"He is John Morton's son."
"Is it possible? I remember him when he was a child, but have not seen him for these ten years. After his father's death, his mother took him to Europe, to be educated; but she never came back; she died in Paris."
"He is Mr. Morton's only child—is he not?"
"Yes; his first wife had no children; and after he had buried her,—which, by the way, I believe was the happiest hour of his life,—he married a very different sort of person, Margaret Vassall, this boy's mother."
"What, one of the old Vassall race?"
"Exactly; and, I suppose, the last survivor. I used to know her. She was a handsome woman, and, bating her family pride, altogether a very fine character. She managed her husband admirably."
"Why, what need had John Morton of being managed?"
"O, Morton was a noble old gentleman, a merchant of the old school, and generous as the day; but he had his faults. He made nothing of his three bottles of Madeira at dinner, and besides— Ah, Mr. Jacobs, so you have found Macknight."
"Yes, sir," said Mr. Jacobs, coming up, "I have the volumes."
"See that young man, yonder. That's the son of your old friend, Mr. Morton."