Mr. Molyneux said that he understood very well that his friend wanted to see justice done, and that he had preferred to see to this in person.
“I thought you looked queer,” said Mr. Kuypers, frankly; “but still, I did not know I was changed. Why, don’t you remember Bruce? You remember Mrs. Chappell, surely.”
“Are you Bruce?” cried Mr. Molyneux; and he fairly left his chair and went round the table to the young man. “Why, I can see it now. But then—why, you were a boy, you know, and this black beard—”
“But pray explain, pray explain,” cried Tom. “The mysteries increase on us. Who is Mrs. Chappell, and, for that matter, who is Bruce, if his real name be not Kuypers?”
And they all laughed heartily. People got back their self-possession a little, and Mr. Kuypers explained.
“I am Bruce Kuypers,” said he, “though your father does not seem to remember the Kuypers part.”
“No,” said Mr. Molyneux, “I cannot remember the Kuypers part, but the Bruce part I remember very well.”
“My mother was Mrs. Kuypers before she married Mr. Chappell, and Mr. Chappell died when my brother Ben was six years old, and little Lizzy was a baby.”
“Lizzy was my godchild,” said Mrs. Molyneux, who now remembered everything.
“Certainly she was, Mrs. Molyneux, and last month Lizzy was married to as good a fellow as ever presided over the melting of ingots. We marry them earlier at the West than you do here.”