was given, and the child was christened. You,
sir, were that child."

The wine-merchant's head dropped on his breast. "I was that child!" he
said to himself, trying helplessly to fix the idea in his mind. "I was
that child!"

"Not very long after you had been received into the Institution, sir,"
pursued Mrs. Goldstraw, "I left my situation there, to be married. If
you will remember that, and if you can give your mind to it, you will see
for yourself how the mistake happened. Between eleven and twelve years
passed before the lady, whom you have believed to be your mother,
returned to the Foundling, to find her son, and to remove him to her own
home. The lady only knew that her infant had been called 'Walter
Wilding.' The matron who took pity on her, could but point out the only
'Walter Wilding' known in the Institution. I, who might have set the
matter right, was far away from the Foundling and all that belonged to
it. There was nothing--there was really nothing that could prevent this
terrible mistake from taking place. I feel for you--I do indeed, sir!
You must think--and with reason--that it was in an evil hour that I came
here (innocently enough, I'm sure), to apply for your housekeeper's
place. I feel as if I was to blame--I feel as if I ought to have had
more self-command. If I had only been able to keep my face from showing
you what that portrait and what your own words put into my mind, you need
never, to your dying day, have known what you know now."

Mr. Wilding looked up suddenly. The inbred honesty of the man rose in
protest against the housekeeper's last words. His mind seemed to steady
itself, for the moment, under the shock that had fallen on it.

"Do you mean to say that you would have concealed this from me if you
could?" he exclaimed.

"I hope I should always tell the truth, sir, if I was asked," said Mrs.
Goldstraw. "And I know it is better for _me_ that I should not have a
secret of this sort weighing on my mind. But is it better for _you_?
What use can it serve now--?"

"What use? Why, good Lord! if your story is true--"

"Should I have told it, sir, as I am now situated, if it had not been
true?"

"I beg your pardon," said the wine-merchant. "You must make allowance
for me. This dreadful discovery is something I can't realise even yet.
We loved each other so dearly--I felt so fondly that I was her son. She
died, Mrs. Goldstraw, in my arms--she died blessing me as only a