e of my word of honor that I would keep his secret. That
was the girl I confided to Mrs. Honey, and her father was Mr. Wilbour,
the signer of the telegram I have just read. Further documentary
evidence, if needed, is in my office."

"Oh, Malcolm! forgive me!" cried his wife, throwing herself into his
arms.

Sam entered in time to be both amazed and delighted by this tableau.
When he could claim his master's attention, he drew him aside and told
him in an undertone:

"Dat strange ole woman what come hyer las' night done come agin, sah.
She outside 'n' say she jes want to see you a minnit, but she mus' see
you. She say she got lettahs fo' you, sah, 'n' wun't gib 'em to nubbudy
else."

"Show her in here, Sam."

"Yes, sah."

Rutherford had raised his voice in giving the order, and Plowden looked
up at him inquiringly as Sam left the room. The lawyer bent down to him
and whispered: "Mrs. Plowden, Number One."

The unhappy old man half arose, pallid with a sudden scare, and looked
as if he meditated going through the window again; but before he could
do so, Sam returned, ushering in a stout elderly woman. At sight of her,
Plowden sank back in his seat, and his face gave evidence of lively
emotion, but the feeling it expressed was astonishment rather than
consternation.

"Are you Mrs. Robert Plowden?" demanded Mr. Rutherford.

"Yes, sir; that's my name," the new-comer replied.

Young Honey, who had been sitting with his back to her, and indeed had
not even noticed her coming in, jumped up at sound of her voice, turned
and confronted her, with a cry of--

"Mother!"

The woman seemed to shrink and cower, as if overcome, not by fear, but
by shame at sight of him, and whined: "Oh, Billy! Hi didn't know you was
'ere hagain."

"Why are _you_ 'ere, mother?"

She hesitated, stammered, seemed as if she would have turned and fled,
had not the stern demand in his glance detained her.

"I didn't think it was hany 'arm," she whimpered; "I 'ated so to be
dependent hon you an' 'Arriet--an' 'e's so rich."

The honest fellow's face flushed crimson, tears dimmed his eyes, and his
voice trembled, as he said, in tones not of anger, but of deep sorrow:
"Oh, mother! 'ow could you? Poor an' hignorant we hallways was--which
hit was hower condition--'ard, but not dishonest--and nothink hever for
to be hashamed of huntil now. Oh, mother, you've broke my 'art!"

"No, no, my boy," impulsively exclaimed the good-hearted Plowden,
hu