Catherine and Mabel had gone to bed, but
Bertram met the Rector outside his mother's door.
"Come home with me," said Mr. Ingram; "I have a message to give you. I
have something to say."
"How is my mother, sir?"
"She is better,--better than she has been for years--she will sleep
now--she has carried a heavy burden, but confession has relieved it. She
has sent you a message; come to my house, and I will give it to you."
The Rector and Bertram went quickly back to the cozy Rectory study. Mr.
Ingram began his story at once.
"Have you any early recollections?" he asked. "Cast your memory back.
What are the first things you can recall?"
Bertram raised his eyebrows in astonishment.
"I was born in India," he said; "I was sent home when I was little more
than a baby."
"You don't remember your Indian life, nor your--your--father?"
"Of course I remember my father, sir. I was over twenty when he died."
"Ah, yes, your reputed father. You cannot possibly recall, you have no
shadowy remembrance of another who bore the name?"
"Good God, Mr. Ingram! what do you mean?"
"Have you any memory? Answer me."
"No, sir, not the faintest. Is this a dream?"
"My poor lad, I don't wonder that you are staggered. Your mother could
not bring herself to tell you.
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