The Yellow Holly. Hume Fergus

and I urged him to do so," said Mr. Ireland, heavily. "I was in Italy at the time, and you were only an infant in arms."

      "Who was my nurse then?"

      "Jane Fraser-the Scotch nurse who afterward brought you to your grandfather Lockwood when Mr. Vane was murdered."

      "Do you remember the other nurse-the first one I had?"

      Mr. Ireland grew indignant, and puffed angrily at his cigar. "I do, indeed," he said wrathfully, "a vulgar, forward hussy. She was not bad-looking, either, and set up for being a lady." Here he began to laugh. "Would you believe it, George, my boy, she was in love with your father, and showed it so plainly that he was obliged to get rid of her?"

      "What was her name?"

      "Eliza Stokes. And she was handsome in a bouncing way."

      "What became of her?"

      "I can't tell you," said Ireland, with sudden reserve.

      "Did you see her after she was dismissed?"

      Ireland turned his cigar slowly and did not look at George when he replied. "Yes, I did. When and where it does not matter."

      "But it does matter-to me!" cried Brendon, anxiously. "It is to know about her that I came here to see you to-day."

      "I thought you came about your birth," said Ireland, sharply.

      "That among other things."

      The old man looked down again and appeared to be in deep thought. He was turning over in his own mind how much or how little he should tell George. And the young man looked at him anxiously. Much depended upon the speech of Mr. Ireland. At last the silence was broken, and by a most unexpected remark. "I loved your mother," said Ireland.

      "I never knew that," said Brendon, softly, for he saw that the man was moved at the recollection of some early romance.

      "I never spoke of it before," was the reply, and Ireland laid down his cigar to speak the more freely. "Yes, I loved Rosina Lockwood with all my heart and soul. I was not bad-looking in those days, George, and I had a good income, but she preferred that scamp," and he struck his hand heavily on the table, with glowing eyes.

      "You are talking of my father, sir," said Brendon, stiffly.

      "I ask your pardon. But if you wish me to tell the story of that most unfortunate affair you cannot hope that I shall keep my temper. I was very badly treated by-well-" with a glance at George, Ireland nodded-"let the dead rest in peace."

      "I think it will be as well," said Brendon, coldly.

      Ireland again struck the table. His pallid skin became a deep crimson, and his eyes flashed. George rose in alarm, for the old man struggled to speak with such an obvious effort that he thought an apoplectic fit would end the conversation. He hastily poured out a glass of water and begged Ireland to loosen his neckcloth. But the man shook his head, and going to one of the windows opened it. For a few moments he inhaled the air, and returned to his seat more composed. "I beg your pardon, George," he gasped, when he recovered his voice, "but if you wish me to tell you anything you must not speak to me like that. I have a bad temper."

      "I never knew that," said Brendon, in a soothing tone. "You were always kind to me."

      "I have a superlatively bad temper," repeated Ireland, "but you were her child. How could I be angry with her child? Wait! Wait, I shall tell you all I can. Give me a few moments."

      He was so moved with emotion, and with the recollection of the past, that he buried his head in his arms, which were resting on the table. Brendon, respecting this feeling, walked to the end of the room and stared at a picture which represented a star of the ballet. But he did not see the saucy face, the twirling skirts. He was thinking how strange it was that Ireland should never have confessed this love before. Certainly he had never displayed such emotion. A change had come over the man, whereby he more plainly revealed his feelings than he was wont to do. George put this down to old age, and to less self-control consequent on the same. Shortly he heard Ireland calling to him, and returned to his seat to find the old man smoking quietly and rather ashamed of his outbreak. "But you shall see no more of that," he said.

      "I am sorry to be obliged to ask you for a story of the past," said Brendon, apologetically, "but it means so much to me."

      "I'll tell you all I can," said Ireland, taking no notice of the apology, but looking at the ash on his cigar. He paused for a moment to collect his thoughts, and then began abruptly. "I first met your mother at her father's house in Amelia Square, where I went to take lessons in singing. Lockwood was famous for his method in those days, and his fame was increased by the appearance of your mother, Rosina, at many concerts. She was a most beautiful creature, and was as much admired for her beauty as for her voice. Ah! what a voice. It was like the trill of a lark, flexible and silvery, and with an immense range. She was quite the rage for a season, and was called the English Jenny Lind. Many offers were made to her for the operatic stage. I dare say she would have accepted in the end had she not met with Percy Vane, and he-" Ireland's hand clenched.

      "My father," said George, willfully disregarding this sign of temper, "how did he meet her?"

      "He saw her at a concert and fell in love with her. Then he came to take singing-lessons, with the voice of a frog. Bah! it was a mere blind. It was Rosina Lockwood he was after. I saw it-oh, yes! The eyes of love are keen, and, although Rosina would not waste a look on me, I watched her every action. Many a night have I paced Amelia Square watching her window. When she sang I was entranced, when she smiled-" Here the old man shook his head and made an effort to recover himself.

      Brendon saw that the recital was painful to him, and but that he was so anxious to get at the proofs of his birth would have asked him to desist. But there was too much at stake for such consideration to be shown. "Go on," he said softly, and Ireland resumed.

      "Percy Vane was a handsome man, and rich. I warned Lockwood that he was in love with Rosina, but the old man would not heed. He was flattered by the attention Rosina received. All through that season Vane was in attendance on Rosina. At the end of it he eloped with her-yes. He met her outside St. James's Hall and they eloped."

      "Where did they go to?" asked Brendan, eagerly.

      "That I cannot say. Rosina wrote three weeks afterward from Paris, signing herself Vane, and stating that she was the wife of Percy."

      "Was my grandfather angry?"

      "Yes and no. He was angry that he should have lost her, for she was of use to him as an advertisement of his method of singing, and also she earned a great deal of money. The house in Amelia Square was large and required a good deal to keep it up. Besides, Anthony Lockwood was extravagant. That was why you were left so badly off."

      Brendon shrugged his shoulders. "It was good of my grandfather to leave me anything," he said, "but in what way was my-Mr. Lockwood, pleased? You hinted that he was not quite angry."

      "Well," said Ireland, slowly twirling the cigar in his fingers, "you see he was flattered that his daughter should have married into the aristocracy."

      "Then there was no question of the marriage, then?"

      "No. Lord Derrington said nothing till your mother was dead, and even then he said very little. It was when Vane was murdered at San Remo that he first decisively asserted that no marriage had taken place. He did so because Lockwood insisted that Derrington should acknowledge you as the heir. He refused to do so, and said that his second son was the heir."

      "That is Walter Vane's father?"

      "Exactly. And now the father is dead, Walter Vane stands in your shoes. I wish you could prove the marriage, my boy," said Ireland, shaking his head, "but it will be a difficult task."

      "I don't care how difficult it is," replied Brendon, resolutely. "I am determined to learn the truth."

      "Who is the lady?" asked Ireland.

      "Miss Dorothy Ward. You don't know anything of her."

      Ireland shook his head. "I left the adoration of the aristocracy to Lockwood," he said, with something like a sneer, "but that's neither here nor there, my boy. To make a long story short, I met your mother in