But Lady Osborne spoke in a dull, slow voice, pointing to the youth who stood looking at her so bewildered.
"My child has been dead, oh, so many years. He lies a baby's length in his little, forgotten grave. That boy who stands there—who would to-morrow possess the broad lands of the Osborne family as my heir—who would then, also, be betrothed to your daughter Enid, only heir to your proud name, is a servant's child."
"Mother!" the young man cried hoarsely. "My God! What are you saying? A servant's child! I am your son."
"You are not my son." Lady Osborne faced him now, her eyes grown hard, thinking of the day the truth was broken to her. "A woman—the woman who nursed my son—let him die, and in his place she sent you back. Oh! everyone shall know it. You are not an Osborne; how could I ever have imagined it! Every year since she told the truth to me I have seen your inheritances coming out in you—your love for the lower classes—your——"
"Hush!" The young man faced her. "Since I am not your son, who is my—mother?"
