The tears gathered in Gladys’ eyes, and hearing a strange heavy sigh from Mr Jones, she looked up at him through their mist, and saw that he was struggling to speak through some great emotion.

‘Oh, sir! what is the matter?’ said Gladys, rising and going towards him as he stood, trembling, on the other side of her work-table.

He could not speak, but opening his arms as she approached him, folded her in them, and kissed her, as she had not been kissed before, since her poor mother died.

Gladys could only yield to the embrace, she knew not wherefore.  She loved Mr Jones as if he were her own father, he had been almost like a father to her ever since she had been in his house; she felt as if she were once more in a father’s arms.

We will leave them thus for one moment, to return to the drawing-room.

Mrs Jones, in her turn, kissed Minette, and praised her for repeating her hymn so well.

‘But where is Mr Jones?’ asked the child.  ’Will he take me to see the little boys and girls?’

‘I think he must be gone to find a book for you, dear,’ was the reply.

But as neither Mr Jones nor the book came, Mrs Jones got rather fidgety, and fancying her husband might be ill, left the room to see what had become of him.  She went to the dining-room, study, and bedroom, and, not finding him, went to ask Gladys whether she knew where he was.  She was not a little astonished at finding him with Gladys in his arms, and the door half open at his back.

Mrs Jones was not a jealous wife, but Gladys was a very pretty girl, Mr Jones was avowedly very fond of her, and Mr Jones was mortal.

She felt a strange pain at her heart, turned pale, and stood for a moment unobserved by either, on the threshold, irresolute, when she heard these words from her husband,—­

’It must be so.  Gladys—­you are—­you must be—­my poor, dear, lost sister’s child!’

Gladys and Mrs Jones uttered a simultaneous cry, and the latter entered the room.

‘My dear William, what does this mean?’ she said, approaching her husband and putting her hand on his shoulder.

‘Serena!’ (he, too called that gentle woman Serena) ’my love.  For my sake!  This is my sister’s child—­my niece—­my—­our Gladys!’

Mr Jones released the bewildered Gladys from his embrace, and almost placed her in the arms of his wife, who, scarcely comprehending what was passing, kissed her tenderly.

Then Gladys sat down, covered her face with her hands, and sobbed convulsively.  It was all a dream to her, from which she must awake.  It could not be true.  Mr and Mrs Jones soothed her.  The former, restraining his own emotion, endeavoured to calm hers, by telling her that it was he who had written the names in that fortunate hymn book; he who was the brother of her mother; he who was her uncle, and who would be, not only an uncle, but a father to her henceforth.