“I assure you, reverend sir,” replied the other, “that I am at the present moment placed in such a position, that I fear it is out of my power to satisfy you in any of these points.  Whilst, at the same time, I confess that, nameless and stranger as I am, I feel anxious to receive your advice and assistance upon a matter of considerable—­indeed of the deepest—­importance to an unfortunate and heart-broken lady, whose only son, when but six years of age, and then heir to a large property, disappeared many years ago in a manner so mysterious, that no trace, until very recently, has ever been found of him.  Nor, indeed, has she found any clew to him yet, beyond a single intimation given to her by her house-steward—­a man named Corbet—­who, on his death-bed, had merely breath to say that ‘your son lives, and that Sir Thomas—­’ These, sir, were the man’s last words; for, alas! unhappy for the peace of mind of this excellent lady, he expired before he could complete the sentence, or give her the information for which her heart yearned.  Now, reverend sir,” he added, “I told you that it is out of my power, for more than one reason, to disclose my name; but, I assure you, that the fact of making this communication to you, which you perceive I do frankly and without hesitation, is placing a confidence in you, though a personal stranger to me, which I am certain you will respect.”

“Me a stranger!” exclaimed the priest, “in my own parish where I have lived curate and parish priest for close upon forty years; hut hut! this is a good joke.  Why, I tell you, sir, that there is not a dog in the parish but knows me, with the exception of a vile cur belonging to Jemmy M’Gurth, that I have striven to coax and conciliate a hundred ways, and yet I never pass but he’s out at me.  Indeed, he’s an ungrateful creature, and a mane sconce besides; for I tell you, that when leaving home, I have often put bread in my pocket, and on going past his owner’s house, I would throw it to him—­now not a lie in this—­and what do you think the nasty vermin would do?  He’d ait the bread, and after he had made short work of it—­for he’s aquil to Mat Kuly in appetite—­he’d attack me as fresh, and indeed a great dale fresher in regard of what he had got; ay, and with more bitterness, if possible, than ever.  Now, sir, I remember that greedy and ungrateful scrub of an animal about three years ago; for indeed the ill feeling is going on between us for nearly seven—­I say I remember him in the dear year, when he wasn’t able to bark at me until he staggered over and put himself against the ditch on the roadside, and then, heaven knows, worse execution of the kind was never heard.  However, there’s little else than ingratitude in this world, and eaten bread, like hunger, is soon forgotten, though far seldomer by dogs, I am sorry to say, than by man—­a circumstance which makes the case I am repeating to you of this cur still worse.  But, indeed, he served me right; for bribery, even to a dog, does not deserve to prosper.  But I beg your pardon, sir, for obtruding my own little grievances upon a stranger.  What is it you expect me to do for you in this business?  You allude, I think, to Lady Gourlay; and, in truth, if it was in my power to restore her son to her, that good and charitable lady would not be long without him.”