“Only by adoption.”

“Humph, brother! for a half-pay lieutenant, that appears rather an expensive whim!—­bad enough to maintain children of our own begetting.”

“You say true,” replied Edward; “but if in this instance I have incurred an expense and responsibility, it must be considered to be more my misfortune than my fault.”  Edward Forster then entered into the particulars connected with Amber’s rescue.  “You must acknowledge, brother John,” observed Edward, as he closed his narrative, “that I could not well have acted otherwise; you would not yourself.”

“Humph!  I don’t know that; but this I do know, that you had better have stayed at home!”

“Perhaps so, considering the forlorn prospects of the child; but we must not judge.  The same Providence which willed that she should be so miraculously saved also willed that I should be her protector;—­why otherwise did the dog lay her at my feet?”

“Because it had been taught to ‘fetch and carry,’ I suppose:  but however, brother Edward, I have no right to question your conduct.  If the girl is as good as she is pretty, why all the better for her; but, as I am rather busy, let me ask if you have any more to say to me?”

“I have, John; and the discourse we have had is preliminary.  I am here with a child, forced upon me I may say, but still as dear to me as if she were mine own.  You must be aware that I have nothing but my pension and half-pay to subsist upon.  I can save nothing.  My health is undermined and my life precarious.  Last winter I never expected to quit my bed again; and, as I lay in it, the thought naturally occurred of the forlorn and helpless state in which this poor little girl would be in case of my decease.  In a lonely cottage, without money—­without family or friends to apply to—­without anyone near her being made acquainted with her unfortunate history, what would have become of her?  It was this reflection which determined me, if my life was spared, as soon as my health would permit, to come to you, the only relative I was certain of still having in the world, that I might acquaint you with her existence, and, with her history, confide to you the few articles of dress which she wore when rescued, and which may eventually lead to her recognition—­a case of extreme doubt and difficulty, I grant; but the ways of Providence are mysterious, and her return to the arms of her friends will not be more wonderful than her preservation on that dreadful night.  Brother!  I never have applied to you in my own behalf, although conscious how ample are your means—­and I never will; but I do now plead in favour of this dear child.  Worn out as I am, my pilgrimage on earth can be but short; and if you would smooth the pillow of a dying brother, promise him now that you will extend your bounty to this poor orphan, when I’m no more!”

Edward Forster’s voice was tremulous at the close of his appeal, and his brother appeared to be affected.  There was a silence of a minute, when the customary “humph!” was ejaculated, and John Forster then continued:  “A very foolish business, brother—­very foolish, indeed.  When Nicholas and his son came here the other day and applied to me—­why it was all very well—­there was relationship; but really, to put another man’s child upon me!”