A Wonderful Discovery.  
Slowly recovering consciousness, I found myself lying on the floor of a waiting-room, with a gentleman bending over me. Instantly recollecting what had occurred, I endeavoured to start up, but was obliged to fall back again.
 
“You must lie quiet sir,” said the gentleman. “You’re not much hurt. We will send you on, if you choose, by the train that is expected in a few minutes.”
 
“Is the elderly gentleman safe?” I asked eagerly.
 
“Which elderly gentleman? There were several in the train, but none are injured, I believe, though some are much shaken. Nobody has been killed. It has been quite a miraculous escape.”
 
“Merciful—call it merciful, my dear sir,” said I, looking upwards and thanking God with all my heart for sparing my life.
 
Two days after that I lay on the drawing-room sofa in Hoboy Crescent. Mr and Mrs McTougall had gone out. So had the children, the forenoon being fine. Edith had remained at home, for reasons which she did not see fit to divulge. She sat beside me with one of her hands in mine. It was all arranged between us by that time.
 
“Edith,” said I after a short pause in our conversation, “I have long wanted to tell you about a dear little old lady with whom Robin Slidder and I have had much to do. She’s one of my poor patients, whom I have not mentioned to you before, but I’ve heard something about her lately which makes me wish to ask your advice—perhaps your aid—in a rather curious search which I’ve been engaged in for a long time past.”
 
“I will go for my work, John, and you shall tell me all about it,” she replied, rising. “I shall be five or ten minutes in preparing it. Can you wait patiently?”
 
“Well, I’ll try, though of course it will be like a separation of five or ten years, but Dumps and I will solace each other in your absence.—By the way, touch the bell as you pass. I should like to see Robin, not having had a talk with him since the accident.”
 
When Robin appeared I asked him if he had seen the Slogger.
 
“No, sir, I ’aven’t,” replied Robin, with a somewhat cross look. “That there Slogger has played me false these two times. Leastwise, though he couldn’t ’elp it the fust time, he’s got to clear ’isself about the second.”
 
“You know where the Slogger lives, don’t you?” I asked.
 
“Oh yes, but it’s a long, long way off, an’ I durstn’t go without leave, an’ since you was blowed up i’ the train I’ve scarce ’ad a word with the doctor—he’s bin that busy through ’avin’ your patients on ’is ’ands as well as is own.”
 
“Well, Robin, I give you leave to go. Be off within this very hour, and see that you bring me back some good news. Now that we have reason to believe the poor girl is in London, perhaps near us, I cannot rest until we find her—or prove the scent to have been a false one. Away with you!”
 
As the boy went out, Edith came back with her work basket.
 
“I’ve been thinking,” said I, as she sat down on a stool beside me, “that before beginning my story, it would be well that you should unburden your dear little heart of that family secret of yours which you thought at first was a sufficient bar to our union. But before you begin, let me solemnly assure you that your revelations, whatever they are, will utterly fail to move me. Though you should declare yourself to be the daughter of a thief, a costermonger, or a chimpanzee monkey—though you should profess yourself to have been a charwoman, a foundling, a Billingsgate fish-woman, or a female mountebank—my feelings and resolves will remain the same. Sufficient for me to know that you are you, and that you are mine!—There, go on.”
 
“Truly, then, if such be your feelings, there is no need of my going on, or even beginning,” she replied, with a smile, and yet with a touch of sadness in her tone which made me grasp her hand.
 
“Ah, Edith! I did not mean to hurt you by my jesting, and yet the spirit of what I say is true—absolutely true.”
 
“You did not hurt me, John; you merely brought to my remembrance my great sorrow and—”
 
“Your great sorrow!” I exclaimed in surprise, gazing at her smooth young face.
 
“Yes, my great sorrow, and I was going to add, my loss. But you shall hear. I have no family mystery to unfold. All that I wished you to know on that head was that I am without family altogether. All are dead. I have no relation on earth—not one.”
 
She said this with such deep pathos, while tears filled her eyes, that I could not have uttered a word of comfort to save my life.
 
“And,” she continued, “I am absolutely penniless. These two points at first made me repel you—at least, until I had explained them to you. Now that you look upon them as such trifles I need say no more. But the loss to which I have referred is, I fear, irreparable. You won’t think me selfish or tiresome if I go back to an early period of my history?”
 
“Selfish! tiresome!” I repeated, “oh, Edith!”
 
“Well, then, many years ago my father and mother lived by the seashore not far from Yarmouth. They were poor. My father gave lessons in French, my mother taught music. But they earned sufficient to support themselves and my grandmother and me in comfort. We were a very happy family, for we all loved God and tried to follow in the footsteps of Jesus. I gave them, indeed, a great deal of trouble at first, but He overcame my stubborn heart at last, and then there was nothing to mar the happiness of our lives. But sickness came. My father died. My mother tried to struggle on for a time, but could not earn enough; I tried to help her by teaching, but had myself need of being taught. At last we changed our residence, in hopes of getting more remunerative employment, but in this we failed. Then my mother fell sick and died.”
 
She stopped at this point.
 
“Oh, Edith! this makes you doubly dear,” said I, drawing her nearer to me.
 
In a few minutes she continued—
 
“Being left alone now with my grandmother, I resolved to go to London and try to find employment in the great city. We had not been long here, and I had not yet obtained employment when an extraordinary event occurred which has ever since embittered my life. I went out for a walk one day, and was robbed.”
 
“How strange!” I exclaimed, half rising from the sofa. “What a curious coincidence!”
 
“What! How? What do you mean?” she asked, looking at me in surprise.
 
“Never mind just now. When I come to tell you my story you will understand. There is a robbery of a young girl in it too.—Go on.—”
 
“Well, then, as I said, I was robbed by a man and a boy. I had dear little Pompey with me at the time, and that is the way I came to lose him. But the terrible thing was that an accident befell me just after I was robbed, and I never saw my darling grandmother again—”
 
“Coincidence!” I exclaimed, starting up, as a sudden thought was forced upon my mind, and my heart began to beat violently, “this is more than a coincidence; and yet—it cannot be—pooh! impossible! ridiculous! My mind is wandering.”
 
I sank back somewhat exhausted, for I had been considerably weakened by my accident. Edith was greatly alarmed at my words and looks, and blamed herself for having talked too much to me in my comparatively weak condition.
 
“No, you have not talked too much to me. You cannot do that, dear Edie,” I said.
 
It was now her turn to look bewildered.
 
“Edie!” she echoed. “Why—why do you call me Edie?”
 
I covered my eyes with my hand, that she might not see their expression.
 
“There can be no doubt now,” I thought; “but why that name of Blythe?” Then aloud:
 
“It is a pretty contraction for Edith, is it not? Don’t you like it?”
 
“Like it? Yes. Oh, how much! But—but—”
 
“Well, Edie,” I said, laying powerful restraint on myself, and looking her calmly in the face, “you must bear with me to-night. You know that weakness somet............