Mrs. Wopping, who had been lying in wait for her opportunity, here spoke up.  She was a respectable woman, she said, thank God! and had been in the business for fifteen years, in New York.  They could inquire about her in Canal street, where she had served her apprenticeship; in Division street, where she had been a forewoman; and in Grand street, where she had kept a shop.  In an evil hour, she had been persuaded to start a millinery establishment in Greenpoint; and a very bad time she had had of it.  All she knew about this unfortunate affair, was this:  The young man, there, had called on her, a few days ago, and said that he wanted to do a favor for an orphan girl, who was a distant relative of his.  She was poor, he said, but proud—­no strange thing, Mrs. Wopping believed—­and would not accept anything directly from him.

“Therefore,” said Mrs. Wopping, “he wanted to arrange with me to give her some easy work to do, enough to make her think she was earning her own living, and he would pay me her board, and give me twenty shillings a week to hand to her as her wages.  By this plan, I could get a boarder at a fair price, and the services of a young lady to wait on the shop for nothing.  Very imprudently, I consented, but not before I had made the young man there swear to Heaven that his intentions were honorable.  This he did in the most solemn manner.  I loved the dear girl at first sight, and determined to watch over her, and keep her from harm.  I had a little sister once—­long since dead—­that much resembled her.  I should add, that, though Miss Minford seemed to think very well of the young man there, when he brought her here, she became quite suspicious of him yesterday—­he was here all yesterday afternoon—­and refused to ride out with him, though he had brought a handsome carriage for her.  I advised her not to go.”

“Thank you, good Mrs. Wopping!” said Mrs. Crull, shaking that lady by the hand, “you have been a true friend to our dear child; and I’ll order my bonnets from you for the futer.  Virtue shouldn’t always be its own reward.

“You see, now, my darling,” continued Mrs. Crull, “what a scoundrel you have escaped from.  Will you be my adopted child forever?  Speak, my precious!”

Poor Pet threw her soft white arms around the thick neck of her protectress, and cried for joy.  “Dear, dear mother!” she murmured.

There was a pause, daring which everybody but young Van Quintem had occasion to wipe their eyes.  He paced up and down, his brow wrinkled, and inextinguishable hate flashing from his eyes.

“Well, sir,” said his father, calmly, “what atonement have you to make for this outrage?”

“You’re a ——­ old fool, and that’s all I’ve got to say.”

“Heaven be praised that his poor mother was not spared for this sorrow!” was the tranquil reply.

“Curse you—­and the old woman’s memory.  You’re always making a fuss about her.”

The benignant expression of old Van Quintem’s face vanished instantly, and a just rage gleamed on every feature.  “Unnatural son! monster! fiend!” he cried, raising his hands aloft; “at last you have gone too far.  Leave my presence, sir, and never—­never—­let me see your face again.  I say to you, and before these witnesses, that I disown and disinherit you forever—­forever—­forever!”