“Tell me something of the past,” said Phil, with a view of testing the knowledge of the seeress.

“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 amazement¹. 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 skeptical².

“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 confirmation³ of his step-mother's story. He had entertained serious doubts of its being true, thinking it might have been trumped⁴ up by Mrs. Brent to drive him from home, and interfere⁵ 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

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