"Who is Ishmael Worth? Who is this young man, so stately, yet so gracious? so commanding, yet so meek? who walks among other men as a young king should, but as a young king never does. Who is he?"
"He is my son," said Herman Brudenell, proudly but shyly; "my son, the child of that unfortunate marriage contracted when I supposed that you were lost to me; lost to me in every way, my Berenice. That marriage of which I have already told you. Do you forgive me, for him also, Berenice?"
"I congratulate you on him, for he is a son to be very proud of. I glory in him, for he is now my son also," said this generous woman fervently.
Herman Brudenell raised her hand and pressed it to his lips.
"Oh, Herman, I knew it! I knew it twenty years ago, when I went to the Hill Hut and begged the babe to bring up as my own," she said.
"You did, Berenice? How divinely good you are."
"Good! Why, I only sought my own comfort in the babe. You were lost to me for the time, and your child was the best consolation I could have found. However, his stern kinswoman would not let me have him; would not even let me help him; denied that he was yours, and almost turned me out of doors."
"That was so like Hannah."
"But now at last he is mine; my gifted son. How I shall rejoice in him."
"He is yours, Berenice, as far as the most profound esteem and love can make him yours. But Ishmael will never consent to be publicly acknowledged by me," said Herman Brudenell sorrowfully.