"That will hardly answer. You must go up to Belfast with me, and attend the funeral of Mr. Montague."

"I?"

"Yes; the family are all very much interested in you. You need a black suit, and we will get one here," added Mr. Barkesdale, as they entered the best clothing store on the street.

The finest suit that could be obtained was purchased; and it was supplemented, at other stores, with a cap, nice shoes, black kid gloves, and other furnishing goods. Bobtail protested against the gloves; he did not want any gloves in summer; never wore them, except in winter. But Mr. Barkesdale said he must wear them at the funeral, if he never did again.

"I don't see why I should be rigged up in all these togs, to go to the funeral of a man I never saw but twice in my life," said Bobtail, as they seated themselves in the buggy.

"You don't know much," laughed Mr. Barkesdale.

"I know I don't."

"You don't even know your own name."

"Everybody calls me Little Bobtail, and it wouldn't be strange if I forgot my own name," replied the boy.

"I'm told your father's habits are not very good."

"Zeke Taylor's? He isn't my father; he is my mother's second husband; and my father died when I was small."

"Your mother must have a hard time of it with a drunken husband."

"That's so; I wish she would leave him; and I think she will, for he don't do much, and spends all he gets for rum. He's ugly, too, and tries to get her money away from her."

"Then your mother has money of her own?"

"I don't know; there's something strange about it," replied Bobtail, looking into the face of his companion, and wondering what he was "driving at." "Zeke says she has money hid away from him."

"Then you have thought of the matter?"

"Well, I can't see, for the life of me, how she supports the family."

"Well you don't know much--not even your own name," laughed Mr.

Barkesdale again.

"I know that my father's name was Wayland, and by rights mine ought to be Wayland."

"Are you quite sure of that?"

"Of course I am. I know what my mother told me. I was born in the Island of Cuba."

"That's true, but not the rest of it."

"What do you mean?"

"Your name is not Wayland."

"What is it, then?" asked Bobtail, amazed beyond expression.

"Your name is Robert Barkesdale Montague--the middle name after me."

"You don't mean so!"

"I do; and when you see your mother, as you call her, she will tell you the same thing."

"Isn't she my mother?" asked Bobtail,--or rather Robert, as we shall insist upon calling him now,--with a gasp of astonishment.

"She is not; she is a very worthy woman, but she is not your mother."

"Well, who is my mother?"

"The first Mrs. Montague, of course; she died in Cuba when you were only a few months old. Mrs. Wayland--as she was then--was your nurse. She has brought you up, and brought you up very well too, for it appears that you are an honest, good boy, n.o.ble, brave, and intelligent."

"But what's the reason I never knew anything about this before?" asked the puzzled youth.

"I'll tell you;" and Mr. Barkesdale told the story which is related in the first two chapters.

"I supposed I had a mother, but no father. It turns out just the other way," said Robert, rubbing his throbbing head.

"And your father is one of the best men in the world."

"Mrs. Taylor is one of the best women in the world; and I shall be sorry to leave her. I don't like to believe she is not my mother, after all she has done for me. I don't believe she ever spoke a cross word to me in her life;" and the tears started in the boy's eyes.

"I don't think you will have to leave her. Your father will take her up to Belfast."

[Ill.u.s.tration]

"And all the money came from my father?"

"Yes; I have carried a great deal to her myself."

Robert Montague continued to ask questions till the buggy stopped before the door of the cottage in Camden. Mrs. Taylor wept, and the boy wept, as they met. He wished that the truth had not been revealed to him. Mr.

Barkesdale went to the hotel, and Robert spent the evening with Mrs.

Taylor. Ezekiel was at home, and sober. He was permitted to know where the money which had perplexed him so much came from; and, as the son of Colonel Montague, he regarded Robert with respect and deference.

Mrs. Taylor and Robert took the steamer for Belfast the next morning, with Mr. Barkesdale. The boy was dressed in his black suit, and looked like another person. Colonel Montague's carriage was waiting for them when the steamer arrived. As Robert entered the elegant mansion, now "the house of mourning," he could hardly control his violent emotion.

Mr. Barkesdale conducted him and Mrs. Taylor to the library, where the colonel was alone. As they entered, he walked towards his son, grasped him by the hand, and turning away his face, wept bitterly. Robert could not help weeping in sympathy.

"You know now that you are my son," said he, when he was able to speak.

"Mr. Barkesdale told me all about it."

"You are my son, and I am proud of you; but I have been a coward, Robert," added the colonel, with anguish. "I have wronged my father, who lies dead in the house; and I have wronged you, my son."

"No, sir; you haven't wronged me," protested Robert.

"I have kept you out of your birthright for sixteen years."