“Who am I?” she cried, bitterly. “Look and see who I am. Does not your heart speak for itself? Is there not one spark of kindred affection left in its hardened depths? Who am I indeed? I am Rose Moulton; she who loved, trusted, and was betrayed; who thought she was an honored and cherished wife, whom Heaven had blessed with its own and earth’s richest blessings, but who soon awoke to the misery and knowledge that she was no wife—only a disgraced and ruined woman, whose only child and treasure had no right to claim his father’s name. An outcast, deserted and dishonored! Who am I? I am your disgraced and erring sister, whom you cast off when she and every one else thought she was dying. I did not die. I began to gain from the moment you left me.” “It is a lie!” shrieked the wretched old man, as, with eyes starting from their sockets, he staggered back against the green wall behind him. “It is no lie; and you know every word I speak is true. I have followed you—I have been on your track ever since; and now I have come to claim my son, and be recognized as a member of your family. I knew if you thought me dead and out of the way, you would take my boy. So I went and hid myself, making those who took care of me promise to say I was dead. I followed you from abroad. I have watched you ever since, but have never spoken to my boy since I pressed that last fond kiss upon his pure lips, when I left him quietly sleeping in his childish innocence. I have just recovered from a long and weary illness. I am alone, forsaken, destitute; and, my brother, I have come to you for comfort and support. Oh! Ralph, will you not take your Rose once again to your heart, forgive her, and bless her with your love?” She stopped and looked beseechingly in his face, while her wild eyes softened and tears poured down her sunken cheeks. Her hands were clasped, and in almost breathless silence, she awaited his reply. CHAPTER VII. FOILED. While the unhappy woman was pleading so earnestly for recognition, and a welcome, the heartless squire had in a measure recovered from his fright at thus being confronted by one whom he had long supposed dead, and who now threatened to overthrow all his careful plottings; and he exclaimed in a voice of scornful wrath: “You are not Rose Moulton; you cannot prove it. You are only some vile imposter who has picked up small bits of gossip, and, cleverly putting them together, has come to frighten me with the story, doubtless expecting to be bought off. Go! I will have nothing to do with you.” “Your heart is harder than adamant, but, thank Heaven, it is in my power to prove my identity. Look!” She raised her long, bony hand, and held it out to him. On the palm lay a large and heavy brooch. She touched a spring, and a lid flew open, revealing the face of a very handsome man.