Petworth was entitled to her third of the personal estate, but all the rest, and every scrap of the landed property, was to go to distant cousins, of whom nobody had ever heard before-hard-fisted, hard-featured men, small farmers from Essex-who, despite the splendid inheritance which had unexpectedly fallen into their grasp, cavilled on the ninth part of a hair, and were disposed to abate no jot or tittle of their utmost rights. They even claimed Olivia's jewels and personal ornaments, which had been given to her by Petworth, and refused to give them up. Olivia would not receive a penny from the estate, it seemed.

Then Mrs. Petworth, who had long been in delicate health, gave way altogether under the shock of the sudden loss of her husband, and succumbed after a short illness. Her money went to her own relations; and thus Olivia's only resource now was her supposed mother, Mrs. Martin.

As for Mrs. Martin she was still abroad. Martin had received several letters from her, announcing that her inquiries were not yet completed, and that she did not intend to return till she had finished them. She had heard of the loss of the yacht and of Petworth's death, and she fully comprehended that the guarantee she had obtained from him as to the thousand-pounds legacy was now worthless. But she had another plan in her head, which she did not communicate to any one.

Westley Wilford was sinking lower and lower, supporting existence by the proceeds of the hypothecation of his personal belongings, a resource that rapidly exhausts itself. He had nothing else to turn to: he could not dig, and was ashamed to beg. He lived in a cheap lodging in the neighbourhood of Chelsea, which, cheap as it was, exceeded his means. He began to get slovenly and demoralised, to sink into a torpor which was half indolence and half despair. His cousins the Wilfords he rarely saw, and Olivia he had not seen since the day he took her to Bessemer-gardens. He would call there sometimes in the evening to inquire how they were going on, and would smoke a pipe with Martin in his little room and talk about old times, or rather listen to the ex-butler's discourses on that subject. He had no energy for the society of his equals, and avoided everybody who had known him in his former state. All this must come to an end before long: his slender means would soon be exhausted, and then he would have to consider whether he should starve quietly in the streets or throw himself into the river.

Things were in this desperate state with him when one evening a visitor was announced, who proved to be Mrs. Martin, just returned from the Continent. Mrs. Martin remarked the scanty accommodation of Westley's room with pitying surprise. Everything was sordid, uncared for. Wilford himself, wrapped in an old flannel dressing-gown, was huddled up in a battered old arm-chair, with THIRD SERIES, VOL. VIII. F.S. VOL. XXVIII.

T

a long-since extinguished pipe in his mouth, looking the picture of sulky discomfort.

'My dear Mr. Wilford,' exclaimed Mrs. Martin, 'how came you to be staying in these inconvenient rooms, when there is my drawing-room floor waiting to receive you? It isn't at all kind of you.'

'Mrs. Martin, if I took your top garret floor, I assure you I should only be robbing you; I am down at the very lowest of depths. But however, never mind about that, as poor old Petworth used to say. Take a chair, madam, please, if you can find one that will bear, and let me hear your adventures since I met you in Beauville. But first, refreshment: my credit is still good for a quart of bitter at the nearest tap.'

'Nothing, thank you,' said Mrs. Martin. I am sorry to find you in such low spirits, Mr. Wilford; but, depend upon it, these reverses are only temporary. Now what would you say, Mr. Wilford, if some one were to offer you a handsome sum for giving up your name?'

'What, ceasing to be Wilford, and becoming Brown, Jones, ay, or even Norfolk Howard? My dear Mrs. Brown-Martin I mean -if you can bring me in contact with a lunatic who is willing to give me a five-pound note for the transfer, I'm his man.'

'I'm glad to hear that,' said Mrs. Martin. 'I'm glad that you don't attach a superstitious veneration to your name; but suppose somebody proposed to you to become Petworth."

That is a name to which I should have the strongest objection in the world. No, I don't think I would consent to be called Petworth. I should fancy that with the name the evil spirit of the man would descend like a mantle upon me.'

That is very foolish,' said Mrs. Martin; but I don't think the feeling will survive the knowledge of your real interest in the matter. I shall open the matter to you without further ado. You are Robert Petworth's son !'

'I don't believe it!' cried Westley with an oath. You are out of your mind, Mrs. Martin.'

'You will see,' she replied. Did you ever hear of Miss Wilford, who was your father's sister?'

I have heard something about her she disgraced herself in some way, I think.'

6

Hush,' said Mrs. Martin; she was your mother. Now don't be excited, Mr. Westley; there is no stain upon your birth, so far. She was lawfully married to Robert Petworth, my brother. But he was persuaded to give her up, and she died abroad, giving birth to you. I was her companion, and I took care of you for several years, and we lived in that little cottage on the cliff to which you brought your father the day before the wreck.'

'Can it be?' said Wilford, with a groan.

I remembered the

place certainly, and some one who called me bébé.'

'Yes, you remembered the place well enough, and that was proof sufficient for me that you were the very boy I had carried in my arms. But I wasn't satisfied with such proof as that. I wanted personal testimony, and I found it; but with great difficulty. The doctor who attended you, and who was called in to your poor little cousin when he lay a-dying in his father's carriage-that doctor had gone to Algeria, and I had a great difficulty to get at him. But through the good offices of the administration I traced him, and found that he was at that time on leave in Paris. I found him out; he remembered me, the bébé, all the circumstances of the visit of the Squire. The Squire's child, he is prepared solemnly to swear, died before it was out of his hands-died before it could be removed from the carriage. Well, you were carried on instead, and became the Squire's son.'

'All this,' said Westley, 'is strangely borne out by my dim recollections.'

'Well, I have other proof. They discharged their two nurses before they left France, paying them handsomely for the inconvenience. I have found one of these nurses. She too knows that the child of the Squire was dead, and that the one they had picked up at Beauville was taken on with them. She believed them to be twins, they were so much alike; so were the brother and the sister, your mother and the Squire.'

'But if all this be true,' said Westley, and it certainly explains some obscure experiences in my early life, of what good would be the knowledge to any one? You can't take away my inheritance, for I have already lost it.'

'Of what good?' cried Mrs. Martin. 'Don't I come back and find everybody in the very depths of misfortune? There are your poor cousins, who are likely to lose all their fortune through your extravagance; there is poor Olivia, who has not a penny; and there is Martin and I, who are robbed of our poor thousand pounds, the reward of a life of service. You are at the bottom of it allyou, Westley Wilford, and I challenge you to deny it.'

'Well, I'm not going to sing my mea culpa to you, Mrs. Martin,' said Wilford rather sulkily.

'No; but if you could save all this-save it and put it right— give your cousins their fortune, give Olivia a handsome competence, get us paid our thousand-pounds legacy-if you could do all this, and backed out of it on a question of foolish pride—'

'Show me how I can do it,' said Wilford, and you'll find my pride won't stand in the way.'

Then go down to Puffin Abbey, kick out the cousins from Essex, take possession of everything as Petworth's only lawful

son. Fight them in the law-courts: there is plenty of evidence ; and then, when you've won the battle, give Olivia-give your sistera fair share in the inheritance.'

'My sister!' cried Westley. Olivia!'

'Yes, she is Petworth's natural daughter. She is no daughter of mine, although I assumed the part of mother, to allay the suspicions of his wife, and to give him an opportunity of adopting the child whom he always loved better than anything else in the world.' Westley rose from his chair, and began to pace the room excitedly.

A sister!' he muttered. Olivia; yes, she is a dear good girl, and I really loved her; only with something more like a brother's love than a lover's. Yes, whatever I get, Olivia shall share it,' he added aloud to Mrs. Martin; but I'm afraid it is all in the clouds.'

Then we will bring it down from the clouds,' said Mrs. Martin resolutely. 'But even you and Olivia are not the only persons concerned. There are your cousins. Establish the fact of your true parentage, and all their troubles come to an end. Your representatives could not sell Wilfordhurst, because it was never rightly yours. The young ladies will keep their money, and Martin and I will get our thousand pounds.'

'Then I'll be Petworth from this time for evermore,' said Westley, hastily throwing off his old dressing-gown and putting on his walking-coat-'yes, even if I have to bear the full obloquy of the name,' he added under his breath. And now I am going back with you to Bessemer-gardens, to tell the girls all about it, and to give Olivia her first fraternal greeting.'

Westley spoke not a word all the way to Bessemer-gardens, but stalked on at such a pace that Mrs. Martin could hardly keep up with him. His brain was in a whirl of puzzled thought. It was as if he carried somebody else's head upon his shoulders, and was conscious of a double and inconsistent identity.

Olivia's illness had been a serious one: the exhaustion and the terror of the fearful night of shipwreck were followed by fever and prostration, that lasted many weeks. During all this time she was tended with anxious care by Audrey, whose kindly impulses and sympathies had been powerfully excited for the suffering girl. She was now recovering fast. She had been told all the events that had happened during the time of her illness: how no will of Petworth's could be found; and then of Mrs. Petworth's death, which seemed to leave her completely helpless and unprovided for.

'I shall have to live here with Mum Brown-Mrs. Martin, you know, I mean-and help her in the house, for the sake of board and lodging. There is nothing else that I can do,' said Olivia disconsolately. Why are you so kind to me? and why do you