‘Like enough, sir. He behaved real bad, he did—deserted my mother less than three months after he married her, and never sent her word or line, or took the least bit of notice of her. She thought he had died, and sort of believed in him all along, I’ve heard tell. But Miss Marjory had me brought up—my poor mother was always weakly; and she told me the whole story when I grew up. We’ve got a bad father, you and I have, sir.’ ‘My name is Lewis. If we are brothers, you should not call me “sir,”’ said Lewis, feeling, as he had often felt of late, that his father was a despicable character. ‘I know my place, sir,’ answered the man, not without dignity. ‘I like you for not flying out, because we’ve got the same father; but we’ve been brought up different. You’re a gentleman, whilst I keep a shop. I’ve made a tidy lot of money in business; but I know my place, and I know I’m not like you.’ ‘You may thank your stars you’re not,’ said poor Lewis. ‘It seems to me I’ve nothing to call my own, but the name my father has disgraced.’ ‘We needn’t disgrace it, sir,’ said the man respectfully. ‘I never was ashamed of it—downright ashamed—till I got a letter from Miss Marjory a week ago.’ ‘And what did that tell you?’ ‘Why, that your father, sir—and mine—didn’t ever trouble to find out that my poor mother was dead, before he married yours. He does not even know now that she is his lawful wife.’ Lewis flushed hotly. ‘But she is?’ ‘Yes, sir, she is: I’d not have liked to come here and face you all, if things had turned out different; but it is all right in that sense, though he don’t really know it. Miss Marjory, she wrote and told me about things here, and bid me try to find out the exact date of my mother’s death, from the people who brought me up. She thought they’d be most likely to know. They didn’t know exactly, but I got to know the place where she died, and I went down to see the registers and find out. She died on the 2nd of May, 1850, and Mr. Belassis married again about a fortnight later. But he didn’t know anything about this death.’ Lewis walked on in silence. He felt very much inclined not to go home at all, after what he had just heard, so profoundly disgusted was he with his father; but on the whole he decided that he would do so, and take this elder brother with him. It was luncheon-time when he arrived, and they were a little late, so that the servant had withdrawn. Lewis entered boldly, with the young tradesman close behind him. ‘Allow me,’ said he to his father, ‘to introduce to you your first-born son, Alfred Belassis.’ Matilda and Bertha screamed, Mrs. Belassis turned pale, her husband purple. ‘D—— your impudence!’ he cried, starting up. ‘What do you mean by coming here with such a story? I’ll kick you out of my house if you dare ever enter it again!’ It seemed uncertain to which of the two sons the threat was made. The elder one took it as addressed to him.