“Sir,” he said in a voice that faltered in spite of his efforts to render it firm, “you now know who I am.  When I first came to you I was a mere irresponsible hobo, a wandering tramp who had adopted the name of Thursday Smith because he was ignorant of his own, but who had no cause to be ashamed of his manhood.  To-day I am discovered in my true guise.  As Harold Melville, the disreputable trickster, I am not fit to remain in your employ—­to associate with honest men and women.  You will forgive my imposition, I think, because you know how thoroughly ignorant I was of the truth; but I will impose upon you no longer.  I am sorry, sir, for I have been happy here; but I will go, thanking you for the kindly generosity that prompted you to accept me as I seemed to be, not as I am.”

He rose, his face showing evidence of suffering, and bowed gravely.  Hetty Hewitt walked over and stood by his side, laying her hand gently upon his arm.

But Thursday Smith did not know John Merrick very well.  The little gentleman had silently listened, observing meanwhile the demeanor of the accused, and now he smiled in his pleasant, whimsical way and caught Smith’s hand in both his own.

“Man, man!” he cried, “you’re misjudging both me and yourself, I don’t know this fellow Melville.  You don’t know him, either.  But I do know Thursday Smith, who has won my confidence and by his manly acts, and I’ll stand by him through thick and thin!”

“I am Harold Melville—­the gambler—­the confidence man.”

“You’re nothing of the sort, you’re just Thursday Smith, and no more responsible for Harold Melville than I am.”

“Hooray!” exclaimed Patsy Doyle enthusiastically.  “Uncle’s right, Thursday.  You’re our friend, and the mainstay of the Millville Daily Tribune.  We shall not allow you to desert us just because you’ve discovered that your—­your—­ancestor—­wasn’t quite respectable.”

“That’s it, exactly,” asserted Beth.  “It’s like hearing a tale of an ancestor, Thursday, or of some member of your family who lived before you.  You cannot be responsible, in any way, for another man’s wickedness.”

“As I look at it,” said Louise reflectively, “you are just two years old, Thursday, and innocent of any wrongdoing before that day you first found yourself.”

“There’s no use our considering Melville at all,” added Uncle John cheerfully.  “I’m sorry we ever heard of him, except that in one way it clears up a mystery.  Thursday Smith, we like you and trust you.  Do not doubt yourself because of this tale.  I’ll vouch for your fairness and integrity.  Forget Melville, who has never really existed so far as any of us are concerned; be yourself, and count on our friendship and regard, which Thursday Smith has fairly won.”

Hetty was crying softly, her cheek laid against Thursday’s sleeve.  The man stood as if turned to stone, but his cheeks were flushed, his eyes sparkling, and his head proudly poised.