"My name is Charles Sim."
"Yes! yes!" replied the colonel, gasping as he spoke; "I saw it; I felt it! Your name is Charles, but not Sim; that was your mother's name—your sainted mother's. You bear it from your grandfather You come from Cumberland?"
"I do!" was the reply, in accents of astonishment.
"My son! my son!—child of my Maria!" were the accents that broke from the colonel, as he fell upon the neck of the other.
"My father!" exclaimed Charles, "have I then found a father?" And the tears streamed down his cheeks.
Many questions were asked, many answered; and amongst others, the father inquired—
"Where is your brother—my little George? Does he live? You were the miniatures of your mother; and so strikingly did you resemble each other, that while you were infants, it was necessary to tie a blue ribbon round his arm, and a green one round yours, to distinguish you from each other."
Charles became pale; his knees shook; his hands trembled.
"Then I had a brother?" he cried.
"You had," replied his father; "but wherefore do you say you had a brother? Is it possible that you do not know him? He has been brought up with my father—Mr. Morris of Morris House."