Don't
you remember when your dear, good, pretty Johanna won all hearts?" "Yes, yes," said Oakley, glancing triumphantly at Lupin. "My dear child,
whom all the world loves--God bless her!--She is pure, and good, and
faultless as an angel." "That, Mr. Oakley," said the lady, "I believe she is. We are as fond of
her here, and always as glad to see her, as though she belonged to us. Indeed, we quite envy you such a treasure as she is." Tears gushed into the grateful father's eyes, as he heard his child--his
own Johanna--she who reigned all alone in his heart, and yet filled it
so completely--so spoken of. How glad he was that there was some one
besides himself present to hear all that, although that one was an
enemy! With what a triumphant glance he looked around him. "Humph!" said Lupin. That humph recalled Oakley to the business of his visit, and yet how hot
and parched his lips got, when he would have framed the all-important
question, "Is my child here?" --and how he shook, and gasped for breath a
moment before he could speak. At length, he found courage--_not_ to ask if Johanna was there. No--no. He felt that he dared not doubt that. It would have been madness to
doubt it, sheer insanity. So he put the question indirectly, and he
contrived to say--

"I hope the two girls are quite well, quite--quite--well." "Two girls!" said the aunt. "Two girls!" "Yes," gasped Oakley. "Johanna and Arabella, you know--your Arabella,
and my Johanna--my child." "You ought to know, Mr. Oakley, considering that they are at your house,
you know. I hope that neither of them have been at all indisposed? Surely that is not the case, and this is not your strange way of
breaking it to us, Mr. Oakley?" The bereaved father--yes, at that moment he felt that he was a bereaved
father--clutched the arms of the chair upon which he sat, and his face
turned of a ghastly paleness. He made an inarticulate effort to speak,
but could only produce a strange gurgling noise. "Gracious Heavens! he is ill," cried Arabella's aunt. "No, madam," said Lupin. "He is only convinced." "Convinced of what?" "Of what he himself will tell you, madam." "Help! help!" cried Oakley. "Help! My child--my Johanna--my beautiful
child. Mercy--help. Give her to my arms again. Oh, no--no--no, she could
not leave me thus. It is false--it is some desperate juggle! My
child--my child, come once again to these arms.--God--God help me!" Arabella's aunt rose in the greatest alarm, and rung the bell so
sharply, that it brought everybody that was in the house to that room,
and Mr. Lupin, when he saw what a congregation there was, rose up and
said in a snuffling voice--

"Is there any objection to a prayer?" "The greatest at present, sir," said Arabella's aunt. "Sir, there is a
time for all things. The state of poor Mr. Oakley, now claims all our
care. If you are his friend--"

At these words, Oakley appeared to shake off much of the prostrating
effects of the first dreadful conviction, that what Lupin had told him
was true, and he said--

"No--no, he is no friend--he is a bitter enemy. The enemy of my peace,
and of my dear child. I am calmer now, and I demand--I implore, that
that man be made to leave this house." "Brother Oakley," said Lupin, "you brought me here." "And I now command you hence. Begone, villain, begone; go and exult over
the heart-broken father's grief; go and tell the tale where you will. You cannot move me now--go--go--go." "Truly I will go presently, but first of all, I say to you, brother
Oakley, hardened sinner as you are, repent. Down upon your knees all of
you, and join me in prayer, that the unbelievers may roll upon billows
of burning brimstone, and that--"

"Come," said a man, who happened to be in the house upon some domestic
errand, "Mrs. Wilmot says you are to go, and go you shall. Come, be
off--I know who you are. You are the rascal that married the widow in
Moorfields, but who, they say, has another wife in Liverpool. If you
don't go, I shall give you in charge for bigamy, and the widow says she
will spend her last penny in prosecuting you." [Illustration: Mr. Lupin Unmasked.] To meet any one half so well informed about his affairs, would have been
a terrible blow to Mr. Lupin; but when he found that this man, who was a
kind of jobbing cabinet-maker, knew so much, his great goggle eyes
opened to an alarming width, and he made a movement towards the door. Still, he did not like to go without saying something. "Flee, ye wretches," he said, "from the wrath to come! You will all go
into the bottomless pit, you will, and I shall rejoice at it; and sing
many songs of joy over you. Scoffers and mockers, I leave you all to
your fate. The devil will have you all, and that is a great comfort and
gratification to the elect and to the saints." With this, Mr. Lupin made a precipitate retreat, having achieved about
as little in the way of satisfying his curiosity as could very well be
conceived. It was a relief--a great relief to Mr. Oakley to be rid of such a
witness to his feelings as Lupin; and when he had fairly gone, and the
outer door was closed upon him, the spectacle-maker, with clasped hands,
and countenance expressive of the greatest possible amount of mental
agony, spoke--

"Dismiss all but ourselves, madam," he said. "There's that to say which
may be said to you alone, but which it would break my heart to say to
many." The room was soon clear, and then Oakley continued in a low faltering
voice to make those inquiries, each answer to which was so fatal to his
peace of mind. "Madam," he said, "is not my child--my Johanna--here staying on a visit
with Arabella?" "No, no--certainly not." This was so frightfully conclusive, that it was some few moments before
he could go on; but when he did, he said--

"Is Arabella in the house?" "That, Mr. Oakley," replied the aunt, "is a question I cannot answer you
at the moment; but rest and compose yourself for a few moments, and I
will ascertain myself if she be in or out, and if the latter, when she
was last seen." "I am much beholden to you, madam. I am a poor old man, much broken in
spirit, and with but one strong tie to bind me to a world which has
nearly done with me. That tie is the love of my dear child, Johanna. Alas! if that be broken, I am all adrift, and at the mercy of the winds
and waves of evil fortune; and the sooner I close my eyes in the long
sleep of death, the better for me and all who feel for me." "Nay, Mr. Oakley, I look upon it as a thing almost criminal to despair. There is one maxim which I have learnt in my experience of life, and
which I am sure you must have had abundant opportunities of learning
likewise. It is, 'Never to trust to appearances.'" The old man looked at her with a saddened aspect. It was quite evident
his feelings had been too strongly acted upon to make any philosophy
available to him; and when she left the room to make the inquiries
concerning Arabella, he wrung his hands, and wept.