en years ago?"

Mother and daughter started, and stared at the speaker.

"It was addressed to Mr. Vyking, who left the child in your charge; by
which, I infer, you are not aware that he has left England."

"Left England, has he?" said Mrs. Brand. "More shame for him, then,
never to let me know, or leave a farthing to support the boy."

"I am inclined to believe it was not his fault," said the clear,
patrician voice. "He left England suddenly, and against his will; and I
have reason to think will never return. But there are others
interested--more interested than he could possibly be in the child, who
remain, and who are willing to take him off your hands. But first, why
is it you are so anxious, after keeping him all these years, to get rid
of him?"

"Well, you see, your ladyship," replied Martha Brand "it is not me, nor
likewise Ellen there, who is my daughter. We'd keep the lad and welcome,
and share the last crust, we had with him, as we often have--for we're
very poor people; but you see, Ellen, she's married now, and her husband
never could bear Guy--that's what we call him, your ladyship--Guy, which
it was Mr. Vyking's own orders. Phil Darking, her husband, never did
like him somehow, and when he gets drunk, saving your ladyship's
presence, he beats him most unmerciful. And now we're going to
America--to New York, where Phil's got a brother, and work is better;
and he won't fetch Guy. So your ladyship, I thought I'd try once more
before we deserted him, and put that advertisement in the _Times_, which
I'm very glad I did, if it will fetch the poor lad any friends."

There was a moment's pause; then the lady asked thoughtfully.

"And when do you leave for New York?"

"The day after to-morrow, ma'am--and a long journey it is for a poor old
body like me."

"Did you live here when Mr. Vyking left the child with you--in this
neighborhood?"

"Not in this neighborhood, nor in London at all, your ladyship. It was
Lowdean, in Berkshire, and my husband was alive at the time. I had just
lost my baby, and the landlady of the inn recommended me. So he brought
it, and paid me thirty sovereigns, and promised me thirty more every
twelvemonth, and told me to call it Guy Vyking--and that was the last as
I ever saw of him."

"And the infant's mother?" said the lady, her voice changing
perceptibly--"do you know anything of her?"

"But very little," said Martha Brand, shaking her head.

"I never set eyes on her, althou