But long before this evil had become a thing to whisper and remark on, Brion had learned all that he was destined to learn about his own history. He was with his Uncle one day, reading, at the table (to love both books and sport is to be the admirable youth) from Melancthon’s _Confession_, and looking up occasionally to ask the other, who sat in his big chair by the escritoire, to expound for him some knotty passage from the gentle Reformer, when suddenly a look came into his eyes, and a thrill to his heart, with the knowledge that he had reached the way. He rose, breathing hard, his eyes shining, to his feet. ‘Uncle Quentin,’ he said. ‘Nephew,’ was the response. ‘May I ask you a question--a personal one?’--he just touched the volume before him. The heavy brows were bent upon him, suspicious, inquiring. ‘What question?’ ‘Are you of the Reformed Church?’ ‘Why should you doubt it?’ ‘I do not. It is only the evidence of so many of your books that moiders me.’ ‘It befits a Judge of law, child, to hear the evidence on both sides, and it befits a judge of beauty to prize beauty above dogma. I am not so stern a convert but I can allow some virtues to the faith I have abandoned.’ ‘You were once a Papist, then? And was Jane Middleton a convert too?’ He had said it, and boldly, stiffening his neck; yet he might have hesitated, had he foreseen its effect upon the other. Quentin Bagott rose with a staggering motion from his chair; his features worked painfully; he stood breathing heavily, a hand to his throat. ‘Uncle!’ cried the boy, aghast. ‘What was that you said?’ ‘Clerivault once told me you had a sister--but she died. Was she not called so?’ ‘What if she were?’ ‘I meant no harm. But, O, Uncle, I am sick to know! I found her name in the little Book of Hours: Jane Middleton Bagott, it was writ; and--and my name is Brion Middleton.’ He leaned forward passionately, a sobbing flutter in his throat. ‘Uncle!’ he cried again. And over his own clenched hand the other bowed his head, lower, lower, and, holding it so, sank down into the chair from which he had risen. At that the boy ran and flung himself on his knees before him, pleading in a desperate voice:-- ‘What have I said! I never thought to hurt you so.’ The hand unclasped itself to an impatient gesture. ‘Let out! You would know--what?’ The beat was going fast in the boy’s throat. He struggled with himself to control it, but it yielded to an irresistible cry:-- ‘If she was my mother.’ A long silence followed; and then suddenly Bagott lifted his head, and looked straight and haggard into the eyes before him. ‘She was thy mother,’ he said. The lad gave a little gasp; but he knelt up manly to receive the stroke he felt was threatening. The other did not alter his fixed gaze. ‘Who told you?’ he asked. ‘No one.’ ‘Since when have you known--or guessed?’