“Why, what is there sad in your situation, my dear Wilton?” demanded Lord Sherbrooke, in the same tone of raillery:  “here are you a wealthy young man—­ay, wealthy, Wilton.  Have you not yourself told me that your income exceeds your expenses; while I, on the other hand, have no income at all, and expenses in abundance?  Well, I say you are here a wealthy young man, with the best prospects in the world, destined some day to be prime minister for aught I know.”

“And who, at this present moment,” interrupted Wilton, “has not a relation upon earth that he knows of; who has never enjoyed a father’s care or a mother’s tenderness; who can only guess that his birth was disgraceful to her whom man’s heart is naturally bound to reverence, without knowing who or what was his father, or who even was the mother by whose shame he was brought into being.”

Lord Sherbrooke was immediately grave, for he saw that Wilton was hurt; and he replied frankly and kindly, “I beg your pardon, my dear Wilton—­I did not intend to pain you, and had not the slightest idea of how you were circumstanced.  To tell the truth, I took it for granted that you were the son of good Lord Sunbury; and thought that you were, of course, well aware of all the particulars.”

“Of none, Sherbrooke, of none,” replied Wilton.  “Suspicions may have crossed my mind that it is as you supposed, but then many other things tend to make me believe that such is not the case.  At all events, one thing is clear—­I have no family, no kindred; or if I have relations, they are ashamed of the tie that binds me to them, and voluntarily disown it.”

“Pshaw!  Wilton,” exclaimed Lord Sherbrooke—­“family!  What matters a family?  Make yourself one, Wilton.  The best of us can but trace his lineage back to some black-bearded Northman, or yellow-haired Saxon, no better than a savage of some cannibal island of the South Sea—­a fellow who tore his roast meat with unwashed fingers, and never knew the luxury of a clean shirt.  Make a family for yourself, I say; and let the hundredth generation down, if the world last so long, boast that the head of the house was a gentleman, and wore gold lace on his coat.”

Wilton smiled, saying, “I fear the prospect of progeny, Sherbrooke, will never be held as an equivalent for the retrospect of ancestors.”

“An axiom worthy of Aristotle!” exclaimed Lord Sherbrooke; “but here we are, my dear Wilton,” he continued, pulling up his horse at the gates of a house enclosed within walls, situated about a quarter of a mile beyond Chelsea, and somewhat more from the house and grounds belonging at that time to the celebrated Earl of Peterborough.

“But what do you intend to do here?” exclaimed Wilton, at this pause.

“Oh! nothing but make a call,” replied his companion.

“Shall I ride on, or wait till you come back?” demanded Wilton.

“Oh, no!—­come in, come in,” said Lord Sherbrooke—­“I shall not be long, and I’ll introduce you, if you are not acquainted.”