poor young Agnes Fleming, who died in giving him birth."
"Yes," said Monks, scowling at the trembling boy, the beating of whose heart he might have heard. "That is their bastard child."
"The term you use," said Mr. Brownlow sternly, "is a reproach to those who long since passed beyond the feeble censure of this world. It reflects true disgrace on no one living, except you who use it. Let that pass. He was born in this town?"
"In the workhouse of this town," was the sullen reply. "You have the story there." He pointed impatiently to the papers as he spoke.
"I must have it here too," said Mr. Brownlow, looking round upon the listeners.
"Listen then," returned Monks. "His father being taken ill at Rome, as you know, was joined by his wife, my mother, from whom he had been long separated, who went from Paris and took me with her—to look after his property, for what I know, for she had no great affection for him, nor he for her. He knew nothing of us, for his senses were gone, and he slumbered on till