"What else besides Henry?"
The boy did not reply, for he had fixed his eyes upon a picture that hung over the mantle, and was looking at it intently. The eyes of Mr. Crawford followed those of the child, that rested, he found, on the portrait of his daughter.
"What else besides, Henry?" he repeated.
"Henry Logan," replied the child, looking for a moment into the face of Mr. Crawford, and then turning to gaze at the picture on the wall. Every nerve quivered in the frame of that man of iron will. The falling of a bolt from a sunny sky could not have startled and surprised him more. He saw in the face of the child, the moment be looked at him, something strangely familiar and attractive. What it was, he did not, until this instant, comprehend. But it was no longer a mystery.
"Do you know who I am?" he asked, in a subdued voice, after he had recovered, to some extent, his feelings.
The child looked again into his face, but longer and more earnestly. Then, without answering, he turned and looked at the portrait on the wall.
"Do you know who I am, dear?" repeated Mr. Crawford.
"No, sir," replied the child; and then again turned to gaze upon the picture.
"Who is that?" and Mr. Crawford pointed to the object that so fixed the little boy's attention.
"My mother." And as he said these words, he laid his head down upon the bosom of his unknown relative, and shrunk close to him, as if half afraid because of the mystery that, in his infantile mind, hung around the picture on the wall.