“Never came back!” repeated Philip.

“No; nor was anything heard from him.  Mr. and Mrs. Brent came to the conclusion that the whole thing was prearranged to get rid of you.  Luckily for you, they had become attached to you, and, having no children of their own, decided to retain you.  Of course, some story had to be told to satisfy the villagers.  You were represented to be the son of a friend, and this was readily believed.  When, however, my late husband left Ohio, and traveled some hundreds of miles eastward to this place, he dropped this explanation and represented you as his own son.  Romantic, wasn’t it?”

Philip looked searchingly at the face of his step-mother, or the woman whom he had regarded as such, but he could read nothing to contradict the story in her calm, impassive countenance.  A great fear fell upon him that she might be telling the truth.  His features showed his contending emotions.  But he had a profound distrust as well as dislike of his step-mother, and he could not bring himself to put confidence in what she told him.

“What proof is there of this?” he asked, after a while.

“Your father’s word.  I mean, of course, Mr. Brent’s word.  He told me this story before I married him, feeling that I had a right to know.”

“Why didn’t he tell me?” asked Philip incredulously.

“He thought it would make you unhappy.”

“You didn’t mind that,” said Philip, his lips curling.

“No,” answered Mrs. Brent, with a curious smile.  “Why should I?  I never pretended to like you, and now I have less cause than ever, after your brutal treatment of my boy.”

Jonas endeavored to look injured, but could not at once change the expression of his countenance.

“Your explanation is quite satisfactory, Mrs. Brent,” returned Philip.  “I don’t think I stood much higher in your estimation yesterday than today, so that I haven’t lost much.  But you haven’t given me any proof yet.”

“Wait a minute.”

Mrs. Brent left the room, went up-stairs, and speedily returned, bringing with her a small daguerreotype, representing a boy of three years.

“Did you ever see this before?” she asked.

“No,” answered Philip, taking it from her hand and eying it curiously.

“When Mr. and Mrs. Brent decided that you were to be left on their hands,” she proceeded, “they had this picture of you taken in the same dress in which you came to them, with a view to establish your identity if at any time afterward inquiry should be made for you.”

The daguerreotype represented a bright, handsome child, dressed tastefully, and more as would be expected of a city child than of one born in the country.  There was enough resemblance to Philip as he looked now to convince him that it was really his picture.

“I have something more to show you,” said Mrs. Brent.

She produced a piece of white paper in which the daguerreotype had been folded.  Upon it was some writing, and Philip readily recognized the hand of the man whom he had regarded as his father.