a man or woman, in the countryside, but wot won’t shake their ’eads, w’en they ’ears your name—an’ well you knows it. Oh—if on’y my boy ’ad lived, wot a Chater ’e would ’ave been!”

For some hidden reason, the man seemed strangely moved by that last despairing phrase from her lips; indeed, as she bowed her old face down on her hands, with a moan, he made a sudden movement, with outstretched arms, as though he would have taken her within them and comforted her. But when, a moment afterwards, she looked up, with the former stern expression settling on her features, the man was simply watching her keenly, with his hands thrust in his pockets.

“What are you talking about?” he asked, slowly. “What about your boy?”

She hesitated for a moment, even glancing round at the door behind her; then came a little nearer to him.

“I ain’t never said anything about it, Master Dandy, because I thought the story was dead and buried like my poor boy—an’ I didn’t think as ’ow talkin’ about it would do anybody any good. But it don’t matter now; an’ I’d like you to know, Master Dandy, that for all your pride—your wicked pride—you wouldn’t ’ave no right to be standin’ ’ere, as the master of Chater ’All, if my poor boy ’ad lived.”

The man was watching her, more keenly than ever; for the sake of appearances, however, he let a smile play round his mouth, and then broke into a laugh.

“Ah—you may laugh, Master Dandy. Wot if I tell you that you had a brother—an elder brother, Master Dandy, though only by a matter of minutes.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” asked the man; though only for the sake of appearances again—for he had heard the story from her lips, a long, long time before.

“The truth!” she exclaimed. “Not one child, Master Dandy, came into the world at Chater Hall, w’en you was born—but two—twins; an’ the other boy was the first. But your father was crazy on that one idea; I’d often ’eard ’im say that if ever twins came, ’e would find means to git rid of one of them. It was all done quiet and secret-like; ole Cripps was doctor ’ere then—an’ a drunken little rascal ’e was, though sound in ’is work. ’E’d ’ave done anything for money—that man; an’ pretty ’eavy ’e must ’ave been paid by your father for it. As for me—the Lord forgive me—I’d a notion of starting at the other side of the world, and making a business. So your father sent me off, with five hundred pounds, and the eldest boy—the eldest, because ’e seemed the weakest. ‘I won’t ’ave two boys, 

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