikingly resemble my more staid brother, in person or character,” responded the former, meekly; “and my reasons for assuming another name are explained by the circumstances under which you first saw me, the accused of a revolting crime, of which, as I then declared, I was never guilty. And this the wicked men, who combined against me, and hunted me out, even in this new settlement, full well knew. But they knew, also, that I had somewhere at command the large amount of money that had been left me by a wealthy and heirless gentleman, whom I had previously rescued from death. Are you now satisfied that I am the man I claim to be, and, as such, willing to acknowledge me?” “Fully, now--not only satisfied of the identity, but willing, nay, proud to acknowledge the relationship,” said Woodburn, with warmth and rising emotion. “Nor is this all, my uncle, my friend! The acts you have just performed will ever--”