given in a full, emphatic tone.

Mr. Belcher entirely lost his self-possession. His face grew white, his
eyes were wild, and raising his clenched fist he brought it down with a
powerful blow upon the table before him, and exclaimed: "My God!"

The court-room became in an instant as silent as death. The Judge
uttered no reprimand, but looked inquiringly, and with unfeigned
astonishment, at the defendant.

Mr. Cavendish rose and begged the Court to overlook his client's
excitement, as he had evidently been taken off his guard.

"Paul Benedict is your brother, you say?" resumed Mr. Balfour.

"He is, sir."

"What was his employment before he left New York?"

"He was an inventor from his childhood, and received a careful education
in accordance with his mechanical genius."

"Why did he leave New York?"

"I am ashamed to say that he left in consequence of my own unkindness."

"What was the occasion of your unkindness?"

"His marriage with one whom I did not regard as his own social equal or
mine."

"What was her name?"

"Jane Kendrick."

"How did you learn that he was alive?"

"Through his son, whom I invited into my house, after he was brought to
this city by yourself."

"Have you recently visited the cemetery at Sevenoaks?"

"I have, sir."

"Did you see the grave of your sister-in-law?"

"I did."

"Was there a headstone upon the grave?"

"There was a humble one."

"What inscription did it bear?"

"Jane Kendrick, wife of Paul Benedict."

"When and where did you see your brother first, after your separation?"

"Early last summer at a place called Number Nine."

"Did you recognise him?"

"I did, at once."

"Has anything occurred, in the intercourse of the summer, to make you
suspect that the man whom you recognised as your brother was an
impostor?"

"Nothing. We have conversed with perfect familiarity on a thousand
events and circumstances of our early life. I know him to be my brother
as well as I know my own name, and my own identity."

"That is all," said Mr. Balfour.

"Mrs. Dillingham," said Mr. Cavendish after holding a long whispered
conversation with his client, "you were glad to find your brother at
last, were you not?"

"Very glad, sir."

"Why?"

"Because I was sorry for the misery which I had inflicted upon him, and
to which I had exposed him."

"You were the victim of remorse, as I understand you?"

"Yes, sir; I suppose so."

"Were you conscious that your condition