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ANNETTE LYLE'S CHRISTMAS GIFT. 427 wants. His stately, handsome wife had great regard for his wishes, and strove hard to fulfill them ; but she lacked the light hand and quick perception of her paid dependent. Often as the girl sprung up to do some silent office of charity, otherwise neglected, she saw the sick man's eyes fixed upon her with a strange gaze of pity and interest, and heard real kindness in the brief words with which he thanked her.

It was in this way that she and Charles Dean at last met. Though much more confined to business than usual, in consequence of his step-father's absence, he came down at regular intervals. He and his reports and memoranda were summoned, on such occasions, to the large chamber, in whose distant bay-window Annette sat at her work.

"We have received all the papers of Purcell & Du Page, assigned to us by the heirs of the late partners," the junior one day said, in explanation of the formidable bag of documents that accompanied him; "and I have brought down such of them as I fancied you would like to look over."

"Nothing of immediate interest, I suppose?"

"No, I fear most of them have been long neglected. Du Page's indolence, and Purcell's long absence and death abroad, with their great reputation, have accumulated a mass of cases, most of which have never been put in shape, and many more, I should fancy, had been abandoned by the clients in despair."

"And we are to sift this trash?"

"Much of the work is done, subject to your approval; but the remainder is worth examining. I should particularly like to call your attention to this suit, brought by Mary Lesley, or Lyle, against the heirs of the late Stephen P. Johnson, to recover her right of dower in his estate, and establish the claims of her child; alleging a secret marriage, which she offers testimony to prove."

"As what?"

"There is a marriage certificate, whether genuine or not I cannot say, as it was dated so long ago; and witnesses are offered who may have died in the interval, as no doubt the plaintiff has, or she would have pressed a claim involving so much property as is here indicated. Du Page has either been bribed by the opposite party, or has been criminally negligent in prosecuting this thing. It has slept, now, for seventeen years."

Mr. Johnson was lying back in his great chair, his stern features looking paler and more rigid than usual.

"You will see by these, sir, " he continued, "the exact nature of the claim. The case, I confess, has greatly interested me. I cannot see why it has not been tried long since, for even in the event of the mother's death, the child succeeds to her rights."

"You had better let the case alone. The woman was no doubt an impostor, and feared the exposure of her illegal claims; and so dropped it."

His voice sounded forced and harsh, and made an unnatural echo in the quiet room. The little seamstress suddenly rose from her seat, and hastily left the room as he spoke. But not so hastily but that Dean could see the flood of burning crimson that deluged face, and neck, and brow, as she was obliged to pass him in going out.

"I should like to undertake the examination, nevertheless," said the young man, after this partial interruption; "that is, if you do not  object."

"I do object," returned the other, thickly, and rising in his chair. "Your time, your trouble will be wasted in behalf of a person who is, I repeat, dead, or an impostor. Yes! dead, or an impostor, or she would have been heard of long ago."

"But she may not be an impostor," persisted the young man. "She may, indeed, be dead, but her child must now be grown up. He or she may be in such abject poverty as not to afford to press this suit. A rich inheritance, his or hers by right, may now actually be used to oppress or silence the true heir. Great God, sir! think of seventeen years of fraud and injustice on the one hand, and of want and pain on the other! The investigation may be difficult; the name of the husband is such a common one. Why, it was even your own father's— "

He ceased suddenly, for his mother was looking at him with warning and alarm. Mr. Johnson had sunk back in his chair. He was ghastly pale, and breathing with difficulty as he muttered indistinctly,

"My father died at sixty years-- a respectable man. How dare you!"

With a strange feeling he dared not analyze, the young man obeyed a sign from his mother, and left the room. As he passed the great hall-window, he saw the little seamstress in the ground, with the air and manner of one in deep trouble. Her face was half hidden by her thick hair, but her little fingers worked nervously together. Actuated by a sudden impulse, he followed her.

"I am very sorry," he began vaguely, as he approached, respecting her grief as if it had