re occupied about affairs to which even
his signature was not asked.

As they sat together in the evening, she caught his glance searching her
face tenderly; and she bent forward, and said, "Kiss me, Stephen, my
dear lad. I have seen this week how kind and patient, how honorable and
trustful, thou art. Well, then, the hour has come that will try thy love
to the uttermost. But wise or unwise, all that has been done has been
done with good intent, and I look for no word to pain me from thy mouth.
Stephen, what is thy name?"

"Stephen Latrigg."

"Nay, but it isn't."

Stephen blushed vividly; his mother's face was white and calm. "I would
rather be called Latrigg than--the other name, than by my father's
name."

"Has any one named thy father to thee?"

"Charlotte told me what you and she said on the matter. She understood
his name to be Pattison. We were wondering if our marriage could be
under my adopted name, that was all, and things like it."

Ducie was watching his handsome face as he spoke, and feeling keenly the
eager deprecation of pain to herself, mingling with the natural
curiosity about his own identity, which the cloud upon his early years
warranted. She looked at him steadily, with eyes shining brightly
through tears.

"Your name is not Pattison, neither is it Latrigg. When you marry
Charlotte Sandal, it must be by your own true name; and that is Stephen
Sandal."

"Stephen Sandal, mother?"

"Yes. You are the son of Launcelot Sandal, the late squire's eldest
brother."

"Then, mother, then I am--What am I, mother?"

"You are squire of Sandal-Side and Torver. No living man but you has a
right to the name, or the land, or to Seat-Sandal."

"I should have known this before, mother."

"I think not. We had, father and I, what we believed good reasons, and
kind reasons, for holding our peace. But times and circumstances have
changed; and, where silence was once true friendship and kindness, it is
now wrong and cruelty. Many years ago, Stephen, when I was young and
beautiful, Launcelot Sandal loved me. And my father and Launcelot's
father loved each other as David and Jonathan loved. They were scarcely
happy apart; and not even to please the proud mistress Charlotte, would
the squire loosen the grip of heart and hand between them. But your
father was more under his mother's influence: proud lad as he was, he
feared her; and when she discovered his love for me, there was such a
scene between them as no