infant of the artiste died, and the nurse's husband put it into his wife's head to tell your son (then a widower, and who had seen so little of his child as to be easily deceived) that it was his infant who died. The nurse shortly afterward removed to Paris, taking with her to the artiste's house the child who in reality was my daughter's."
"It seems very probable, does it not—does it not?" said the ex-comedian, eagerly.
"It seems to me," replied the ex-lawyer, "very probable that a witness entering into court with the confession of one villanous falsehood would have little scruple to tell another. But I proceed. This rich and liberal artiste dies; the nurse's conscience then suddenly awakens—she sees Mr. Hammond—she informs him of the fraud she has practiced. A lady of rank, who had known Matilda, and had seen both the infants when both were living under the nurse's charge, and observed them more attentively than your son had done—corroborates the woman's story, stating that the artiste's child had dark eyes instead of blue; that the artiste herself was never deceived; but, having taken a great fancy to the spurious infant, was willing to receive and cherish it as her own; and that she knows several persons who will depose that they heard the artiste say that the child was not her own. On this evidence your son takes to himself this child—and this child is your Sophy—and you wish me to acknowledge her as my daughter's offspring. Do not look me so earnestly in the face, my dear and respected guest! It was when you read in my face what my lips shrunk from uttering, that your emotions overcame your strength, and your very mind deserted you. Now, be firmer. Your Sophy has no need of me—she is under your charge, and your name is cleared. She has found a friend—a protectress—in her own sex. Lady Montfort's rank gives to her a position in the world as high as I could offer; and as to mere pecuniary provision for her, make your mind easy—it shall be secured. But bear with me when I add, resolutely and calmly, that this nurse's attestation is to me a grosser and poorer attempt at imposture than I had anticipated; and I am amazed that a man of your abilities should have been contented to accept it."
"Oh, Mr. Darrell, don't say so! It was such a blessing to think, when my son was lost to me, that I might fill up the void in my heart with an innocent, loving child. Don't talk of my abilities. If you, whose abilities none can question—if you had longed and yearned for such a comforter—if you had wished—if you wished now this tale to be true, you would have believed
