“You have left an uncongenial home to seek your fortune in New York.  You left without regret, and those whom you have left behind do not miss you.”

Phil started in amazement.  This was certainly true.

“Shall I find the fortune I seek?” asked our hero earnestly.

“Yes, but not in the way you expect.  You think yourself alone in the world!”

The fortune-teller paused, and looked searchingly at the boy.

“So I am,” returned Phil.

“No boy who has a father living can consider himself alone.”

“My father is dead!” returned Phil, growing skeptical.

“You are mistaken.”

“I am not likely to be mistaken in such a matter.  My father died a few months since.”

“Your father still lives!” said the fortune-teller sharply.  “Do not contradict me!”

“I don’t see how you can say that.  I attended his funeral.”

“You attended the funeral of the man whose name you bear.  He was not your father.”

Phil was much excited by this confirmation of his step-mother’s story.  He had entertained serious doubts of its being true, thinking it might have been trumped up by Mrs. Brent to drive him from home, and interfere with his succession to any part of Mr. Brent’s property.

“Is my step-mother’s story true, then?” he asked breathlessly.  “She told me I was not the son of Mr. Brent.”

“Her story was true,” said the veiled lady.

“Who is my real father, then?”

The lady did not immediately reply.  She seemed to be peering into distant space, as she said slowly: 

“I see a man of middle size, dark-complexioned, leading a small child by the hand.  He pauses before a house—­it looks like an inn.  A lady comes out from the inn.  She is kindly of aspect.  She takes the child by the hand and leads him into the inn.  Now I see the man go away—­alone.  The little child remains behind.  I see him growing up.  He has become a large boy, but the scene has changed.  The inn has disappeared.  I see a pleasant village and a comfortable house.  The boy stands at the door.  He is well-grown now.  A lady stands on the threshold as his steps turn away.  She is thin and sharp-faced.  She is not like the lady who welcomed the little child.  Can you tell me who this boy is?” asked the fortune-teller, fixing her eyes upon Phil.

“It is myself!” he answers, his flushed face showing the excitement he felt.

“You have said!”

“I don’t know how you have learned all this,” said Phil, “but it is wonderfully exact.  Will you answer a question?”

“Ask!”

“You say my father—­my real father—­is living?”

The veiled lady bowed her head.

“Where is he?”

“That I cannot say, but he is looking for you.”

“He is in search of me?”

“Yes.”

“Why has he delayed it so long?”

“There are circumstances which I cannot explain which have prevented his seeking and claiming you.”