On the day after Mr. Claire’s interview with Jasper, Mrs. Claire said to Fanny, with a seriousness of tone and manner that brought a look of surprise to her face—­

“Come to my room with me, dear.  I have something to say to you.”

Fanny moved along by her side, wondering to herself what could be in her mother’s mind.  On entering the chamber, Mrs. Claire shut the door, and then, as she sat down, with an arm around the young girl’s waist, she said, in a thoughtful, earnest voice—­

“Fanny, I want you to tell me the first thing you recollect in life.”

“The first thing, mother?” She smiled at a request so unexpected, and Mrs. Claire smiled in return, though from a different cause.

“Yes, dear.  I have a reason for asking this.  Now, let your thoughts run back—­far back, and recall for me the very first thing you can recollect.”

The countenance of Fanny grew thoughtful, then serious, and then a half-frightened look flashed over it.

“Why, mother,” said she, “what can you mean?  What do you want to know?”

“Your first recollection, dear?” returned Mrs. Claire, with an assuring smile, although her heart was full, and it required the most active self-control to prevent her feelings from becoming manifest in her voice.

“Well, let me see!  The first?  The first?  I was playing on the floor with a dear little baby?  It was our Edie, wasn’t it?”

“Yes—­so far your memory is correct.  I remember the time to which you refer as perfectly as if but a week had passed.  Now, dear, try if you can recall any thing beyond that.”

“Beyond that, mother?  Oh, why do you ask?  You make me feel so strangely.  Can it be that some things I have thought to be only the memory of dreams, are indeed realities?”

“What are those things, my child?”

“I have a dim remembrance of a pale, but beautiful woman who often kissed and caressed me—­of being in a sick-room—­of a strange confusion in the house—­of riding in a carriage with father to a funeral.  Mother! is there any thing in this; if so, what does it mean?”

“That woman, Fanny,” said Mrs. Claire, speaking with forced composure, “was your mother.”

The face of the young girl grew instantly pale; her lips parted; and she gasped for breath.  Then falling forward on the bosom of Mrs. Claire, she sobbed—­

“Oh, mother! mother!  How can you say this?  It cannot, it cannot be.  You are my own, my only mother.”

“You did not receive your life through me, Fanny,” replied Mrs. Claire, so soon as she could command her voice, for she too was overcome by feeling—­“but in all else I am your mother; and I love you equally with my other children.  If there has ever been a difference, it has all been in your favour.”

“Why, why did you destroy the illusion under which I have so long rested?” said Fanny, when both were more composed.  “Why tell me a truth from which no good can flow?  Why break in upon my happy ignorance with such a chilling revelation?  Oh, mother, mother!  Forgive me, if I say you have been cruel.”