free from an implied stigma upon his family, or from the direct reproach of caprice: though the latter was what Aston himself could not admit.

The explanation of the mystery, when it came, was treated very differently by the two friends. Aston laughed it to scorn, as an impudent and atrocious conspiracy; Cameron trembled at its too probable truth, for he remembered the many strange and portentous circumstances connected with Mayfield and Stephen. He prudently resolved, however, not to betray his knowledge of these circumstances to the lawyer, or prematurely to acquaint his father with what he had heard.

Mr. Grabhim, meanwhile, had not been idle. The documents placed in his hands by Mayfield, together with the oral information received from him, had enabled him to institute inquiries, all of which, as far as they had gone, tended to confirm the claim of Stephen. In fact, Mayfield had merely to adhere to truth, and challenge investigation; and though it was a novel situation for him to have nothing but truth to tell, he had discernment enough to see he could do no good in this

instance, by departing from it. For once in his life, therefore, he found truth and himself going the same road.

Cameron was staggered by the evidence which Mr. Grabhim submitted to him. But what was his dismay at learning that, if Stephen should ultimately succeed in establishing his alleged rights, he would be entitled to call upon Sir Everton for a strict refunding of every shilling which had been received while his rights were in abeyance.

It was no longer prudent, therefore, to keep his father in ignorance of what was passing. Still, in the letter he wrote, he could not bring himself to mention this contingency; but confined his communication to the simple announcement that Mayfield was at work endeavouring to establish Stephen Dugard's legitimacy, as the son of Sir Hildebrand.

The Baronet was no otherwise disconcerted by the intelligence than as he foresaw that he must either consent to buy off an unjust claim, or submit to the delay and hazard of a protracted and expensive litigation; for, like Aston, he treated it as a foul conspiracy, never for a moment admitting the possibility of

Mayfield's being in a condition to execute his design. With this impression on his mind, and pretty well resolved rather to silence him with money than by a judicial decision, he set off for London, to consult his lawyer ; resisting all the entreaties, and even tears of Lady Frances, "to make an example of the insolent villains!"

Her ladyship's indignation, indeed, knew no bounds, when Cameron's letter arrived. Her long-cherished suspicion that Stephen was a natural son of Sir Everton was destroyed at a blow; but she now insisted as vehemently that he must be the spurious issue of Sir Hildebrand, as she before pertinaciously believed he owed that distinction to her husband; while the idea that one whom she had ever hated, and almost instinctively feared, — should be graced with the title, and possessed of the property, which for more than twenty years had given rank, authority, and influence to herself -that a bold, vulgar knave like Mayfield, should have the triumph of driving her and hers from the home she considered as their birthright was more galling, more intolerable, to her proud spirit than any privations

or humiliations to which she might in consequence be subjected.

One day, when Sir Everton, accompanied by his lawyer, Mr. Holdfast, called upon Mr. Grabhim, he met Mayfield coming out. The Baronet was the only one who evinced any emotion; and his was merely that kind of emotion or sensation in the fingers, which makes a man grasp a cudgel all the tighter at the sight of the scoundrel for whose shoulders it has been provided. Andrew touched his hat respectfully, bowed, and would have passed on.

"A word with you," said the Baronet, stepping up to him.

Mayfield stood still, and waited in silence for what was to follow.

"What is your price?" asked Sir Everton, contemptuously.

"I am afraid,” replied Mayfield, touching his hat again as he spoke; "you look upon me as your enemy in this business; but I only wish to see justice done, and acquit myself of my promise to your dying brother."

"Justice!" exclaimed the Baronet, with mingled scorn and derision. "Do I not know you, Mayfield ?"

"You ought," answered Andrew, with an equivocal emphasis.

"You are right—I ought—and do. I know you for a consummate rascal."

"I am sorry you should think me so," replied Mayfield with the same coolness, "for doing by your brother's child what you would wish to have done by your own in like circumstances."

"Pshaw! No more of this foolery. Here is your game," continued Sir Everton, taking out his purse, and holding it in Mayfield's, face-"so, tell me your price at once, that I may determine whether I will pay it."

"You wrong me, and it hurts me to hear you talk thus."

Sir Everton was so provoked that he struck him violently on the arm with the purse, as he exclaimed, "I took you for a cunning knave, who knew how to snap at his market, instead of letting it run away from him."

Mayfield, stung by this taunt, but more stung by the blow, started up in his own likeness, like the arch-fiend at the touch of Ithuriel's spear. Folding his arms, and turning his eye slowly upon the Baronet, with that