“My father afterward obtained a situation here at Holby, where he was organist till he died. Through all his life he never ceased to receive kindness and delicate acts of attention from Brandon. When in his last sickness Brandon came and staid with him till the end. He then wished to do something for Paolo, but Paolo preferred seeking his own fortune in his own way.” Mrs. Thornton ended her little narrative, to which Despard had listened with the deepest attention. “Who was Brandon’s friend?” asked Despard. “He was a British officer,” said Mrs. Thornton. “For fear of dragging in his government, and perhaps incurring dismissal from the army, he gave an assumed name--Mountjoy. This was the reason why Brandon was so long in finding him.” “Did your father not know it?” “On the passage Brandon kept it secret, and after his friend’s deliverance he came to see my father under his assumed name. My father always spoke of him as Mountjoy. After a time he heard that he was dead.” “I can tell you his true name,” said Mr. Thornton. “There is no reason why you should not know it.” “What?” “Lionel Despard--your father, and Ralph Brandon’s bosom friend.” Despard looked transfixed. Mrs. Thornton gazed at her husband, and gave an unutterable look at Despard, then, covering her face with her hands, she burst into an agony of tears. “My God,” cried Despard, passing his hand over his forehead, “my father died when I was a child, and nobody was ever able to tell me any thing about him. And Brandon was his friend. He died thus, and his family have perished thus, while I have known nothing and done nothing.” “You at least are not to blame,” said Thornton, calmly, “for you had scarcely heard of Brandon’s name. You were in the north of England when this happened, and knew nothing whatever about it.” That evening Despard went home with a deeper trouble in his heart. He was not seen at the Grange for a month. At the end of that time he returned. He had been away to London during the whole interval. As Mrs. Thornton entered to greet him her whole face was overspread with an expression of radiant joy. He took both her hands in his and pressed them without a word. “Welcome back,” she murmured--“you have been gone a long time.” “Nothing but an overpowering sense of duty could have kept me away so long,” said he, in a deep, low voice. A few similar commonplaces followed; but with these two the tone of the voice invested the feeblest commonplaces with some hidden meaning. At last she asked: “Tell me what success you had?” He made no reply; but taking a paper from his pocket opened it, and pointed to a marked paragraph. This was the month of March. The paper was dated January 14, 1847. The paragraph was as follows: