"But," said Mr. Vosky, almost choked with emotion, "I find nothing extraordinary or bountiful in my acts. It is my duty, an act of gratitude."
"I fail to understand you," said Alfred. "I cannot remember the slightest favor that I have ever proffered you. I never saw you before, and what is more, I never heard of you in my life."
"Never?" cried Mr. Vosky. "Then listen to what I have to say. My entire fortune I owe to you. All my success I lay at your door."
Alfred looked at him in astonishment and shook his head.
"Did you never help a poor boy, by giving him fifty pounds?"
"Just now I don't remember ever having done any poor boy such a charity."
"Now," said Vosky, "perhaps you may remember a nightingale that you wished to have brought to your mother's garden. You will recall that poor stable-boy who managed it for you."
"Oh, yes," said Alfred, "I remember the boy very well. He was a poor, worthy, ambitious lad, named Michael Warden. The last I heard of him was when he went out into the world as a wheelwright, to make his fortune."
"So, you do remember him. Well, that boy Michael was none other than myself. Now I am the owner of a large factory, besides being financial adviser to the Czar. I had my name legally changed to Vosky. I was that stable-boy, that wheelwright."
"You!" cried Alfred, filled with admiration and astonishment. He sprang forward and embraced his benefactor. "But why didn't you tell me all this at first?"