answered kindly, and promised to come to her. She bade the boy visit her if possible, that I night see him, for she could not doubt that I would receive him for her sake, and free him from dependence on the French aunts who made their favors burdensome by reproach and separation.
As I read, I forgave the boy his prank, and longed to give him a hearty welcome; but recollections of my own part in that night's masquerade annoyed me so much that to conceal my chagrin I assumed a stern air, and demanded, coldly:
"Was it necessary to make a girl of yourself in order to visit your mother?"
"Yes, sir," answered the boy, promptly, adding, with the most engaging frankness: "I'll tell you how it was, uncle, and I know you will pardon me, because mamma has often told me of your pranks when a boy, and I made you my hero. See, then, mamma sends me this letter, and I am wild to go, that I may embrace her and see my uncle. But my aunts say, "No," and tell them at school that I am to be kept close. Ah, they are strict there: the boys are left no freedom, and my only chance was the one holiday when I go to my aunts. I resolved to run away, and walk to mamma, for nothing shall part us but her will. I had a little money, and I confided my plan to Justine, my old nurse. She is a brave one! She said:
"'You shall go, but not as a beggar. See, I have money. Take it, my son, and visit your mother like a gentleman.'
"That was grand; but I feared to be caught before I could leave Lyons, so I resolved to disguise myself, and then if they followed I should escape them. Often at school I have played girl-parts, because I am small, and have as yet no beard. So Justine dressed me in the skirt, cloak and hat of her granddaughter. I had the blonde wig I wore on the stage, a little rouge, a soft tone, a modest air, and—voilà mademoiselle!"
"Exactly; it was well done, though at times you forgot the 'modest air,' nephew," I said, with as much dignity as suppressed merriment permitted.
"It was impossible to remember it at all times; and you did not seem to like mademoiselle the less for a little coquetry," replied the rogue, with a sly glance out of the handsome eyes that had bewitched me.
"Continue your story, sir. Was the young man we met really a teacher?"
"Yes, uncle; but you so kindly protected me that he could not even suspect your delicate wife."
The boy choked over the last word, and burst into a laugh so irresistably infectious that I joined him, and lost my dignity for ever.
"George, you are a scapegrace," was the only reproof I had breath enough to make.
"But uncle pardons me, since he gives me my name, and looks at me so kindly that I must embrace him."
And with a demonstrative affection which an English boy would have died rather than betray, my French nephew threw his arms about my neck, and kissed me heartily on both checks. I had often ridiculed the fashion, but now I rather liked it, and began to think my prejudice ill-founded, as I listened to the lad's account of the sorrows and hardships they had been called on to suffer since his father died.
"Why was I never told of your existence?" I asked, feeling how much I had lost in my long ignorance of this bright boy, who was already dear to me.
"When I was so ill while a baby, mamma wrote to my grandfather, hoping to touch his heart; but he never answered her, and she wrote no more. If uncle had cared to find his nephew, be might easily have done so; the channel is not very wide."
The reproach in the last words went straight to my heart; but I only said, stroking the curly head:
"Did you never mean to make yourself known to me? When your mother was suffering, could you not try me?"
"I never could beg, even for her, and trusted to the good God, and we were helped. I did mean to make myself known to you when I had done something to be proud of: not before."
I knew where that haughty spirit came from, and was as as glad to see it as I was to see how much the boy resembled my once lovely sister.
"How did you know me, George?" I asked, finding pleasure in uttering the familiar name, unspoken since my father died.
"I saw your name on your luggage at Marseilles, and thought you looked like the picture mamma cherishes so tenderly, and
PATRICK S. GILMORE, THE ORIGINATOR OF THE BOSTON PEACE JUBILEE.—PAGE 185.