true?"

"I beg your pardon," said the wine-merchant. "You must make allowance
for me. This dreadful discovery is something I can't realise even yet.
We loved each other so dearly--I felt so fondly that I was her son. She
died, Mrs. Goldstraw, in my arms--she died blessing me as only a mother
_could_ have blessed me. And now, after all these years, to be told she
was _not_ my mother! O me, O me! I don't know what I am saying!" he
cried, as the impulse of self-control under which he had spoken a moment
since, flickered, and died out. "It was not this dreadful grief--it was
something else that I had it in my mind to speak of. Yes, yes. You
surprised me--you wounded me just now. You talked as if you would have
hidden this from me, if you could. Don't talk in that way again. It
would have been a crime to have hidden it. You mean well, I know. I
don't want to distress you--you are a kind-hearted woman. But you don't
remember what my position is. She left me all that I possess, in the
firm persuasion that I was her son. I am not her son. I have taken the
place, I have innocently got the inheritance of another man. He must be
found! How do I know he is not at this moment in misery, without bread
to eat? He must be found! My only hope of bearing up against the shock
that has fallen on me, is the hope of doing something which _she_ would
have approved. You must know more, Mrs. Goldstraw, than you have told me
yet. Who was the stranger who adopted the child? You must have heard
the lady's name?"

"I never heard it, sir. I have never seen her, or heard of her, since."

"Did she say nothing when she took the child away? Search your memory.
She must have said something."