“Did you not once live in Dublin, sir?” she asked, turning to me.
“Yes, I once lived there—when a boy,” I answered.
“Then I must be mistaken,” said she; “but I really thought I had seen you there.”
There was something so very absurd in this remark, that I could not help noticing it—even in my abstracted state of mind; and this very absurdity had the effect of awakening me from my reverie.
It then suddenly occurred to the young girl, that she had not been in Dublin since she was a child herself; and, at the time she left that city, a young man of my appearance could not have been much more than a boy.
“Perhaps, I am right after all?” said she. “I do believe that I’ve seen you in Dublin. Mother!” she added, turning to the old lady; “He knows who we are.”
Martha’s first remark—about having seen me in Dublin—brought upon me the earnest gaze of my mother. She had often told me that when a man I would look like my father; and perhaps my features awakened within her some recollections of the past.
She came up to me; and, speaking in a low, earnest voice, said: “Tell me who you are!”
I arose to my feet, trembling in every limb.
“Tell me who you are! What is your name?” she exclaimed—becoming nearly as much excited as myself.