* 
 
 BY 
 
 ^-SOUTHWORTH 
 
THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 GIFT OF 
 
 Mrs* George Papashvily 
 
 GIFT 
 
THE LOST HEIR 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A WEDDING DAY. 
 
 It was an exceptional morning in that stern climate, 
 and at that severe season a splendid winter morning; 
 as splendid as the sun, shining down from the clear, 
 deep blue sky upon the snowclad hills, the frosted fo 
 liage and the frozen loch could make it ; as splendid as 
 if it had been especially made to order to grace the 
 magnificent nuptials to be celebrated that day at Tro- 
 sach Castle; as splendid, in one word, as the fortunes 
 of the expectant bridegroom and the bride-elect ; for on 
 that day Alexander, Earl or Ornoch, was to wed Eglan 
 tine, Lady Linlithgow, the wealthiest heiress in all 
 Scotland, and a baroness in her own right. 
 
 Trosach Castle was one of those ancient strongholds 
 of the Western Highlands closely associated with the 
 national history. It was built about half way up the 
 ascent of Ben Trosach, at the head of Loch Trosach. 
 It faced south, commanding the full length of the loch 
 and sterile "inch," or isle, of the same name. In the 
 rear the castle was shielded from the north winds by 
 the higher steeps to the mountain, which was also 
 thickly grown with a fir wood. 
 
 Trosach Castle had a great history. The very date 
 of its first erection had been lost among the fables of 
 antiquity. It had been a royal hunting lodge, tradi 
 tion said, from the time of Malcolm I. Certainly it 
 had been so for several reigns when, in the year 1170, 
 it was bestowed by William the Lion on his favorite 
 Eric, Baron of Shetland. Then it was transformed 
 
 3 
 
 OC3 
 
4 THE LOST HEIK 
 
 from a royal hunting lodge into a feudal castle. And 
 in the centuries of civil war or feudal strife that fol 
 lowed, it was taken and retaken, destroyed and rebuilt, 
 many times; but early in the present century, the pe 
 riod at which our story commences, it was still in the 
 possession of a lineal descendant of the ancient lords 
 of Shetland. 
 
 Ronald, Marquis of Shetland, had been distinguished 
 in the councils of his country, a leading Tory in the 
 House of Lords, an able diplomat at foreign courts, a 
 wise colonial governor in India, where wisdom was of 
 more value than was force of arms. But now he was 
 retired from public affairs, and was living quietly at 
 Trosach Castle. 
 
 He had married, early in life, a daughter of the an 
 cient house of Murray, a handsome, haughty woman, 
 who only needed temptation and opportunity to be 
 come cruel and wicked. 
 
 No children had blessed this long union, but their 
 place was well filled in the hearts and home of the 
 childless couple by the orphan niece and ward of the 
 earl, the beautiful Eglantine Seton, Baroness of Lin- 
 lithgow, in her own right. 
 
 The wardship of this young lady was a most im 
 portant trust, involving a great responsibility. 
 
 Eglantine Seton s history and condition were very 
 singular and intersting, for from the infrequency of 
 marriage and the absence of children among her near 
 est kindred, she had been, from her very birth, pre 
 sumptive heir of four great estates, situated severally 
 in Scotland, England, Wales and Ireland. Before she 
 had attained her twelfth year she had succeeded to, 
 one after the other, all these rich estates, and thence 
 she came to be called the "combination heiress." And 
 before she had reached her fourteenth year, by the 
 death of her father, the tenth and last baron, she be 
 came Baroness Linlithgow in her own right. 
 
 From her sunny home at Seton Court Eglantine 
 was taken to the stern, dark castle on the hill, and 
 an aged tutor provided for her in the person of the 
 Rev. Mr. Graham, a retired clergyman. 
 
THE LOST HEIR 5 
 
 For three years Eglantine lived a very lonely life 
 at Trosach Castle, seeing only, beside the home circle, 
 the members of four or five neighboring families. 
 
 Of these the most intimate at the castle were the 
 Douglases of Inch Trosach, and the young Earl and 
 the Dowager Countess of Ornoch, at Castle Ornoch, on 
 the west bank of the loch. 
 
 The Dowager Countess of Ornoch was the elder 
 sister of Lady Shetland, and, of course, the young earl 
 was that lady s nephew. And if there was one person 
 on earth whom Lady Shetland loved above all others, 
 that person was her ladyship s nephew, the young Earl 
 of Ornoch. He w r as poor. His title was one of the 
 oldest in North Britain, but his estates were very heav 
 ily incumbered. 
 
 The colossal fortune of the "combination heiress," 
 the youthful Baroness Linlithgow, was just what was 
 needed to redeem the heavily-mortgaged patrimony of 
 the young Earl of Ornoch. And an alliance between 
 the parties would not only redeem the estates of the 
 earldom, but add to it much wider possessions, if not 
 higher honors, than it had ever enjoyed before. 
 
 This being the case, it was in the very nature of 
 things that the two sisters, the Marchioness of Shet 
 land and the Dowager Countess of Ornoch, should plan 
 to unite in marriage the impoverished young earl and 
 the wealthy young baroness. 
 
 To forward this plan, the young people were thrown 
 very much together, and encouraged by every means 
 to cultivate each other s friendship. 
 
 The earl, on his part, needed no prompting to seek 
 Eglantine Seton s society. His was a case of first love, 
 at first sight, for at their very first meeting, when 
 Eglantine was but fifteen years of age v he had been 
 at once attracted IfnT Tt e1ign ^"d " < T>3r*her "glad eyes," 
 had been drawn to his doom by their light, "as the 
 moth by the lamp" old simile, but ever true. 
 
 And Alexander, Earl of Ornoch, tall, finely formed, 
 with a noble head and face, dark, curling hair and 
 beard, and dark, speaking eyes, was quite handsome 
 enough to win the heart of any maiden he might choose 
 
6 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 to woo. He loved the youthful baroness, not for her 
 rank or for her wealth, but for her "glad eyes," and he 
 determined to woo her and win her if he could, that 
 their light might shine on him to the end of his days. 
 
 And Eglantine? She loved Alexander, too, but only 
 as it was her affectionate nature to love all with whom 
 she lived and moved and had her being. She loved the 
 dogs and horses, and the "gillies," each one, man or 
 brute, with an individual and discriminating affec 
 tion. She loved her ugly old master, who tormented 
 her with Greek and Latin, Hebrew and theology. She 
 loved her gouty and irritable old uncle, who snapped 
 and snarled at her like a spiteful old Scotch terrier. 
 She even loved her cold, stern aunt, whose strict disci 
 pline made her life a burden to her, and she loved all 
 her neighbors. 
 
 But oh! how much more than these, than all, than 
 any, she loved her nearest neighbor and earliest play 
 mate, young Willie Douglas, the penniless nephew of 
 old Dugald Douglas of Inch Trosach. 
 
 And here was the obstacle to their plans that neither 
 Lady Shetland nor Lady Ornoch had ever dreamed of. 
 
 Just midway between the shores of the loch, and, 
 consequently, just midway between the estates of Or 
 noch and Trosach Castle, stood the outward and visible 
 sign of this unseen and unsuspected obstacle; Inch 
 Trosach dividing the two estates which these ladies 
 wished to join, no less certainly than young Willie 
 Douglas divided their heirs. 
 
 That this boy and girl should love each other their 
 most intimate friends would never have suspected. Cer 
 tainly Willie Douglas was not manly enough, or even 
 well-dressed enough, to be considered an object of dan 
 ger to young ladies, or of dread to their guardians. He 
 was not so handsome as the tall, elegant and graceful 
 young Earl of Ornoch ; his dress was homely, and 
 often shabby; his uncle, old Dugald, was an impover 
 ished gentleman, whose small estate, Inch Trosach, 
 was not only almost sterile, but also heavily mortgaged, 
 so that he could not supply his son the means of mak 
 ing a very genteel appearance. So, if Willie Douglas 
 
THE LOST HEIR 7 
 
 was not desired as an eligible parti by dowagers who 
 had marriageable daughters, neither was he dreaded 
 as a dangerous one. 
 
 On the contrary, from his childhood up, every one 
 who knew him had loved the gentle boy, and liked to 
 have him run in and out of their houses, with any 
 other household pet. 
 
 So how, then, would it ever occur to any one that 
 poor Willie Douglas would ever become the rival of the 
 splendid young Earl of Ornoch for the hand of Eglan 
 tine, Lady Linlithgow? 
 
 Yet there was something very attractive, almost an 
 gelic, in the expression of Willie s countenance, and 
 perhaps it was that which won Eglantine s heart. Wil 
 lie s form was slight and graceful, his features regular 
 and delicate, his complexion fair and clear, his hair 
 gold-hued and wavy, and his eyes were blue and pure. 
 They were not "glad" eyes, like Eglantine s ; they were 
 sweet, serious, steady, intense eyes, that reached the 
 very soul of her on whom they tenderly gazed. And 
 this was the difference between those two pairs of eyes 
 hers attracted, his penetrated. And these young eyes 
 had met, and these young souls, looking out from them, 
 had blended in a love that was to be their fate. And 
 all this had happened long before any one suspected so 
 much as a passing interest between them. 
 
 And yet, so subtle and so pure was their affection 
 that no word of love had been spoken ; but all this while 
 the youth felt sure that he should live a bachelor all 
 his life for the love of Eglantine Seton, and all this 
 while the maiden whispered to herself that so soon as 
 she should become of age, she would bestow herself and 
 all her rich inheritance on Willie Douglas, and on no 
 other, even though that other were a prince. 
 
 Such was her silent plan of life, never uttered, but 
 so familiar to her own imagination that she had de 
 luded herself into the idea that every one else must 
 know as well as herself what her future destiny was 
 to be. 
 
 But when she was no more than seventeen years of 
 
8 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 age, Eglantine Seton was rudely awakened from her 
 love dream. 
 
 The Earl of Ornoch, who was full ten years her 
 senior, being then twenty-seven years old, thought it 
 was time for him to marry. And as he had known 
 and loved the youthful baroness for two entire years, 
 and had been much encouraged by her family as well 
 as by his own, he made a formal visit to Trosach Castle, 
 and asked permission of Lord Shetland to propose for 
 the hand of his niece and ward. He received the mar 
 quis consent to and hearty approval of his suit, and 
 was referred to Eglantine herself for his ultimate 
 answer. 
 
 With grateful acknowledgments he bowed, and went 
 to seek the young lady in the music-room, where he 
 had been told her should find her. 
 
 As he entered she arose from the piano, where she 
 had been seated, and, with her usual courtesy, came 
 forward to meet him. 
 
 But with very unusual gravity he greeted her, led 
 her to a sofa, and seated himself beside her, and then 
 and there he told her that he loved her, and that he 
 had her uncle s permission to ask her to be his wife. 
 
 She opened her eyes and gazed at him in dumb 
 amazement. 
 
 He repeated his words, and, with deferential tender 
 ness, pressed the question. 
 
 The she opened her lips also, and politely but 
 promptly declined the honor he had intended her. 
 
 It was now his turn to gaze in mute astonishment. 
 
 But she only lowered her eyes, and kept silence. 
 
 At length he found his voice, and spoke again : 
 
 "Eglantine, you cannot mean this. I come to you 
 with the sanction of your guardian, as well as with 
 the earnest wishes of my mother." 
 
 "I am very grateful. It is an honor, I know, and 
 I am very sorry, but " said the young girl, hesita 
 ting through the distress she felt in giving pain, "but 
 I could not possibly accept your proposal, Lord 
 Ornoch." 
 
 "Why? In the name of Heaven, why?" he inquired 
 
THE LOST HEIR 9 
 
 in deep disappointment, yet with a degree of hopeful 
 incredulity. 
 
 "Because I intend to She paused and dropped 
 her eyes in some embarrassment. 
 
 "Intend to what?" he pressed, after a painful 
 silence. 
 
 "Oh, I thought you knew. You ought to have 
 known." 
 
 "Known? I know nothing, understand nothing of all 
 this, except that it makes me anxious and wretched. 
 Explain yourself, dear Eglantine," he pleaded, taking 
 her hand. 
 
 She withdrew it gently, saying, slowly: 
 
 "I had better tell you frankly, then, that, as soon as 
 I become of age, I mean to marry Willie Douglas." 
 
 "Marry?" he echoed, in utter amazement. "Marry! 
 Whom!" 
 
 "My own Willie Douglas. Yes," she answered, blush 
 ing intensely, yet speaking firmly, as in loyalty to 
 young Douglas and justice to Lord Ornoch. 
 
 "Marry William Douglas! But, Lady Linlithgow, 
 this is incomprehensible, impossible!" he exclaimed in 
 great agitation, which he tried in vain to control. "You 
 cannot be serious in what you say," he added, after a 
 pause. 
 
 "I am perfectly serious. You have my answer, Lord 
 Ornoch, my final answer, for I can never, never give 
 you any other. And so I trust to your kindness and 
 courtesy not to pursue this subject or prolong this 
 interview, which is so distressing to us both," she an 
 swered, softly. 
 
 He arose at her word and stood before her. His face 
 was very pale. He said : 
 
 "I will not trouble you further this morning. Eglan 
 tine. But I cannot give you up! you whom I have 
 loved since I first saw your sweet face; you whom I 
 have been so long led to look upon as my future wife! 
 No, I cannot, and will not resign hope." 
 
 He raised her hand to his lips, turned and left the 
 room. 
 
 Great was the consternation of the two matchmaking 
 
10 THE LOST HEIK 
 
 matrons when they heard of Lord Ornoch s rejection 
 and its cause. They held a "cabinet meeting" ar.d 
 talked it over. Willie Douglas, the rival of the l.arl 
 of Ornoch? It was ridiculous! it was incredible! it 
 was impossible! And yet they concluded that some de 
 cisive steps should be taken in the case. 
 
 Lady Shetland called up her niece for private exam 
 ination, and in the course of a long tete-a-tete elicited 
 from Eglantine, who had nothing to conceal, some very 
 startling facts ; that she had loved Willie Douglas ever 
 since she could remember, and that she was fully re- 
 solved to marry him as soon as she should come of age 
 and be her own mistress. This news was very exas 
 perating, but it was somewhat palliated by what fol 
 lowed, for the lady drew from the maiden further 
 information tha she was not formally pledged to her 
 lover that no explicit engagement had been entered 
 into between them; that no proposal of marriage had 
 been made by him, and that no word of love had ever 
 been spoken by either to the other. 
 
 Lady Shetland heaved a deep sigh of relief. All was 
 yet safe, she thought. Willie Douglas was an honorable 
 young fellow, after all, to have refrained from binding 
 Eglantine by an engagement when his temptation to do 
 so had evidently been so strong. He was worthy of his 
 ancient name and heroic lineage. And though she 
 could not reward this beggar with the hand of the 
 princess who loved him, yet she would do something 
 else for him. And she immediately conceived a plan 
 by which she could at once advance the fortunes of the 
 young man and remove the obstacle from her way. 
 
 In the days when she had loved and petted the beau 
 tiful boy she had discovered that the very highest 
 earthly aspiration of his spirit was to enter the .army, 
 an aspiration then as unlikely to be fulfilled as if it 
 had been to enter the royal family. 
 
 But now Lady Shetland resolved that his ambition 
 should be gratified, so she went to the marquis, her 
 husband, and told him of Eglantine s rejection of Lord 
 Ornoch, from an avowed preference for Willie Douglas, 
 and of the imminent necessity of immediately getting 
 
THE LOST HEIR 11 
 
 rid of young Douglas. Then she spoke of the youth s 
 wish to enter the army, and proposed that the marquis 
 should at once purchase for him a commission in a 
 marching regiment, and so send him out of England 
 for years, or forever. 
 
 Lord Shetland promptly perceived the wisdom of this 
 plan, complimented his lady on her genius for diplo 
 macy, and promised to set about the business at once. 
 
 That same day he sent a note to Willie Douglas, invit 
 ing him to the castle. 
 
 He received the youth, alone, in his library. Then, 
 in the kindest manner, he spoke of his wish to advance 
 the fortunes of his young friend, and, after a delicate 
 little preamble, frankly offered to purchase for him a 
 commission in the army. 
 
 Surprise, delight, gratitude nearly overwhelmed the 
 sensitive and ingenuous boy. At first emotion deprived 
 him of the power of speech, and afterward he was as 
 sincere as he was earnest in the expression of his 
 thanks. 
 
 The marquis affected to treat the matter lightly, and 
 soon dismissed his overjoyed young "friend." 
 
 It happened that the family were about to go up 
 to London for the season. 
 
 In a week from this time, therefore, the Marquis and 
 Marchioness of Shetland, with their household, were 
 established in their town house in Park lane. Lord 
 Shetland lost no time in looking after Willie Douglas 
 commission. 
 
 Money and interest combined will do a great deal, 
 if not everything; so, in a, comparatively speaking, 
 very short time, William Douglas was gazetted as a 
 lieutenant in the Regiment of Foot. 
 
 The regiment was ordered to Canada, but there was 
 to be a delay of a few weeks before it sailed. And 
 Willie Douglas had a month s leave before joining. 
 
 He ran home for a day or two to bid farewell to 
 his old uncle at Inch Trosach, and then he returned 
 to spend the rest of his leave in London, where he 
 could be near Eglantine. 
 
 Every day he visited the house in Park lane, a seem- 
 
12 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 ingly welcome guest, but really only a tolerated one. 
 
 "After all, it is no great matter," said Lady Shet 
 land to Lady Ornoch, who, with the young earl, was 
 also in town. "It can do no harm to let the little fools 
 see as much of each other as they like during this one 
 month of his leave, for when he is gone once, he will 
 be gone forever." 
 
 And so the month drew near its close, and the time 
 of parting came. And though their sorrowful good- 
 bys were spoken in the presence of all the family, 
 Eglantine forgot that she was a young lady, and that 
 the eyes of others were on her, and she clung to her 
 own Willie and cried bitterly; and, I am sorry to say, 
 Lieutenant Douglas forgot that he was a man and a 
 soldier, and cried for company. I fear that the girl of 
 the period, in her elegant language, would have called 
 him "a spoon," but as he afterward did some fierce 
 fighting among the terrible Sepoys, I hope my readers 
 will forgive him. He was now bound for Canada, how 
 ever, and not for India. Still he wept to see his love 
 weep, for the bravest are ever the tenderest. And she 
 gathered courage from sorrow to lift her head from 
 his shoulder and say: 
 
 u You are going from me, Willie! You may never live 
 to return ; but remember, Willie, in life or in death, 
 I am yours." 
 
 He pressed her hands in speechless emotion. 
 
 As a breach of conventional propriety, all this was 
 very shocking to Lady Shetland, but it was not in the 
 least degree alarming. 
 
 "Pooh!" she said to herself, "all this is too open to 
 be deep. They are children, and will forget each other 
 in a half a year, or less time." 
 
 "Well, the boy officer was gone, and the "glad eyes" 
 quenched their ligfrt in showers of tears. 
 
 Her aunt and uncle were as kind to Eglantine as it 
 was in their unsympathetic natures to be. But her 
 greatest comfort in her trouble was her old tutor. Sit 
 ting on a cushion at his feet, with her head on his 
 knees, she would weep, complain and talk by the hour. 
 
THE LOST HEIR 13 
 
 And he was always sympathetic, pitiful and patient 
 with her. 
 
 His functions as tutor had ceased for some months 
 past. He was very infirm, and somewhat childish. The 
 marchioness had said that he was getting in his dotage, 
 and talked of pensioning him off. But Eglantine plead 
 ed for him, and so he was tolerated for a little, not 
 as her tutor, but as her whim. 
 
 Eglantine was not yet brought out. Lady Shetland 
 and Lady Ornoch had determined, from prudential 
 motives, that she should not be until after her mar 
 riage with Lord Ornoch. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 EGLANTINE S SECRET. 
 
 Thus, while the two elder ladies mixed freely in all 
 the fashionable gayeties of the season, Eglantine re 
 mained at home, with no companion but her old tutor, 
 and no visitor but Lord Ornoch. 
 
 He came almost every evening, often sacrificing an 
 attractive ball or opera for the sake of for the chance 
 of passing some hour tete-a-tete with Eglantine. 
 
 But, in one respect, all the plotters against the 
 young girl s peace were disappointed. 
 
 Lord Ornoch reaped no sort of advantage from the 
 exile of poor Willie, or the sequestration of Eglantine. 
 Quite the contrary, indeed; for whereas, in former 
 times, she had always been willing to receive the young 
 earl as a friend and relative, now she avoided him on 
 all occasions when she was not obliged by etiquette to 
 entertain him. 
 
 When expostulated with upon this subject by her 
 aunt, she would answer: 
 
 If my poor, dear, banished Willie cannot have my 
 company, such as it is, no gentleman shall." 
 
 "You talk as if you were betrothed, and yet you 
 
14 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 assured me that you had not been," said the elder lady, 
 sharply. 
 
 "And I told you the truth, aunt. And yet no one 
 else can ever hope to have my hand. I can never be 
 another man s bride," answered the young lady, with 
 the courteous firmness peculiar to her manner. 
 
 The marchioness was provoked, more especially as 
 the young earl was growing desperate. He urged his 
 aunt to use more influence with her niece in his favor. 
 
 "You should know, Ornoch, that I shall do all that 
 is possible to secure you this prize; you are my own 
 nephew, while Eglantine is only my niece by marriage. 
 But, in this enlightened age and country, no young lady 
 can be coerced to marry. You must give her time. It 
 is scarcely six weeks since she parted from her child 
 hood s playmate, for Willie Douglas was nothing more. 
 Give her time to get over her silliness, and then she 
 will listen to reason. Attempt to hurry Eglantine and 
 you will lose her; give her time and you will gain her." 
 
 "How much time? " inquired the young earl, sar 
 castically. 
 
 The lady smiled. 
 
 "We ll say six more weeks, at the least," she an 
 swered. 
 
 But before three months had passed from the time 
 Willie Douglas sailed for Canada terrible news came 
 across the sea. 
 
 The Shetland family were still in town, although, as 
 it was growing late in the season, they were talking 
 of going to Scotland for the autumn. 
 
 They were at breakfast in the house in Park lane, 
 Lady Shetland making a very good morning meal, as 
 it was her hearty practice to do, Eglantine trifling 
 with her teacup, and the marquis dividing his attention 
 between his toast and his Times, when he suddenly let 
 fall the paper, and exclaimed: 
 
 "Lord bless my soul alive!" 
 
 Lady Shetland looked up in mild surprise. She did 
 not like exclamations, though she was to be favored 
 with a few of them just now. 
 
 "Young Douglas!" again exclaimed the marquis. 
 
THE LOST HEIR 15 
 
 "What of him?" coolly inquired the marchioness. 
 
 "Ah, poor fellow ! Dead !" 
 
 " Dead? " 
 
 "Dead as Julius Caesar! Killed!" 
 
 " Killed? " 
 
 "Killed! Ay, killed! A horrible country! But, 
 good Lord ! look at Eglantine !" cried the old man, sud 
 denly breaking off. 
 
 The lady turned her head. 
 
 Without a cry, without a groan, Eglantine had sunk 
 to the floor, where she now lay like a corpse. 
 
 Lady Shetland touched the bell, and then stooped 
 and unloosened the corsage of the fainting girl, while 
 the marquis stood over them, looking on. 
 
 "Send Lady Linlithgow s maid here," said the mar 
 chioness to the footman who answered the bell. 
 
 The man disappeared, and was soon replaced by a 
 middle-aged Highland woman, Elspeth Comyns by 
 name, who had been Eglantine s nurse in infancy, and 
 had followed her from Seton Court to Trosach Castle, 
 and afterward to London, as her sole attendant. Of 
 late the marchioness had suggested that plain, elderly 
 Elspeth Comyns should be replaced by a younger and 
 smarter maid ; but Eglantine declined to part with her 
 old nurse as persistently as she had pleaded for the 
 retention of her old tutor. 
 
 "Eglantine s fancy for dotards amounts to a mono 
 mania," had been Lady Shetland s remarks upon those 
 occasions. 
 
 Elspeth Comyns, on entering the breakfast-room, and 
 seeing the condition of her young lady, ran to her side, 
 crying : 
 
 "My bairn ! my bairn ! my bonny bairn !" 
 
 "Be quiet, Comyns. Lift Lady Linlithgow in your 
 arms, and lay her on the sofa," said the marchioness. 
 
 Elspeth, as able-bodied a woman as ever came from 
 the Highlands, lifted the light form of the young lady 
 and laid her on the couch. 
 
 All the remedies suggested by experience were 
 promptly used for the restoration of the fainting girl. 
 
16 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 But she recovered her consciousness only to fall into 
 alarming convulsions. 
 
 *y lady, we had just better take her to her am 
 chamber. She ll be muckle better off there," said the 
 
 SC "I C thinkyou are right, Comyns. Can you carry her?" 
 "Ou aye! Why no? I ve carried her of ten eneuch," 
 replied Elspeth, once more lifting the young lady. 
 
 So Eglantine was borne off to her own room anc 
 undressed and put to bed. 
 
 "Please, my lady, and you ll leave my bairn to my ; 
 self. I se bring her round suner than amther could, 
 pleaded the old nurse. 
 
 "You are right again. You understand her consti 
 tution better than any of us," graciously answered the 
 lady, well pleased to be rid of an unpleasmg duty, 
 and also curious to learn particulars as to the fate 
 of voung William Douglas. 
 
 She returned to the breakfast-room, where she found 
 the marquis slowly pacing the floor. 
 
 "How is she now?" he quickly inquired. 
 
 "She is in good hands. But what is this about young 
 Douglas? Not killed, really?" ,1^*1^ 
 
 "Really killed. I told you so before," replied the 
 marquis, reseating himself and taking up the Times 
 
 "But how? when?" inquired the marchioness, resum 
 ing her seat, and ringing for more hot tea. 
 
 "Let me see " pondered the old man, looking over 
 the columns of the paper. "Here it is-letter from 
 Toronto. Too long to read over again. Can look at 
 it for yourself aftr breakfast." 
 
 "But tell me something about it. How did it hap- 
 
 , duels are obsolete. No; adventure! that 
 should be obsolete, too. No, the young fool got leave, 
 joined a party of young officers on a visit to the 
 States; went out with them to the Western plains to 
 hunt buffalo; got hunted themselves by a hostile tribe 
 of Blackfoot Indians; made a stand and gave battle, 
 and, as one might judge, were cut to pieces. 
 "All of them?" 
 
THE LOST HEIR 17 
 
 "All except one, who, being mounted on a very 
 strong and swift horse, escaped, and finally succeeded 
 
 in reaching Fort Fort " The marquis hesitated, 
 
 and referred to his paper. 
 
 "Never mind the name of the fort. Tell me if this 
 is a certainty, and not a mere newspaper report." 
 
 "A certainty? Why, it is from the special corre 
 spondent." 
 
 "And young Douglas was undoubtedly killed?" 
 
 "Massacred! hacked to pieces! after the manner in 
 which those wretches do their work!" growled the 
 marquis. 
 
 "Poor young man. Hand me the paper, if you please. 
 You seem to have done with it." 
 
 And the lady having finished her breakfast and 
 obtained the paper, commenced the perusal of the 
 Toronto letter. 
 
 But it was many days before the young Lady Lin- 
 lithgow learned all the particulars of her lover s tragic 
 death. _ 
 
 She kept her room, refusing all company, repelling all 
 sympathy, turning away from food and drink, weeping 
 almost incessantly. 
 
 She was constantly attended by her faithful Elspeth,. 
 and daily visited by her uncle and her aunt, who 
 urged upon her notice dainties to tempt her appetite 
 and books to divert her mind. 
 
 All in vain! She turned from all these things and 
 gave herself up to that "sorrow which is without hope." 
 
 She had secluded herself in this manner for more 
 than a week, when an event occurred that forced her 
 out. This was the sudden and fatal illness of her be 
 loved old tutor. 
 
 Eglantine went at once to visit him in his little 
 room, and thenceforth seldom left his bedside. 
 
 On the third day after his first attack, while Eglan 
 tine sat on his right side and Elspeth sat on his left, 
 both chafing his almost lifeless hands, and while the 
 professional nurse was engaged at the opposite end 
 of the room, he made a sign for Eglantine to bend 
 
18 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 down her ear to his lips, and then he whispered to 
 her: 
 
 "My child, you must tell them." 
 
 That low but penetrating whisper, intended only 
 for Eglantine, was distinctly heard by Elspeth, who, 
 in a vague misgiving, roused herself up to listen. But 
 she heard no more. 
 
 The old man s life was ebbing fast. With a lost effort 
 he lifted his venerable hands and laid them on his 
 pupil s head and blessed her, and, with that blessing on 
 his lips, he passed away. 
 
 The illness and death of her old tutor had had its 
 wholesome effect in rousing Eglantine. But after the 
 funeral was over, she became very quiet. She ceased 
 to speak of her lost love, and almost cased to weep 
 for him. Her aunt and uncle seemed kinder than ever, 
 and old Elspeth more devoted. 
 
 Some weeks passed, during which Lord Ornoch, ad 
 vised and assisted by Lady Shetland, made good prog 
 ress in Eglantine s favor. 
 
 At length an event occurred that rendered it expe 
 dient for him to hasten his marriage. He had received 
 the appointment as ambassador to the court of Vienna. 
 He was expected to depart in a few weeks. He there 
 fore sought an interview with Lady Shetland, to ascer 
 tain from her whether it would not be possible to over 
 come the reluctance of Eglantine, and induce her to 
 accept his hand at once, so as to enable him to take 
 her as his bride to Vienna. 
 
 Lady Shetland looked very grave over the proposal. 
 
 "It has been so very short a time since the death of 
 her childhood s companion that she has scarcely ceased 
 to grieve for him. But leave everything entirely in my 
 hands, and I will endeavor to accomplish your wishes." 
 
 "I will very gladly and gratefully do so, my dear 
 madam," answered the young earl, gallantly lifting 
 the hand of the lady to his lips and bowing over it as he 
 took his leave. 
 
 Lady Shetland took an opportunity the same after 
 noon to broach the subject to Eglantine. 
 
 But not inthe first trial, nor yet in the second or 
 
THE LOST HEIR 19 
 
 third, could Lady Shetland succeed in gaining her 
 niece s consent to become the wife of her nephew. But 
 the lady could be patient and persevering, and patience 
 and perseverance usually win the day. 
 
 Again and again she renewed her attacks. 
 
 What could a girl of seventeen do against all these 
 influences brought to bear upon her? 
 
 Besides, Eglantine was very miserable and moody. 
 She had moods of tenderness, in which she would feel 
 so softened as to be almost willing to yield to her 
 friends entreaties; mods of despair, in which she felt 
 utterly indifferent to her own fate, and would as will 
 ingly marry as die ; moods of recklessness, in which she 
 felt impelled to rush into any change of life or scene of 
 excitement that could distract her mind from the dull, 
 perpetual aching of her heart. 
 
 And Lady Shetland watched her through all these 
 moods, and took advantage of each one to urge the ar 
 guments that especially suited it. 
 
 And so, at lentgh, she gained her object, and won 
 Eglantine s consent to become the wife of Lord Ornoch. 
 
 As the day and hour of her marriage drew near, Eg 
 lantine s nervousness almost amounted to mania. And 
 on the night before the wedding morning she was near 
 ly wild with excitement. She never closed her eyes in 
 slumber, or even reposed her frame upon the bed. She 
 passed the night in pacing up and down the whole 
 length of her bedroom and dressing-room, moaning and 
 wringing her hands, or in crouching down upon some 
 low seat, with her head buried in her lap, as if over 
 whelmed with the weight of some insupportable shame 
 or fear. 
 
 Vainly old Elspeth tried to soothe her, or to win 
 her confidence. The wretched girl repelled all her 
 nurse s caresses, and kept a stony silence, until at 
 length Elspeth, much alarmed, declared that she would 
 go and call Lady Shetland. 
 
 Then, indeed, Eglantine started up, flew past her, 
 locked the door, withdrew the key, turned, and, with a 
 pale, defiant face and flaming glance, confronted her 
 nurse. 
 
20 THE LOST HEIE 
 
 "Call no one!" she said, "unless you wish to see me 
 die before you ! Look !" she cried, drawing a small vial 
 from her bosom. "I have carried this about me for a 
 week past, wishing to drink it and sleep forever, but 
 wanting the courage to commit such a sin! But make 
 another move toward alarming the house, and, as I 
 live, I will " 
 
 "Oh, my bairn ! my bairn !" cried the nurse, plucking 
 at her own gray hair. "Pit doon the deadly drug! I 
 will na fash ye wi onything ye dinna like! Pit doon 
 the fearsome stuff! And if ye would but tell me the 
 trouble that s on your mind " 
 
 Eglantine s only answer was to throw herself down 
 on the sofa and give way to a passion of sobs and tears. 
 They were the first she had shed for several days, and 
 they relieved her terrible excitement. 
 
 Old Elspeth knelt down beside her and patiently 
 watched her. 
 
 All was very quiet in the room, but beyond there 
 was talk and song and laughter. When the sound of 
 this revelry came, faintly borne upon the air, Eglantine 
 stirred and shuddered. And by those motions only 
 Elspeth knew that she was not asleep. 
 
 At length the light steps of the retiring guests were 
 heard along the passages, and the whole house grew 
 still. 
 
 Thus passed that dreadful night. 
 
 The wedding day dawned clear, cold and as bright as 
 ice, snow and sunshine could make it. All was winter 
 and frost without; but all was summer and warmth 
 within the castle. 
 
 The family and their guests were early astir and at 
 their dressing-tables. 
 
 Elspeth, who had kept up the wood fire all night, 
 now replenished it with fresh logs, and then went and 
 opened the window shutters, letting in the dazzling 
 light of that resplendent winter morning. Then she 
 arranged the dressing-table for her young mistress 
 bridal toilet. 
 
 Eglantine was very quiet now, but her quietness was 
 even more alarming than her excitement had been, for 
 
THE LOST HEIE 21 
 
 it seemed the quietness of stupor. She made no oppo 
 sition when Elspeth proposed to ring for the French 
 maid, who was to dress her for the altar. She sat in a 
 large resting chair before the fire, with her feet upon 
 a footstool and her eyes staring down upon her folded 
 hands. She was very pale but for a circumscribed 
 crimson spot that flickered in and out, like a smolder 
 ing fire, on either cheek. 
 
 At length there came a light tap at the door. Elspeth 
 opened it and admitted Ma am selle Felicie, the French 
 dressing maid, who courtesied to her unconscious lady, 
 and then opened the wardrobe set apart for the bridal 
 toilet, and began to lay out the various articles of dress. 
 
 "Come, my bairnie," whispered the Scotch nurse, 
 taking Eglantine s unresisting hand and leading her to 
 the chair before the dressing-glass. 
 
 Eglantine sat down like one acting in a dream, in 
 seeming unconsciousness of all that was passing around 
 her. 
 
 The French maid was struck with astonishment at 
 the appearance and deportment of her new lady, but 
 after the first involuntary elevation of her eyebrovrs, 
 she was too polite to betray any surprise. 
 
 "Will mademoiselle that I shall commence her toilet 
 now?" she respectfully inquired. 
 
 Receiving no answer, she took silence for consent, 
 and entered upon her pleasing task, assisted by Els 
 peth. And while Felicie combed and dressed the beau 
 tiful bronze brown hair, Elspeth encased the dainty 
 feet in delicate satin boots. 
 
 Eglantine submitted to the whole process apathetic 
 ally, unconsciously. 
 
 Her bridal toilet, when complete, was very magnifi 
 cent. She wore a rich white velvet dress, with a long 
 train, and trimming of white chenille fringe, headed 
 ; with white satin folds; a rich old cardinal point lace ,< 
 [veil, worth a principality; a wreath of orange flowers, 
 
 )rinkled with small diamonds, for dewdrops; ear- 
 
 igs, brooch, necklace and bracelets of rare oriental 
 iris. Lastly Felicie slipped on the little hands the 
 
 unty gloves, placed in the slender fingers the fragrant 
 
22 THE LOST HEIE 
 
 bouquet, then tilted the large mirror downward a little, 
 and said: 
 
 " Will mademoiselle condescend to look and see the 
 effect?" 
 
 Eglantine unconsciously yielded to the impulse lent 
 her, lifted her languid eyes and looked into the mirror. 
 
 But if the fabled Gorgon s head had suddenly met 
 her sight, she could not have looked more aghast. Her 
 eyes opened and widened with a stare of terror and 
 horror; her face blanched, her lips parted, and like a 
 sleep-walker aroused to consciousness upon the brink 
 of an awful precipice, she threw up her hands with a 
 piercing shriek, and fell back in her chair. 
 
 The French maid, with a little answering scream, 
 seized a smelling-bottle and applied it to her lady s 
 nose. 
 
 But Elspeth, with the authority of an old nurse, 
 came and put the new maid aside, saying quietly : 
 
 "You may gang your ways, my lass, and leave my 
 bairnie wi me. She s no been weel the night. Gae 
 awa wi ye noo, lass." 
 
 Thus urged, the Frenchwoman left the room. 
 
 Elspeth crept after her and cautiously locked the 
 door, and then returned to the side of her young lady. 
 
 Eglantine was drooping with her head bowed down 
 upon her hands over the arm of her chair. 
 
 Old Elspeth knelt beside her, drew her head upon 
 her own bosom, and whispered coaxingly: 
 
 "Noo, my bairnie, ye ken ye maun tell auld Elspeth 
 all your trouble." 
 
 "Oh, Elspeth! Oh, nurse! help me! take me away 
 from here! kill me! save me!" cried Eglantine, wildly, 
 incoherently. 
 
 " Kill you? save you? my bairnie, are ye daft?" 
 
 "Oh, Eispeth ! I am a lost and ruined wretch ! but I 
 didn t mean it. I didn t know it ! I am not sure of it 
 even yet! but I m afraid! I m afraid! Oh, Elspeth, 
 help me to run away!" 
 
 "To rin awa ! My bairn, my bairn! I can rnak* 
 naething of this! Ye maun tell your auld nurse all 
 
THE LOST HEIR 23 
 
 about it! And dinna ye fear to do sae; for I luve ye, 
 my childie ! I luve ye weel !" pleaded the old woman. 
 
 "Oh, Elspeth, since my dear mother died you have 
 been the only mother I have known. You will not for 
 sake me, Elspeth, no matter what I tell you? no matter 
 what may happen to me?" prayed Eglantine, lifting 
 her head and clasping her hands. 
 
 "Whisth, bairnie! I couldna if I would. My saul 
 cleaves to ye, by bairnie, and will suner leave its ain 
 bodie than its bairnie," murmured the nurse, repres 
 sing all her own great anxiety, and seeking to soothe; 
 her "childie." 
 
 "Elspeth, sit down and take me in your lap, like you 
 used to do when I was a babe, and then I ll try to tell 
 you," said Eglantine, as she tottered to her feet and 
 dropped her bridal veil and wreath. 
 
 Elspeth complied with the childish request. 
 
 And then Eglantine, with her arms around her 
 nurse s neck, and her face hidden on her nurse s bosom, 
 sobbed forth a confession that turned that woman s 
 ruddy cheeks white with horror and amazement. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 EGLANTINE S CONFESSION. 
 
 A long silence followed the dreadful revelation. At 
 length the sobbing girl broke forth wildly: 
 
 "Oh, Elspeth! Elspeth! Speak to me! Reproach 
 me ! Do anything but keep so mute and still !" 
 
 "I m just considering, bairnie, what maun be dune, 5> 
 answered the nurse, in a low voice. 
 
 "Oh, Elspeth ! Elspeth ! You said you wouldn t for 
 sake me! I know it was a great sin, but you said you 
 wouldn t forsake me!" 
 
 "It was nae sin, bairnie, nae sin at a, but muckle 
 folly ; for noo, ye ken, ye canna marry the Airl, nor ony- 
 body else. Pity ye troth-plighted yoursel to him." 
 
24 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 Just at that moment some one knocked, and then 
 tried the latch and pushed the door. 
 
 Elspeth inquired who was there. 
 
 Lady Shetland, superbly dressed in a dark blue 
 Lyons velvet, camel s hair shawl, and point lace cape, 
 sailed into the room, inquiring: 
 
 "Ready, Eglantine, love? All are waiting why, 
 what is all this?" she exclaimed, as her eyes fell upon 
 the crumpled veil and crushed wreath that lay in a 
 heap on the carpet, and on the disordered dress, tum 
 bled hair and tear-stained face of the bride. 
 
 Eglantine, overpowered with shame and fear, sank 
 to the floor and buried her face in the cushions of the 
 chair. 
 
 "Elpseth! what is the meaning of all this?" sternly 
 demanded the marchioness, turning to the nurse. 
 
 "Ou, me leddy! it s nae her fau t, but she canna wed 
 the Airl," sighed the trembling woman. 
 
 "What insolent nonsense is this? Are you mad or 
 tipsy, pray?" severely demanded the lady. 
 
 Before the frightened nurse could answer, Eglantine 
 arose and stood like a ghost before the marchioness. 
 
 "Aunt Shetland," she murmured, in a faint tone, 
 "she tells you the truth. I cannot wed the earl, be 
 cause I am not fit to be his bride!" 
 
 The lady sank down in her chair, and looked from 
 her niece to the nurse. 
 
 "Dinna be hard on her, my lady. Dinna be hard on 
 her. She is but a bairn," pleaded Elspeth. 
 
 "Leave the room, woman! Go! I will talk to my 
 niece," said Lady Shetland, imperiously pointing to the 
 door. 
 
 "Pit your trust in the Laird, bairnie, and dinna be 
 fasht. Think o them that watch ye fra heaven, bairnie, 
 and do the right!" said the nurse, as she passed her 
 young charge and left the room. 
 
 "Now, then !" said the lady, bending her cold, severe 
 looks upon her niece. 
 
 Eglantine sank at her feet, and, pale with terror, fal 
 tered forth : 
 
THE LOST HEIR 25 
 
 "Oh, Aunt Shetland, have pity on me, for I am a 
 very wretched girl !" 
 
 "Be plain," pitilessly commanded the lady. 
 
 "I am I am I am poor, dear, dead Willie s widow " 
 wept Eglantine, and as she made this confession, she 
 crouched lower, and hid her face in her hands. 
 
 "So!" said the marchioness, in a hard, cold, cruel 
 tone. "When was this dishonor consummated?" 
 
 "We were married while we were in London, three 
 weeks before Willie went away. Oh, Auntie! pardon 
 me! pardon me! we could not help it! We loved each 
 other so much ! And Willie was going away so far ! to 
 stay so long! He didn t doubt my love, poor Willie 
 but he did doubt my strength. He did dread that I 
 might be overruled and made to marrv the earl in his 
 absence. And so " 
 
 "He beguiled you into a marriage with himself!" 
 hissed the lady between her closed teeth. 
 
 "Oh, no, no, no! poor Willie! It was not his fault- 
 was mine. I told him that I also doubted mv 
 strength to resist my guardian s will ; that I also feared 
 I might be compelled to marry Lord Ornoch. And so 
 that I might keep true to him, I offered to marrv Willie 
 Douglas then, and to put it forever out of my power to 
 be false." 
 
 "And so you were married?" 
 
 Eglantine nodded and sobbed. 
 
 "Or you thought you were, which is a very different 
 thing. -W T ho dared help you in this disobedience? Who 
 dared to perform this illegal ceremony? Whoever it 
 was committed a grave misdemeanor, for which he 
 shall be held to a severe account. The law " 
 
 "Aunt Shetland," said Eglantine, sadly and gravelv 
 and recovering something of composure, "he who 
 joined our hands is beyond the injustice of the law." 
 
 "Run away to America, I suppose, well paid for his 
 part in this felony." 
 
 "Aunt Shetland, he is dead. Our old tutor, the Rev. 
 Mr. Graham, it was, whom we prayed to aid us. He 
 took pity on us, and performed the ceremony." 
 
 Where was this done, and when, did you say?" 
 
26 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 "In my old tutor s own room, in London, last sum 
 mer, just three weeks before Willie went away. 
 
 "Ah !" commented the marchioness, in a tone and 
 with a look almost devilish in their cold and cruel ma 
 lignity "Ah ! and so the depravity of a boy, the levity 
 of a girl and the imbecility of a retired clergyman have 
 combined to bring deep disgrace upon an old family 
 never dishonored till now." 
 
 "Disgrace!" echoed the young girl, shrinking back 
 appalled and aghast. 
 
 "Yes, disgrace !" repeated the lady, ruthlessly. "You 
 call yourself the widow of William Douglas. You are 
 no such respectable person. You could not be his 
 widow, for you have never even been his wife. You 
 are but a lost and ruined creature whose very presence 
 pollutes the house that shelters you." 
 
 With a sharp cry Eglantine sank down with her face 
 to the feet of the old lady, who spurned her away, and 
 cruelly continued: 
 
 "That wicked and foolish form of marriage between 
 you and your lover was not worth a straw. You and 
 your partner in sin and folly were both minors, and 
 could not have been lawfully married in England, with 
 out the consent of your guardians. That miserable old 
 idiot, your tutor, must have remembered this fact, had 
 he not been, as he was, in his dotage. You see now to 
 what your disobedience has reduced you." 
 
 "Oh, my mother! Oh, my mother!" moaned the 
 humbled and heartbroken girl, covering her face with 
 her hands, and rocking her form backward and for 
 ward, "Oh, my mother, look down from heaven in pity 
 on your poor child." 
 
 "How dare you breathe your mother s name? She 
 was an honorable and honored matron. And now tell 
 me, Lady Linlithgow, knowing yourself to be what you 
 are, how could you presume to accept the marriage pro 
 posals of the Earl of Ornoch?" inquired the marchion 
 ess, with cold malignity. 
 
 "I didn t know," wept the poor child. "I thought f 
 had been lawfully married! I am sure I meant to have 
 been, and so did Willie. An dso did my old tutor," 
 
THE LOST HEIR 27 
 
 she added, a little incoherently. "And when my poor, 
 dear, dear Willie was killed, I felt as if his death was 
 a judgment on me for my disobedience." 
 
 "And so of course it was. But go on. Tell me how, 
 knowing what you knew, you dared to accept the pro 
 posals of Lord Ornoch?" 
 
 "I didn t wish to do so. Heaven knows I did not! 
 But you all urged me so. I thought I was a widow, 
 indeed I did. I thought it was my duty to make what 
 reparation I could for my fatal disobedience, and to 
 give up my own will to yours. I did wish to confess 
 my marriage." 
 
 "Your marriage!" sneered the lady, with ineffable 
 scorn. 
 
 "But I was afraid to do so, indeed I was, Aunt Shet 
 land. O, pardon me! Spare me! I have no one but 
 you, aunt," she pleaded, pathetically, clinging to the 
 skirts of the lady. 
 
 "Keep your hands from my dress, you wretched crea 
 ture! And never dare to call me aunt again. But 
 now tell me at once, what motive has moved you, at 
 this late moment, to make this shameful confession?" 
 
 "Oh, Aunt Shetland " 
 
 "Again !" 
 
 "I beg your pardon ! I forgot. Oh, Lady Shetland, 
 I was so ignorant. I did not know till very lately. 
 But now I have found out something. Before this week 
 I did not dream of such a misfortune; but this week 
 I thought I feared ; but still I was not sure not sure 
 until this morning, when I told Elspeth all about it, 
 and then I asked her if it was so, and she told me, Yes, 
 it was, " sobbed Eglantine. 
 
 "What an incoherent mass of folly and wickedness 
 you have uttered! What do you mean? What is it 
 you feared, but did not know until to-day? What has 
 Elspeth told you?" 
 
 "Oh, aunt I beg your pardon Lady Shetland, can 
 you not not surmise " 
 
 "I can guess no shameful secrets! You must tell 
 me," said the lady, vindictively. 
 
 "Oh, madam, I have been a wife, or thought myself 
 
28 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 one, and and oh, pity me! I canont tell you; pity 
 me!" prayed the girl, groveling at the feet of her re 
 lentless judge. 
 
 "I will pity you so much as this, that within an 
 hour your intended bridegroom shall hear of your fall, 
 and within a day this house shall be rid of your pres 
 ence," replied the lady, in a hard, grating, bitter tone, 
 as she spurned the kneeling form with her foot, and 
 arose to leave the room. 
 
 "And hark you, Lady Linlithgow," she added, sneer- 
 ingly, "you are still a minor, still a ward. And you 
 will understand that you are a prisoner in this apart 
 ment, forbidden to speak to any one except myself, or 
 such domestic as I shall appoint to attend you, while 
 you remain in this house." 
 
 If this last thrust was meant to wound, it missed its 
 mark. Poor Eglantine was but too well satisfied to be 
 left alone, and relieved from the pain of seeing any one. 
 
 The marchioness arose and left the chamber. 
 
 At the door she met a bevy of bridesmaids beauti 
 fully dressed, who had come, by the previous arrange 
 ment to "report" for their graceful duty. 
 
 "Go away, my loves. Lady Linlithgow is ill, very ill, 
 too ill to see you," said the marchioness, closing and 
 locking the chamber door after her, and then facing the 
 frightened maidens. 
 
 "111!" echoed two or three in a breath. 
 
 "My dears, quiet yourselves and attend to me. Lady 
 Linlithgow is extremely ill. She has been ailing for a 
 week past, but we thought nothing of her indisposition. 
 Last night, however, her malady declared itself to be a 
 fever. This morning she is dangerously ill. The fever 
 may be fatal, may be contagious; we cannot tell until 
 the doctor comes." 
 
 "Good Heavens, how shocking! Fever! contagion!" 
 echoed the terrified girls, preparing to disperse to their 
 own rooms. 
 
 Lady Shetland meanwhile passed down the hall, and 
 descended the stairs. She went into the library, where 
 she knew she would find the marquis. 
 
 He was walking restlessly up and down the floor, but 
 
THE LOST HEIR 29 
 
 stopped and turned around to face his wife as she en 
 tered. 
 
 "Is not Eglantine ready yet? Everybody else is kept 
 waiting. It is high time we were in the chapel. We 
 shall have scarcely half an hour for the breakfast. And 
 even then they may miss the train," he said, impa 
 tiently. 
 
 "Sit down, my lord; I have something to tell you," 
 said the marchioness, locking the library door to pre 
 vent interruption, seating herself on the sofa, and sig 
 naling the marquis to follow her example. 
 
 "Sit down! Lord bless my soul alive! there is no 
 time for sitting. We should be in the chapel now." 
 
 "My lord, we shall not go to the chapel." 
 
 "Eh?" 
 
 "Eglantine is ill, seriously dangerously it may be 
 fatally so. The marriage ceremony cannot be performed 
 to-day," said the marchioness, decisively. 
 
 "Eh?" exclaimed the marquis, staring incredulously. 
 
 "The marriage cannot go on to-day. Eglantine is too 
 ill to leave her room." 
 
 "What ails the girl?" 
 
 "A fever of some sort a contagious fever, as likely 
 as not! She has been sickening for it all the week, 
 as you may have seen, although we made light of it. 
 Now she is extremely ill." 
 
 "What the devil is to be done? and the house full 
 of wedding guests !" exclaimed the marquis, seizing his 
 own gray hair. 
 
 "That is what I came to talk about. You must go 
 Into the drawing-room, and announce the illness of the 
 bride-elect, and the consequent postponement of the 
 marriage, and make our excuses to our guests as best 
 you may!" 
 
30 THE LOST HEIK 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 DARK DOINGS. 
 
 It was late in the short winter afternoon when Lady 
 Shetland unlocked the door and entered the chamber of 
 Eglantine. 
 
 She found the poor girl ill, really ill, so ill as to re 
 deem from all prevarications the assertions and expla 
 nations offered by her aunt to her family and friends. 
 
 She was still lying on the carpet, where she had sunk 
 down hours before. She was shaking as with an ague 
 fit, and her hands and feet were as cold as ice, while 
 yet her face was deeply flushed and her eyes wildly 
 bright as with inward fever. 
 
 Lady Shetland sharply rang the bell, that quickly 
 brought Elspeth to the room. 
 
 "Raise your young lady, undress her and put her to 
 bed," was the prompt order given by the marchioness 
 to the attendant. 
 
 "Ou, wae s ma, my leddy!" cried Elspeth, as she 
 kneeled down beside her charge. "She s unco ill! 
 Hadna we better send for the doctor at once?" 
 
 "No," curtly answered the marchioness. 
 
 "Nay, my leddy, ye maun pardon me, but I think 
 
 "You are not to think, but to obey. Put your young 
 lady comfortably to bed," sternly repeated the mar 
 chioness. 
 
 Poor Elspeth obeyed orders so far as to disrobe her 
 "bairn" and lay her in her luxurious nest; but as to 
 putting her comfortably anywhere, that was impossible. 
 
 Eglantine lay, with flushed cheeks and parched lips, 
 rolling her eyes and tossing her arms in wild delirium. 
 
 "Deed, my leddy, the doctor maun be fetched," 
 pleaded Elspeth. 
 
 "Hold your impertinent tongue, or leave the room," 
 commanded the lady. 
 
 "But ou, waes me, me leddy," persisted Elspeth, 
 frightened, but resolute, "an she was to dee?" 
 
 "It would be the best thing that she could do, I 
 
THE LOST HEIR 31 
 
 think," sharply answered Lady Shetland. "And now, 
 hush or go." 
 
 Poor Elspeth preferred to "hush." She got some 
 cold water in a bowl and a bit of fine sponge and sat 
 down by the bedside and began to bathe the burning 
 brow of her unfortunate charge. 
 
 Lady Shetland sat down on the other side of the bed 
 to watch and to think. Eglantine was quite as bad as 
 Elspeth had declared her to be. She might die. And, 
 though Lady Shetland had declared in her anger that 
 "it would be the best thing she could do," and though 
 it might be so, for Eglantine s own peace, yet it cer 
 tainly would not be so for her relations interests. 
 
 If the girl were to die now, her colossal fortune 
 would be lost to Lord Ornoch. If she were to die also 
 without medical attendance, a great reproach for un 
 pardonable neglect, if nothing worse, would fall upon 
 her guardians. 
 
 When Lady Shetland had talked of calling in Dr. 
 McGill, she had really no intention of doing so ; for she 
 could not even have known, then, that Eglantine would 
 need his services. Even when she found the unhappy 
 girl in the delirium of high fever, and when old Elspeth 
 proposed to send for the doctor, her own first impulse, 
 promptly acted upon, had been to refuse. 
 
 Now, however, as she sat and watched the wildly 
 tossing form and rolling eyes of the fevered and de 
 lirious girl, she grew terrified as she perceived that 
 medical aid was here indispensable. 
 
 She must call in a doctor, but not McGill. He be 
 longed to the neighborhood. He was the greatest gos 
 sip living. He would, in attending Eglantine, find out 
 the fatal secret. And, though bound by his profes 
 sional oath to respect the secrets of families, his love 
 of tattle would inevitably lead him to let this one leak 
 out, little by little, until all the worst should be known 
 or surmised. No, not McGill. 
 
 Who then? There was no other doctor within twenty 
 miles. But stop; yes, there was Dr. Seton. He lived 
 fifteen miles away, at the village of Seton, which was 
 five miles this side of Eglantine s estate of Seton Court. 
 
32 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 Dr. Seton certainly. He was the very man. 
 
 But who and what was Dr. Seton, besides being the 
 medical practitioner at the village of Seton? 
 
 Reader, every family, however noble, or even prince 
 ly, has its following or poor relations some poor, but 
 honest ;" some others "poor, but" otherwise than hon 
 est. To which set Dr. David Seton belonged you will 
 soon discover. He was a distant relation to the Setons 
 of Linlithgow so distant that no one on earth but a 
 Scotchman could have traced out the relationship. He 
 had been born and brought up in the village of Seton; 
 had studied medicine and obtained his diploma in the 
 city of Edinburgh, and had returned to commence prac 
 tice in his native place. He was a learned and skillful 
 physician, and could have done better in a larger town, 
 no doubt; but then he was a " Seton," and in the village 
 of Seton he was regarded with all the honor that ac 
 crued to the old name. 
 
 Like most of us, he was a mixture of good and evil. 
 One of his good elements was his loyalty to "the head 
 of his house," as he always termed the one Seton who 
 happened to be Baron Linlithgow. Now, however, the 
 "head of his house" happened to be a "she-chief" and a 
 Baroness Linlithgow. The barony had fallen to the 
 distaff! but the loyalty of David Seton had not fallen 
 anywhere. He revered the young baroness as he had 
 revered the baron her father and all the barons her 
 forefathers. Also he had known and attended Eglan 
 tine in her infancy and childhood, before the great 
 calamity of her father s early death had made her a 
 baroness in her own right. And now he would keep her 
 secrets, from personal regard, from family pride, as 
 well as from professional integrity. 
 
 Yes; David Seton was the man to call in. He had 
 never attended the family at Trosach Castle; but the 
 marchioness knew that he would feel only too much 
 honored to be invited to do so. 
 
 So Dr. Seton was sent for, and answered promptly. 
 
 He "considered the case serious," as he expressed 
 it, and deemed it expedient to place his own practice in 
 the hands of his assistant, Mi 1 . Christopher Kinloch, in 
 
THE LOST HEIR 33 
 
 order that he might devote all his energies to his new 
 patient. 
 
 In the course of the next few days certain dark sus 
 picions crossed the doctor s mind, but they were put 
 aside as too horrible to be entertained. The doctor 
 watched his patient, and Lady Shetland watched him. 
 She soon saw that he suspected the condition of Eglan 
 tine that he was heavily oppressed with the weight of 
 the secret, and deeply exercised on the subject of his 
 own responsibility. Whenever she made particular in 
 quiries about his patient he became very much agitated. 
 Lady Shetland almost enjoyed his mental agonies. 
 
 At length it seemed that the doctor had screwed his 
 "courage to the sticking place," and resolved to do his 
 dreadful duty, and make that fatal revelation to Lady 
 Shetland, which he could not know would be no new 
 revelation at all to her. He solemnly wrote a note re 
 questing an interview with Lady Shetland upon very 
 important affairs. 
 
 The marchioness, who knew what was coming, sent 
 him a verbal message to come to her in the library, 
 whither she went to meet him. 
 
 He soon came in. 
 
 "My lady," he said, as he stood before her, trembling 
 with emotion, "I have a most agonizing dutv to 
 do " 
 
 "Sit down, Dr. Seton," said the marchioness, point 
 ing to a chair. 
 
 He was scarcely able to stand, so he sank into the 
 offered seat. 
 
 "Now compose yourself, and explain your meaning." 
 
 "Madame, I have that to tell you which, had one 
 risen from the dead to tell me, I would not have be 
 lieved it. Nay, had an angel come down from heaven to 
 tell me, I would not have believed it, Lady Shetland. 
 How shall I tell you the treadful discovery I have 
 made?" 
 
 "You need not tell me at all. I know all about it," 
 coolly remarked the lady. 
 
 The doctor looked up surprised and incredulous. He 
 could not believe that she knew what he meant 
 
34 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 "You mean that there is likely to be a blot on the 
 stainless escutcheon of the Setons," she added. 
 
 The doctor looked shocked that she should speak of 
 this so coolly ; his red face flushed to a deeper red ; but 
 then he remembered that Lady Shetland was not a 
 Seton, and he answered, slowly : 
 
 "You know this, then, madam?" 
 
 "I have known it for some time; I was only curious 
 to see how long it would take you to discover it. Now 
 you understand why it was that I troubled you to 
 come so far, instead of calling in McGill, who is close 
 by. I knew we could trust you ; I knew your deep re 
 gard for the family honor 
 
 " The family honor? The family honor is gane," 
 said the doctor, falling into the dialect, as was usual 
 with him when deeply touched "gane, gane, gane! 
 rent to bits by the lightness of a lass." 
 
 "I don t think you will say so when you hear all," 
 said the lady. 
 
 The doctor lifted his head with a look of forlorn hope 
 in his eyes. 
 
 The marchioness then told him the whole sorrowful 
 story of Eglantine s concealed marriage and calamitous 
 widowhood. 
 
 "Thank heaven! Fm glad it was na worse," said the 
 doctor, with a sigh of infinite relief. 
 
 "Worse? I scarcely know how it could have been 
 worse for her. The marriage was illegal," said the 
 lady. 
 
 "Sae it was sae it was ! But the lassie meant weel. 
 She was nae light o luve. I m glad ye didna call in 
 Sandy McGill. He s a leaky vessel. And nae use to 
 expose family secrets even to your family doctor, when 
 ye hae a doctor in the family. 
 
 Lady Shetland winced. She felt no disposition to in 
 clude this country practitioner, this far-off cousin of 
 the Setons of Linlithgow, in her family circle; but she 
 felt that she must not offend him v and so she did not 
 repel his claim. 
 
 "Our greatest difficulty will be " she began; and 
 
 then she hesitated, too much embarrassed by the sub- 
 
THE LOST HEIR 35 
 
 ject to explain herself eren to this old doctor, who 
 claimed her confidence as a member of the family. 
 
 He came quickly to her aid by saying: 
 
 "Yes, yes, your ladyship, I ken. I comprehend. The 
 affair maun be kept still amang oursel s ; and the babe, 
 if it comes alive into the world, maun be secretly pro 
 vided for." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I think I can pit my hand on the woman that will 
 answer our purpose for a price." 
 
 "Offer her any price! Come, I will put a thousand 
 pounds in your hands to use as you deem best, so that 
 the secret is well kept." 
 
 "Trust to me, your ladyship. All shall be in train 
 for the coming event." 
 
 "And remember, Dr. Seton, there is no one but your 
 self, myself, Eglantine and Nurse Elspeth that even 
 suspects this secret." 
 
 "And no one shall suspect it from me, not even the 
 woman whom I shall engage to take charge of the 
 babe." 
 
 "Who is she?" 
 
 "Her name is Magdalen Hurst." 
 
 "Where does she live?" 
 
 "She is staying at Kilford at present; but her home, 
 when she has a home, is in London." 
 
 "So much the better; the farther off the fitter. But 
 what is she, and what brings her to this part of the 
 world?" 
 
 "She was the stewardess of one of our small coasting 
 steamers, the Shaft. The last time the Shaft stopped at 
 our little port, she left there her stewardess, who was 
 too ill with pleurisy to go farther on the voyage. Be 
 fore the woman was even out of danger navigation 
 closed in these waters, and the Shaft was laid up at 
 London for the winter." 
 
 "And meantime you attended the woman, I sup 
 pose?" 
 
 "Ou, ay; a matter of humanity, not money." 
 
 "Of course. What more?" 
 
 "The woman has been married, she told me, some- 
 
36 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 thing less than a year. Her husband is a laborer on 
 the London docks, too poor to leave his work or raise 
 the money to come to his wife, whose case is made 
 worse by the circumstance that she is soon likely to 
 become a mother, puir creature. She talks of staying 
 at Killford until after the birth of her child, and of 
 returning to London by the spring trip of the Shaft, 
 which is usually made early in March. She will be the 
 very person to relieve you of your responsibility." 
 
 "The very person !" echoed the lady ; "and a few hun 
 dred pounds would not come amiss to her, I presume." 
 "Na, that it will no," assented the doctor. 
 Many more details of their plan were arranged be 
 tween the lady and the doctor, that need not be re 
 peated here. 
 
 Eglantine s illness was protracted, and her brain- 
 fever alternated between delirium and stupor. 
 
 The young Earl of Ornoch came every day to inquire 
 about the condition of his betrothed bride, as he still 
 called her. And sometimes when it was deemed per 
 fectly safe to admit him to her chamber, when, for in 
 stance, she was lying in a dead stupor, he would be per 
 mitted to stand at her bedside and gaze on her flushed 
 face and motionless form. 
 
 His mother, Lady Ornoch, and his sister, Lady Kath- 
 erine Moray, also frequently called, and under similar 
 conditions, were admitted to see the invalid. 
 
 At length, however, the crisis passed favorably; the 
 patient was declared to be out of danger, and conva 
 lescence set in. 
 
 Then the doctor returned to Seton having promised 
 to visit his patient on every alternate day, and to hold 
 himself in readiness to hasten to her, at a moment s 
 warning, if summoned, in the event of any occurrence 
 that should require his attendance, on any intervening 
 day. 
 
 Then also the young Earl of Ornoch yielded to the 
 persuasion of his friends, and consented to set out 
 upon his foreign mission. 
 
 He pleaded earnestly for a parting interview with his 
 betrothed, but was overruled by the arguments of the 
 
THE LOST HEIK 37 
 
 marchioness and the doctor, both of whom assured him 
 that the condition of the convalescent was still so pre 
 carious as to render any excitement, even the agreeable 
 one of his visit, very prejudicial to her chances of ulti 
 mate recovery. 
 
 And so doubly disappointed, of his bride and his in 
 terview, the young earl set out for the Continent, ac 
 companied by his mother and sister, who went with 
 him, partly to console him for what they considered 
 only the temporary loss of his promised wife, and part 
 ly to amuse themselves at the gay Austrian capital. 
 
 A week later, on the meeting of Parliament on the 
 first of February, the Marquis of Shetland went up to 
 London for the season. 
 
 Lady Shetland, who had been accustomed to accom 
 pany her lord, decided on this occasion to remain at 
 Ornoch Castle, pleading the lingering convalescence of 
 her niece as her excuse. And the marquis willingly 
 agreed to this arrangement. 
 
 Lady Shetland felt very much relieved by the depar 
 ture of her husband and her relatives. She had the 
 house to herself. She had the neighborhood to herself. 
 She was free to execute her projects unwatched and 
 unsuspected. She could now forever conceal the fatal 
 family secret. It would be some months before the re 
 turn of any one of the absentees, and by that time all 
 should be over and hidden. 
 
 Eglantine s convalescence rapidly progressed ; but 
 even when she was quite able to walk about the house, 
 she was still, on the plea of her health, kept a close 
 prisoner in her room. She had grown very quiet in all 
 her ways, very patient of restraint, very grateful for 
 protection, and very docile to the will of her aunt. 
 
 The doctor came now but twice a week, but still held 
 himself in readiness to answer any sudden call to the 
 castle, whether it should come by day or by night. 
 
 He told Lady Shetland that he had made arrange 
 ments with Magdalen Hurst to receive the expected 
 little stranger, who, he represented to the woman, 
 would be the child of a young wife, residing in Stirling, 
 and too sickly to nurse her own infant. 
 
38 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 One day the doctor came to the castle with other 
 news, with which he was so excited as to drop at once 
 into dialect. 
 
 "Hae ye seen the Times the morn, my leddy?" he 
 inquired, as soon as he met the marchioness in the li 
 brary. 
 
 "No; why?" 
 
 Then your leddyship will no hae seen the guid for 
 tune that wad hae befallen our freend, Willie Douglas, 
 if he had na been massacreed by the savages?" 
 
 "No; what was it?" inquired the lady, with growing 
 interest. 
 
 "Na less than heir presumptive to the titles and es 
 tates of the auld Duke of Cheviot." 
 
 "Indeed!" exclaimed the marchioness, surprised out 
 of her self-possession. "Then what has happened to 
 the heir-apparent?" 
 
 "Death, na less. The Earl of Wellrose died three 
 days since of congestion of the brain overwork ! Ye 
 ken that since the crash came he has supported his fa 
 ther by writing for the daily papers. Puir laddie! it is 
 an unco pity he could na live to come into his ain; for 
 ye ken, my leddy, that it was only his life interest in 
 Cheviot Court that the auld Duke sold to the usurers; 
 it wae hae returned to the heir at his death." 
 
 "I know. I feel very sorry for the poor young man; 
 for, as you say, he was a good son; but, doubtless, he 
 has come into an infinitely better inheritance than any 
 this earth could afford him," said the lady, speaking as 
 piously as if she had been a saint instead of a sinner. 
 
 "Ay, ay, that he has," responded the doctor. 
 
 "The old father is the most to be pitied, I think, for 
 he has lost his only son and his only support." 
 
 "Ay, ay, that he has. But he will na live long noo. 
 Ye ken, my leddy, that everybody thought the Duke 
 was living on the Continent." 
 
 "Yes; was he not so?" 
 
 "Nae; the sudden death of his son brought out the 
 whole truth. The auld Duke, ashamed of his deep fall 
 into poverty, lived in humble lodgings in Wellington 
 street, Strand, attended by his youngest and only sur- 
 
THE LOST HEIE 39 
 
 viving daughter, Lady Margaret, where they were 
 known only as Mr. and Miss Jones, and where no one 
 suspected their identity." 
 
 "Poor old man! what will he do, now that his son 
 is gone?" 
 
 "Oh, he will do weel enough as to means. Freends. 
 hae found him out noo, and force him to accept assist 
 ance that he is na longer able to refuse. He lies danger 
 ously ill from the shock of his son s death. But ye ll 
 read it a there in the Times. There s a full column and 
 a half devoted to the story." 
 
 "I must read it," said the marchioness. 
 
 "But what I m thinking of is the windfa that wad 
 sune hae befa n our freend Willie Douglas, had the lad 
 lived to receive it. Why, if he were living noo, in a 
 few months from this, at most, he wad be the Duke of 
 Cheviot, and in possession of the reverted estates." 
 
 "Yes, he certainly would." 
 
 "And that wad make an unco difference in our esti 
 mate of his marriage with our Eglantine, would it no? 
 We d ay rather have her a duchess than a countess, 
 would we no?" 
 
 "Well, but young Douglas is dead ; so it is quite vain 
 to speculate as to what might have been," quickly re 
 plied the marchioness, for she did not in the least de 
 gree sympathize with Dr. Seton s aspiration for the 
 young lady s advancement. She coveted the wealth of 
 the "combination heiress" for the benefit of her 
 nephew, Lord Ornoch. 
 
 So Dr. Seton, feeling himself snubbed by Lady Shet 
 land, arose and went upstairs to pay his usual visit to 
 his patient, and soon afterward he left the house. 
 
 A letter came from Lord Ornoch to Lady Shetland, 
 inclosing one to the young Lady Linlithgow. 
 
 The marchioness held the inclosed letter in her hand 
 some moments, debating whether she should give it to 
 Eglantine or not. 
 
 Since the interrupted wedding, the name of the dis 
 appointed bridegroom had not been mentioned once be 
 tween the marchioness and her niece. And with all her 
 pride and self-possession, Lady Shetland shrank from 
 
40 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 bringing up the subject of the Earl to Eglantine. But 
 she could not prudently suppress his letter, for more 
 letters would surely come, and though one might be 
 supposed to be lost, if missing, yet if she should sup 
 press all, her hand in the matter would certainly be dis 
 covered. She decided to take the letter up to her niece. 
 
 She entered the chamber where the young creature 
 at, wrapped in a white flannel dressing-gown and re 
 clining in a resting-chair, and looking unusually pale 
 and ill. 
 
 Lady Shetland seated herself, and laid the letter be 
 fore her niece. 
 
 Eglantine took it up, stared as she recognized the 
 hand-writing, and said: 
 
 "Oh, aunt ! you have not told him ; or he never, never 
 would have written to me." 
 
 "No, Eglantine, I have not told him. I could not 
 bring myself to tell him, or any one else. No one out 
 side this room knows your secret, except Elspeth and 
 the doctor. And no one else must know it. After your 
 great fault, which has brought so much trouble on your 
 self and me, the least you can do is to have sufficient 
 regard for the honor of the family to keep your secret." 
 
 "I will do anything I can to atone for my error, aunt; 
 but Lord Ornoch! I did not love him except as a 
 friend, but I do not wish to deceive him." 
 
 "Nor shall you deceive him in the end. But just now 
 you must keep the secret even from him. And now 
 suppose you read his letter." 
 
 Eglantine opened and read the letter, and her color 
 came and went as her eyes traced the lines filled with 
 expressions of devoted love and boundless faith. 
 
 "Oh, aunt!" she said, "he thinks that nothing but 
 my brain fever interrupted the marriage ; and he speaks 
 of this marriage as something yet possible and desir 
 able. And more than that, he speaks of it as certain; 
 and says that he looks forward to what he calls the 
 happy day that is to unite our lives, with delight and 
 impatience! Oh, Aunt Shetland! it would be base in 
 me to let a man so affectionate and confiding go on 
 for a day in such a self-delusion !" 
 
THE LOST HEIR 41 
 
 "Eglantine, after the mess you have made of your 
 own life, you had better leave your fate in my hands. I 
 know how long to keep the secret, and when and to 
 whom to reveal it." 
 
 "Well, aunt, I must obey you so far as reserve goes ; 
 but no further. I can take no active part in deceiving 
 Lord Ornoch. I esteem him too highly for that! I 
 cannot answer this, Aunt Shetland," said Eglantine, 
 laying the letter down on the little stand at her side. 
 
 Now if there was reproach in the young lady s words, 
 there was also comfort; for though she called Lady 
 Shetland s course "deception," she also said that she 
 esteemed" Lord Ornoch, "esteemed him highly." 
 
 And Lady Shetland s hopes were raised for the ulti 
 mate success of her plans. 
 
 "You need not answer it, Eglantine. You need not 
 write to him at all," she replied; and then, noticing how 
 unusually pale and ill the invalid looked, she advised 
 her to go to bed, and said that she would send Elspeth 
 to attend her. 
 
 Lady Shetland then left the room, and went down 
 into the library, where she wrote a very affectionate 
 and encouraging letter to her nephew, acknowledging 
 the receipt of his letters, telling him that Eglantine was 
 not yet well enough to write, and giving him a tender 
 message from his coveted bride, which the young lady 
 had certainly never sent him. 
 
 She had nearly completed her task, when she was in 
 terrupted by the entrance of Elspeth. 
 
 "Well?" inquired the lady, looking up. 
 
 "If you please, my leddy, I think the doctor had bet 
 ter be fetched at once," gravely responded the nurse. 
 
 "How? You don t mean " 
 
 "Ay, I do, my leddy." 
 
 "Then you go and send Scott Or stop; wait a 
 
 moment," said the marchioness, taking up her pen and 
 hastily dashing off a few lines, which she sealed up and 
 directed to Dr. Seton, at Seton. 
 
 "Tell Scot to mount the fleetest horse, and take this 
 note to Dr. Seton." 
 
42 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 "Ay, my leddy," answered the nurse, as she left the 
 library. 
 
 That night, just as the doctor had swallowed his sec 
 ond tumbler of hot whisky punch, and composed him 
 self comfortably under his blankets for a good night s 
 sleep, came the message with a note from Lady 
 Shetland, calling him in haste to Castle Trosach. 
 
 AVith a few irrepressible oaths, cursing the unseason- 
 ableness of the hour, he got up quickly, wrapped up 
 warmly, sprang into the wagon that was waiting, and 
 sped over the frosty hills. 
 
 It was midnight when he reached the castle. The 
 servants, with the exception of one hall footman and 
 the nurse, had retired to rest. 
 
 Lady Shetland was waiting in the library to receive 
 him. 
 
 "Well, my leddy?" he inquired, with a bow. 
 
 "The time has come. Eglantine is in extremity. Is 
 the woman you spoke of prepared?" 
 
 "Yes, in some sort; but she has had a great shock, 
 poor creature. She got a letter from London telling her 
 of the death of her husband, killed suddenly by some 
 accident on the docks. The shock accelerated her tra 
 vail ; but only by a few days, I think. She has a male 
 child, now five days old, but so feeble that I had so 
 little hope of his life from hour to hour as to send for 
 our minister, and have him baptized at once." 
 
 "Quite right. Now follow me to Eglantine s cham 
 ber," said the lady, rising to lead the way. 
 
 All night long, all the next day, and half the next 
 night, Eglantine was in such extreme danger that her 
 attendants thought her death would certainly end all 
 their difficulties. 
 
 At midnight of the second day, the doctor, leaving his 
 patient out of pain and peril, but in a state of extreme 
 weakness and stupor, got into his wagon and started 
 for Killford, taking with him a parcel done up in fine 
 lawn and soft flannel. And no one knew the nature of 
 that parcel except Lady Shetland. Nurse Elspeth, and 
 Dr. Seton himself. 
 
THE LOST HEIR 43 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE INFANT OUTCAST. 
 
 Through the whirling snowstorm that darkened that 
 wild March midnight, the doctor drove his tired horse, 
 trusting less to his own faculties than to the beast s in 
 stinct to keep the right road. 
 
 He passed through his own village of Seton, where all 
 the streets were empty and silent, and all the houses 
 closed and dark, and he turned off toward the north and 
 traveled three miesl farther to the little fishing hamlet 
 of Killford, at the head of the loch, and famous for its 
 haddock. 
 
 The hamlet was as still and dark as the village had 
 been. He passed through its one long, straggling street 
 that faced the sea, and then on to the northern outskirts 
 of the place. 
 
 It was four o clock on that pitch-dark March morn 
 ing when, guided by the dull red light from its little 
 window, he drew up before the door of a solitary and 
 miserable hut. 
 
 Knowing that his horse was -too weary even to walk 
 away, he left him standing there, and went and opened 
 the door. 
 
 It admitted him at once into a very wretched room, 
 dimly lighted by the gloomy glow of a green wood-fire 
 that smouldered on the hearth. 
 
 On a low stool before this fire crouched an aged 
 woman, with her head bowed on her hands and her 
 elbows resting on her knees. As the doctor came to 
 ward her she looked up and nodded. Then, seeing the 
 flannel bundle he bore in his arms, she stared, but made 
 no remark. 
 
 "Well, Jean," said the doctor, cheerfully, "how are 
 we to-night?" 
 
 "I dinna ken, ser. Bad. And the bairn is dead, too; 
 and a guid thing for it, puir, miserable little lad!" 
 sighed the old woman, in all the despondency and bit 
 terness of age and poverty. 
 
44 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 "Dead? the child dead? Well, I expected it. When 
 did it die?" 
 
 "Airly the morn, sir." 
 
 The doctor drew forward a rickety chair, seated him 
 self cautiously, with his bundle on his knee, and pon 
 dered deeply for a few moments. Then he inquired : 
 
 "Who was here when the child died?" 
 
 "Ne er a saul, sir, but the mither and me." 
 
 "Who has been here since?" 
 
 "Naebody, sir. Wha would be likely to come through 
 sic a snaw?" 
 
 "No one, certainly. How did the poor creature take 
 the death of her child?" 
 
 "She dinna ken onything about it, sir. She was fast 
 asleep when the bairn died. And when she waket up 
 she cried out sae for the dead man and then for her 
 bairn, that I could na tell her the bairn was dead. I 
 tauld her it was asleep, and that I mustn t wake it up, 
 and she mustn t worry herself wid it till she had taken 
 her drops, and sae I gave her the laudanum drops you 
 left for her; and she fell off to sleep like an angel, and 
 hae been sleeping ever sin ." 
 
 "You acted well and wisely. And so no one but your 
 self knows that the child is dead?" 
 
 "Naebody, sir ; not even its ain mither. But I dreed 
 the time when she will wake, and call for her bairn. 
 Losing her gude man, and now losing her wee bairn, it 
 would kill her, doctor!" whimpered the crone. 
 
 "Certainly it would kill her, Jean. And we mustn t 
 kill her, you know." 
 
 "But how will I pit her off again, doctor, when she 
 wakes and ca s for her bairn?" 
 
 "See here," said the doctor, opening the soft flannel 
 wraps that enveloped the parcel on his knees, and re 
 vealing the form of a newborn infant "see here; this is 
 a child she was engaged to nurse. This child has lost 
 its mother, just as surely as that mother on the bed has 
 lost her child." 
 
 "Eh! dear, puir babe!" said the woman, gazing upon 
 the sleeping infant. 
 
 "Now, then, while the woman is still asleep, you must 
 
THE LOST HEIE 45 
 
 undress this babe, and dress it in a suit of the dead 
 babe s clothes. You understand?" 
 
 "Eh! yes, sir. 
 
 "And then, when the mother wakes and calls for her 
 child, put this one in her arms and say nothing about 
 it. She will think it is her own, and ask no questions. 
 Do you hear?" inquired the doctor, seeing that the 
 woman hesitated. 
 
 "Aye, sir, I hear. And I comprehend that the new 
 babe will satisfy her for a time; but when she finds it s 
 no her ain, she ll be waur than ever." 
 
 "She need never find it out." 
 
 "Eh, sir?" 
 
 "She has scarcely seen her own babe; and in the dark 
 ness of this room she has scarcely become acquainted 
 with its features. This living child is of the same sex 
 as the other one, and looks not unlike it. When it is 
 dressed in the other one s clothes, and laid in the be 
 reaved mother s arms, she will never know the differ 
 ence. Now do you see ?" 
 
 "What will I do wi the dead bairn? The mither 
 might see it, or some o the neebor folk might drap in 
 and find it! Eh, dear! what will I do wi the dead 
 bairn?" sighed the woman, in all the imbecile distress 
 of dotage. 
 
 "Tut, tut; dress the dead babe in the finery of the 
 living one and give it to me to take away, and neither 
 the mother nor any one else shall ever see or hear of it 
 again, or suspect that it ever lived and died. Now, be 
 quick in changing the clothes of the children before the 
 mother wakes," said the doctor, putting Eglantine s 
 infant into the arms of the crone. 
 
 The woman obeyed the doctor in every particular. 
 And, while she was still engaged in doing his will, he 
 approached her, and whispered: 
 
 "And hard ye, Jean; for that poor young creature s 
 sake, you must keep the secret of her baby s death, and 
 let her still believe that the living one is her own. And 
 listen further," he continued, stooping down to her ear, 
 "So long as you keep that secret I will pay you a pen 
 sion of five shillings a week, and give you the use of this 
 
46 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 cottage and garden rent free; but just so soon as you 
 tell it, I will stop your pension and turn you out of the 
 house. Do you understand?" 
 
 The crone understood much more than she had be 
 fore. Her bleared eyes shone like smouldering coals. 
 She nodded her head quickly several times, and said : 
 
 "I understand verra wee , doctor. Dinna fear me. 
 Ise be dumb as the dead/ 
 
 "All right, then," said the doctor, as he buttoned up 
 his overcoat, turning his collar well up around his 
 throat, and put on his cap, drawing down its lapels well 
 over his jaws. 
 
 %> Xow give me that," he said, referring to the parcel 
 of fine baby linen the woman had just rolled up. He 
 went out and stowed the parcel under the seat of his 
 wagon, and then came back and lifted the tiny corpse 
 from its rude cradle, and, with a final whispered cau 
 tion to the old crone, carried it out of the house. 
 
 The doctor was a childless widower, and his house 
 was kept by a worthy couple, Cuthbert Kinlock, groom 
 and valet, and Ann Kinlock, cook and laundress; they 
 were usually addressed by the doctor as "Cuddie" and 
 "Nannie." They had one son, Christopher, whom the 
 doctor called "Kit," and who had found so much favor 
 in his eyes that he was bringing him up to his own pro 
 fession, much to the disgust of his neighbors, who 
 thought that a lad of Kit Kinlock s humble station had 
 no right to such advancement. 
 
 Kit was the only one astir when the doctor arrived 
 with his burden, and, hastily explaining that he had 
 brought a new subject for post-mortem examination, he 
 carried the little form within. 
 
 The post-mortem examination was, of course, nothing 
 but an excuse for bringing the body of the babe to the 
 house; The work, therefore, was very slight, and soon 
 over. Then the doctor spread a white cloth over the lit 
 tle frame, and, turning to his pupil, said: 
 
 "I have a patient to see at some distance; so I must 
 leave you in full charge here. You will lock up the 
 office after I have gone, and take the certificate to the 
 parish register; and then see Gray, the undertaker, and 
 
THE LOST HEIR 47 
 
 ask him to come here this afternoon and attend to this 
 matter. And if I should not be home when Gray comes, 
 you will take my place and arrange with him for me. I 
 give you full powers, and will pay all expenses." 
 
 The doctor was going on with some further direc 
 tions, when old Kinlock, who had been roused by his 
 son, entered to announce that, according to orders, a 
 wason was at the door, with a fresh horse, hired from 
 the Seton Arms. 
 
 "Yes, yes," said the doctor; "all right." And, while 
 putting on his overcoat, gloves and cap, he turned to 
 his pupil and added: 
 
 "You will keep this office closed under lock and key 
 until Gray comes. Then you will show him in and give 
 him his instructions. Do you mind?" 
 
 "Yes, sir ; and I will scrupulously follow all your di 
 rections," answered the young man, as he attended his 
 preceptor to the wagon. 
 
 It was near noon when the physician reached Trosach 
 Castle. 
 
 He was shown into the library, where Lady Shetland 
 was awaiting his arrival. 
 
 "How is your patient?" he inquired, after respectful 
 ly greeting the marchioness. 
 
 "She has not spoken one word, or given one sign of 
 consciousness, since you left her," gravely answered the 
 lady, leading the way to the sick chamber. 
 
 They found the beautiful invalid lying on the bed, 
 still and white as an effigy on a tomb. She was faith 
 fully watched by her devoted nurse, who sat motionless 
 at her side. 
 
 The doctor felt her pulse, and lifted her eyelids, and 
 examined the pupils of her eyes, and all this without 
 awaking her. 
 
 "Oh, she will get over this, and be all the better for it 
 when she awakes. This is a deep restorative sleep, 
 from which she will awaken much refreshed," said the 
 doctor, cheerfully, when he had completed his exami 
 nation. 
 
 "She will?" echoed the marchioness. "Thank Heaven 
 for that. But mind, doctor, when she does awake I 
 
48 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 know her so well ! she will give us trouble about that 
 child. She will insist upon seeing it." 
 
 "You can easily settle her on that subject. The child 
 is dead. Tell her so. She ll cry a little at first, but she 
 will think it all for the best, under the circumstances. 
 Tell her the child is dead." 
 
 "Dead?" echoed the lady, in a tone of surprise, dread 
 and remorse "dead?" 
 
 "Yes, my leddy dead! Dead to her," he added, si 
 lently, to his own conscience. Then, speaking up, he 
 continued : "The body is lying at my house now, and it 
 will be buried to-morrow as the child of one of my poor 
 patients." 
 
 "Dead!" repeated the marchioness, covering her pale 
 face with her hands "the child dead! That, indeed, 
 would be something to be very thankful for, if if oh, 
 Dr. Seton! I dread to add the words if it did not per 
 ish from neglect or exposure, or from being taken out 
 so far through the snowstorm last night!" 
 
 The doctor indulged in a little low laugh as he mut 
 tered : 
 
 "Your conscience is a very sensitive one, my leddy; 
 but set it at rest on this point. The dead babe did not 
 perish from neglect or exposure, but it died from the 
 effects of its mother s mental and physical sufferings be 
 fore birth." 
 
 Next morning the marchioness broke the news gently 
 enough to the stricken Eglantine, who persisted in be 
 lieving that a terrible crime had been committed at the 
 instigation of her aunt. 
 
 "I forgive you," said the marchioness, coolly. "I for 
 give you, and even pity you, for you, Eglantine, you 
 were the cause of your infant s death 
 
 "I oh !" she began ; but she was too much exhausted 
 to continue. She could only sob and pant. The mar 
 chioness continued : 
 
 "Yes, Eglantine, you ! It was your mental and physi 
 cal tortures and agonies that fatally affected the child s 
 health and life tortures and agonies brought on by sin 
 and remorse, and resulting in great danger to yourself, 
 and in death to your child." 
 
THE LOST HEIR 49 
 
 "I wish I had died, too ! Oh, I wish I had died, too !" 
 murmured Eglantine, like one sinking under the in 
 fluence of a narcotic, yet whose last sentient thought 
 was one of pain. 
 
 "Dr. Seton, when he comes to-morrow, will verify 
 my words, and satisfy you as to the true cause of your 
 child s death," continued the lady. 
 
 "Hush! let me alone; hush! I would rather hear a 
 serpent hiss than you," were the last dreamy, but bitter 
 words of Eglantine, as she finally succumbed and fell 
 off to sleep. 
 
 Meanwhile Dr. Seton sped on homeward, where he ar 
 rived in time to meet the undertaker, with whom he 
 arranged for the burial of the child. It was interred, by 
 permission, just under the flagstones of the church 
 floor, below the monument of Willie Douglas. There 
 was no name added to indicate who lay below. 
 
 Three weeks later Magdelene Hurst embarked as 
 stewardess on board the Shaft, bound for London, and 
 carrying in her arms the child of Eglantine, never 
 dreaming that her own baby lay sleeping beneath the 
 church flagstones. 
 
 At parting the doctor put ten pounds in her hand,, 
 representing the sum as the donation of charitable peo 
 ple. The stewardess took it thankfully and without 
 suspicion, and so departed. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 WAS SHE A WIDOW f 
 
 Meanwhile Eglantine, with all the advantages of 
 youth and health on her side, rapidly recovered her 
 strength and cheerfulness. 
 
 Dr. Seton assured her that her babe had not perished 
 through any neglect or exposure; he even took his 
 oath to that effect, as, of course, we know he could 
 safely do. 
 
 Then he volunteered to take Eglantine in his car- 
 
50 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 riage, as soon as she should be able to go out, to see the 
 grave of "the" child. And when he led her into the 
 church, and pointed to the flagstone just below Willie 
 Douglas monument, and told her "the" babe was buried 
 there, he added that "it" had died, not from the effect 
 of any neglect or exposure, but simply and naturally 
 from injuries received through her mental and physical 
 sufferings previous to its birth. 
 
 And then the reproaches that Eglantine had heaped 
 upon Lady Shetland s head were turned upon her own 
 self ; and she wept bitterly from sorrow and remorse. 
 
 " The sins of the parents are visited upon the chil 
 dren/ I know," she said ; "but oh, it seems so sad that 
 my levity and folly should be visited so heavily upon 
 such a poor little harmless, helpless creature!" 
 
 She felt compunction, too, for her supposed injustice 
 to Lady Shetland, and she tried to atone for it by a 
 more complete obedience to that lady s will. 
 
 The marchioness, on her part, saw her vantage 
 ground, and kept it ; she never uttered one word of re 
 proach to her niece, but sought by forbearance to bind 
 the young creature still faster to herself. 
 
 She even undertook the duty of making Lord Ornoch 
 acquainted with the state of affairs, for which Eglan 
 tine was really grateful. 
 
 But this suited the marchioness better than any other 
 course, and she hastened to appoint an interview with 
 the young earl and told him the whole story, not for 
 getting to add that Eglantine s child was now dead. 
 
 Lord Ornoch was unable to speak for a long time. 
 He strode up and down the room with a sorrowful face. 
 
 At length he paused and stood before the lady, and 
 said: 
 
 "Aunt Shetland, I must put in a plea for this poor 
 child ; for she is little less than a child in years as well 
 as in nature. Heavens knows how heavily this blow 
 has fallen upon me, how heavily it must have fallen 
 even upon you, but it should not make us cruel or 
 unjust in our thoughts of her. She did not sin in wil- 
 fulness; she did but err in judgment. In the sight of 
 
THE LOST HEIR 51 
 
 Heaven, she is blameless; for in the sight of Heaven 
 she has been a wife and a widow." 
 
 "We could not make the world receive her as such," 
 coldly commented the marchioness. 
 
 "Then the world is a sinner, a hypocrite and a phari- 
 see, and her misfortune must be hidden from its false 
 eyes and cruel judgment. But as for me, I will not 
 forsake her. On the contrary, if she will permit me, I 
 will give her the highest proof of confidence that a man 
 can give a woman: I will make her my wife." 
 
 "And what would the world say to that, if they knew 
 all?" 
 
 "If the world were a just judge, it would say that I 
 did well; but as it is not a just judge, the case must 
 not be brought to its tribunal," replied the young earl ; 
 and much more he said in palliation of Eglantine s 
 error in that concealed marriage. 
 
 The lady did not interrupt him during his speech, for 
 she could only gaze upon him in utter astonishment and 
 unbounded admiration. 
 
 "It is the noble Ornoch blood," she said, to herself; 
 then aloud to him : "You forgive her, you pity her, you 
 plead for her " 
 
 "In a word, I love her," murmured the young man, 
 in a sweet and thrilling tone. 
 
 "And yet it is against you that she has most sinned." 
 
 "I cannot see that she has sinned at all ; certainly not 
 against me. At the time she contracted that marriage, 
 she was not in any way bound to me ; on the contrary, 
 she had rejected my suit, frankly telling me that she 
 meant to marry William Douglas. No; I cannot see 
 that she has sinned against me, or against any one 
 else." 
 
 "Except, then, in concealing her marriage until she 
 was forced to confess it." 
 
 "Ah, but I can well comprehend the timidity, the ig 
 norance and false reasoning that kept her silent. At 
 first she had been very frank with us. She had told us 
 that as soon as she should become of age, and her own 
 mistress, she would marry William Douglas. Well, 
 what did we do? We procured him a commission in a 
 
52 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 marching regiment, and sent him off to Canada to be 
 killed. What did she do? She had meant to be obedi 
 ent, and to wait until she should be her own mistress, 
 before she should marry him ; but in the sorrow of the 
 approaching parting she yielded to temptation and 
 married him then, feeling, no doubt, the more justified 
 because her respected old tutor performed the cere 
 mony. Well, the young man met a tragic fate out there. 
 The young wife was widowed. We pressed her hardly, 
 closely, cruelly into the path she took you and I ! Be 
 sides, as you yourself said, she did not know the worst. 
 She thought her dead and buried marriage was all that 
 she had to conceal. Poor child! when her heart was 
 half broken with grief for her dead, she accepted me 
 to please you." 
 
 "And in doing so, she should have confessed her for 
 mer marriage," firmly asserted the lady. 
 
 "Ah, yes; perhaps she should, but she had not the 
 courage to do so. Have we always the courage to do 
 right, Aunt Shetland?" 
 
 "I know I have, and I think you have." 
 
 The next morning, according to appointment, Lord 
 Ornoch called and inquired for Lady Linlithgow. 
 
 He was shown into a summer parlor, bright with sun 
 shine, fragrant with flowers and cool with the breeze 
 from the loch that lay under its windows. 
 
 Here Eglantine soon joined him. She blushed and 
 trembled with painful consciousness and embarrass 
 ment, as she crossed the room toward the window at 
 which he sat. 
 
 But he arose and went to meet her, and drew her 
 gravely and silently to his bosom, and pressed a sweet, 
 solemn kiss upon her brow. Then he drew her arm with 
 in his own, led her to a sofa near the window, placed 
 her on it, and seated himself beside her. His whole 
 manner was less ardent, more respectful than it would 
 have been had he not known her secret. It was full of 
 serious tenderness. 
 
 Before a word was spoken between them, Eglantine 
 dropped her head on her bosom, covered her face with 
 her hands and wept softly behind them. 
 
THE LOST HEIR 53 
 
 Ornoch watched her silently, sympathetically, for a 
 few minutes, and then, perceiving that she was not 
 likely to recover herself, he murmured gently: 
 
 "Why does my darling weep? Let the dead past 
 bury its dead/ Live in the living present. Weep no 
 more, my Eglantine ; or, if you must, weep here, where 
 I can dry your tears." And he opened his arms to her. 
 
 She looked up, hastily wiped her eyes and breathed: 
 
 "Oh, I only grieve to think how unworthy I am of 
 your great love. You deserve a better wife than I can 
 be, Lord Ornoch." 
 
 "I wish no better one, out of all the wide world. I 
 wish only your dear self. I wish you to tell me, love, 
 when I may claim you for my own." 
 
 "As soon as you please, Lord Ornoch. I esteem you, I 
 revere you more than I do any being on earth. And, 
 oh, how I wish that I could love you as you have the 
 right to be loved ! But I will do all I can to make you 
 happy; and, therefore, I repeat, I will be yours as soon 
 as you please," she murmured, in a low, timid tone. 
 
 "Aad you will trust me to win the sweet, good heart 
 you wish to give me," he answered, as he drew her to 
 his bosom and pressed a kiss on her lips. 
 
 "And now I must go and see Lady Shetland," he said, 
 rising gayly. 
 
 He found that strong-minded woman waiting for him 
 in her favorite room, the library. He told her all that 
 had passed between Eglantine and himself. 
 
 "And so she has consented to marry you as soon as 
 you please. Well, then, let it be at once; that is to 
 say, this day week. That will give us time to tele 
 graph to London for the marquis, and to Vienna for 
 your mother and sister, and for them to arrive here in 
 time for the wedding, which I think, under the circum 
 stances, should be rather private. What do you say?" 
 
 "I agree with you entirely," replied the young earl. 
 
 Eglantine, when, as a mere matter of form, she was 
 consulted on the subject, expressed her willingness to 
 come into any arrangement made by Lady Shetland and 
 Lord Ornoch. 
 
 And then they were all so busy with their prepara- 
 
54 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 tions that not one of them found time to look at the 
 Times that day. If they had, some one might have seen 
 this short paragraph: 
 
 NOT DEAD. A private letter from Toronto states that Lieu 
 tenant William Douglas, of Her Majesty s Regiment of 
 
 Foot, who was reported to have been killed by the Indians 
 last summer, is not dead, but is a captive with the tribe. A 
 detachment of soldiers has been sent from Fort Stagnant to 
 look him up. By the way, it will be remembered that, by the 
 recent death of the Earl of Wellrose, Mr. Douglas is now the 
 heir apparent of the Dukedom of Cheviot. 
 
 CHAPTEK VII. 
 
 THE WANDERER S RETURN. 
 
 Captain Frank Harry, of the Koyal Guards, the 
 "finest fellow in the service," as he was called by his 
 associates who enjoyed his wines and cigars, sat at one 
 of the tables in the big dining-saloon at King s Cross 
 Station. 
 
 He was idly scanning the columns of the Times 
 when a hand was laid on his shoulder, and, looking up, 
 he saw Willie Douglas. 
 
 The paper fell to the floor, and two hands met with a 
 clasp of iron. 
 
 "It is Douglas, isn t it?" said young Harry. 
 
 "Or all that s left of him," replied Willie gayly. 
 
 "And where in the heavens have you dropped from? 
 We thought that you had been comfortably scalped by 
 the North American Indians; though it is true that I 
 have recently seen that contradicted. How was it? 
 You were not scalped, that is evident ; for those infan 
 tile golden locks of yours are as full as ever. Come, 
 sit down and have some tea and tell us all about it. 
 I expect to hear a narrative that will outrival Gulliver 
 and Munchausen." 
 
 "I came very near losing my scalp, and my life also. 
 All my unfortunate companions, except one, were toma- 
 
THE LOST HEIK 55 
 
 hawked and scalped before my eyes," replied young 
 Douglas, with a sad seriousness that rebuked the levity 
 of the others. 
 
 "Oh, indeed," put in Harry, with penitent gravity: 
 "but how did you escape?" 
 
 "Myself and my servant were taken prisoners and 
 carried far away into the wilderness, where we re 
 mained captives among them for ten months." 
 
 "By Jove! that was a misfortune!" burst forth young 
 Harry, setting down his teacup. Then, after a few 
 moments silence, he added. "I don t understand what 
 motives those savages could have had for taking you 
 prisoners that is, if I know anything about them. 
 They didn t want to eat you, as the New Zealanders 
 might have done; nor to make slaves of you, as the 
 Moors would have done " 
 
 "No; but they wanted to have the cruel sport of tor 
 turing us to death at their leisure, as I afterward 
 found out. You have surely read of their fiendish 
 treatment of such unfortunates as fall alive into their 
 hands." 
 
 "Oh, yes; but I thought that such barbarities be 
 longed to the past, even among savages." 
 
 "Not at all ! These wretches have not made one step 
 forward in civilization since the first discovery of their 
 continent. No; I and my servant and fellow sufferer, 
 being taken alive and unhurt, were reserved for torture 
 their torture, which excels in fiendish cruelty the 
 most ingenious deviltries of the Inquisition. We were 
 carried many miles into the wilderness, to their en 
 campment. On our arrival, all the women and children 
 ran out of their smoky wigwams to greet the returning 
 braves with their captives and their booty. And they 
 leaped and danced about us like so many frenzied she- 
 devils and devil s imps." 
 
 Here Douglas stopped to sip his tea ; but Harry, who 
 was impatient to hear the sequel of his adventure, soon 
 cried out: 
 
 "Go on, for Heaven s sake! How the deuce did you 
 escape torture and death?" 
 
56 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 "Through another blessed custom of theirs, and 
 through two women." 
 
 "Ah, yes! well?" 
 
 "You have read that when an Indian woman loses her 
 husband or son in battle, and there are male prisoners 
 brought in, she may claim one among them as a substi 
 tute for the lost son or husband?" 
 
 "Oh, yes ! So an Indian woman fell in love with you, 
 and saved your life? Quite natural, my fine fellow! I 
 always said you were born to be successful among the 
 fair sex!" laughed the irrepressible Harry. 
 
 "You are too fast," said Douglas. 
 
 "So my respected grandmother always tells me," 
 laughed Harry. 
 
 "I mean to say that you are precipitate in your con 
 clusions. It was an Indian mother who lost her son, 
 that claimed me. A strapping, able-bodied woman of 
 forty she was; and she took her rights without talking 
 about them took me out of the hands of the warriors 
 without asking their permission, and by the strength 
 of her arms. Well, I was saved from the death of tor 
 ture; but, though I was an adopted son of the tribe, I 
 was not the less a prisoner, since I was not permitted 
 to leave them." 
 
 "And your servant? Who adopted him?" 
 
 Douglas broke into a hearty, irrepressible laugh. 
 
 "He was claimed by a hideously ugly squaw, but he 
 escaped from her clutches, got clear off to camp and 
 brought the rest of the company, who speedily routed 
 my captors and restored me to freedom again." 
 
 "And you were ten months among them?" 
 
 "Ten horrible months that I will tell you about at 
 some future time. Just now I want news news of my 
 neighbors, the Shetlands." 
 
 "Young Lady Linlithgow was engaged to be married 
 to the Earl of Ornoch. The programme was, that they 
 were to be united at Trosach Castle, and immediately 
 after the ceremony they were to proceed to Vienna, to 
 which court the earl has been appointed ambassador." 
 
 "Well well well; why don t you go on?" gasped 
 
THE LOST HEIK 57 
 
 William Douglas, breathlessly, seeing that the other 
 had stopped to drink his tea. 
 
 "Good gracious, man! I did not know I could be so 
 interesting. Well, the morning of the wedding came, 
 the altar was decorated; the breakfast set; the guests 
 assembled; the bride dressed; the bridegroom waiting 
 when -- 
 
 Well! well!" 
 
 "The Marquis of Shetland suddenly entered the 
 drawing-room, and announced that the bride had been 
 taken suddenly ill, and the marriage could not go for 
 ward that day." 
 
 "Thank Heaven! my own dear love! true to the last!" 
 deeply breathed young Douglas. 
 
 "I say, look here, what s the matter with you, old 
 boy?" asked Harry, in surprise. 
 
 "Nothing. I don t know! Go on! What next?" 
 "Intelligible, all that! What next? Why, nothing 
 next. The wedding guests went home ; the bridegroom 
 expectant went off to the Continent; bride-elect had a 
 brain fever, and the family have not been in town since 
 At the opening of Parliament the marquis came up 
 alone By the way, I saw by this evening s Express 
 that he has left town for Trosach Castle." 
 
 "Yes ; I heard so much as that But Ornoch con 
 found him ! where is he? Still at the court of Austria?" 
 JNo; 1 saw his arrival in town a week ago, and his 
 departure for Ornoch the same day" 
 
 j|The devil ! exclaimed William Douglas, starting up. 
 Hallo! what s the matter now?" demanded Harry 
 in surprise. 
 
 "Oh, nothing much! She is my - But it is of no 
 
 forth the young lieutenant > 
 
 "Well, I do declare! All this comes of livin^ ten 
 months among North American Indians, T suppose " 
 murmured the young guardsman, in some amazement 
 Excuse me Prank! I am distrait; but you would 
 not wonder it you knew all. Is that broken-off mar- 
 nage on the tapis again, do you know?" 
 
58 THE LOST HEIE 
 
 "No, I do not. I haven t seen nor heard a word on 
 the subject yet." 
 
 "Things look so everybody going to Scotland!" 
 
 "Ha, ha, ha! Why, dear old Willie, it is the season 
 for everybody to go to Scotland, especially for those 
 who have delightful homes in the Highlands. But I be 
 gin to see what ails you now. You re spooney on the 
 little Lady Linlithgow!" exclaimed Captain Harry, 
 clapping his friend on the back. 
 
 Young Douglas blushed like a girl, and so betrayed 
 himself. 
 
 "Well, cheer up, old fellow! It is my opinion that 
 broken-off marriage will never be patched up again. 
 Such seldom are, you know. Besides, bless my soul! 
 your chance of success is far better than that of the 
 Earl of Ornoch now !" 
 
 "Better! how do you make that out? A poor lieu 
 tenant in a marching regiment!" 
 
 "Sell out at once, my boy, and go upon your expec 
 tations." 
 
 "My expectations!" echoed the young man, a little 
 bitterly. 
 
 "Yes, your expectations!" 
 
 "I should like to know what they are to reach a 
 captaincy when I shall be fifty years old, and retire on 
 half-pay at seventy !" laughed the young man. 
 
 "If you choose, in spite of fate, to remain in the 
 army; but in the mean time you inherit the titles and 
 estates of the Duke of Cheviot." 
 
 "Harry! for Heaven s sake! if you are not cruelly 
 chaffing me, explain your meaning." 
 
 "It is simple enough. The Earl of Wellrose, the only 
 son and heir of the aged Duke of Cheviot, died last 
 January, leaving you, as next of kin and heir-at-law, 
 to step into his prospects that is all." 
 
 Young Douglas threw his hands to his head and 
 clasped his forehead. He could not comprehend the 
 good fortune that had so suddenly fallen upon him. He 
 literally reeled under the blow. 
 
 "Since you did not know this sooner, I am very happy 
 
THE LOST HEIR 59 
 
 to be the first to announce it and to congratulate you, 
 Douglas," said Captain Harry, now quite serious. 
 
 "Stop, stop one moment, for Heaven s sake!" mur 
 mured the young lieutenant, divided between an almost 
 overwhelming joy at the great chance in his future 
 prospects, and an honest remorse for rejoicing at the 
 good fortune which came to him only through the ill 
 fortune of others. 
 
 "I am very sorry for the early death of the young 
 earl," replied Willie, speaking really from compunction, 
 rather than from grief. 
 
 "He is better off," put in Captain Harry, coolly, ut 
 tering the commonplace piece of consolation. 
 
 "And I am still sorrier for the bereaved old duke," 
 continued Willie, gravely. 
 
 "Oh, he won t live long to suffer; besides, he has a 
 great comfort in the Lady Margaret Douglas, who was 
 always his favorite child. He cannot suffer long. He 
 will soon sleep with his fathers, and then you will be 
 the seventh Duke of Cheviot, with a rent roll of thirty 
 thousand pounds a year." 
 
 "And her equal in rank and fortune!" burst forth 
 the boy, with irrepressible triumph. 
 
 "Her equal indeed ! Much more than that. A duke 
 dom is somewhat higher up the ladder than a barony, 
 I fancy. Indeed, the Duke of Cheviot holds several bar 
 onies, besides the Earldom of Wellrose. There is no 
 marquisate in the family, however, I believe." 
 
 They were interrupted by the striking of the clock. 
 
 William Douglas started up. 
 
 "What now?" inquired Captain Harry. 
 
 "It is nine o clock. I am off to Scotland by the ten 
 o clock train, and I must hurry in order to reach it. 
 Will you come to the station with me?" 
 
 "With great pleasure," said the young guardsman, 
 rising. 
 
 They found Lieutenant Douglas servant waiting 
 with his luggage, in the hall. 
 
 A porter called a cab, and the friends entered it and 
 soon found themselves rattling on toward the King s 
 Cross Station. 
 
CO THE LOST HEIR 
 
 They were in time. Young Douglas purchased his 
 tickets, jumped into a first-class carriage, waved his 
 hand to his friend, and was off on his journey. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 AN APPARITION. 
 
 It was a very charming party that assembled at 
 Trosach Castle to do honor to the approaching nuptials 
 of Alexander Moray, Earl of Ornoch, and Eglantine 
 Seton, Baroness Linlithgow. 
 
 The telegrams that had been sent to summon friends 
 and relatives from distant places had been immediately 
 answered, to the effect that the recipients would make 
 it a point to be at the castle in good time for the wed 
 ding. 
 
 And first came the Marquis of Shetland, glad to 
 escape from the heat and smoke of the city to the 
 beautiful shores of the loch and the bracing air of the 
 mountains; but by no means so glad of the occasion, 
 which was meant to bestow his young, wealthy niece, a 
 peeress, in her own right, upon his wife s impoverished 
 nephew, who had nothing but his empty title and his 
 mortgaged estates. He acquiesced in this matrimonial 
 measure merely because it was the dearest wish of 
 his wife s heart. And so now he was on hand to take 
 his own part in the performance by giving away the 
 bride. 
 
 On the day after the arrival of the marquis came the 
 Countess Dowager of Ornoch, with her daughter, Lady 
 Katherine Moray, and her friend, the beautiful Lady 
 Margaret Douglas. As their own house at Ornoch was 
 not ready to receive the family, they, at the request of 
 Lady Shetland, took up their abode at Trosach Castle. 
 
 Other guests arrived on the succeeding days, and the 
 house was full of midsummer company. 
 
 Eglantine Seton had never been very fond of her pros 
 pective sister-in-law, the Lady Katherine Moray. That 
 
THE LOST HEIR 61 
 
 haughty, handsome blonde was "not one to love." Even 
 her beauty was too pronounced in style to please artis 
 tic eyes. Her form, though perfectly proportioned, was 
 too tall, her bust too full, her head too round, her 
 features too regular, her yellow hair, white forehead, 
 blue eyes and red cheeks and lips were too bright in 
 colors and too strongly contrasted for the spirit of 
 beauty. "Dazzling!" "Splendid!" "Stunning!" were the 
 epithets bestowed upon the young lady by her ad 
 mirers. 
 
 Lady Margaret Douglas was of a very different de- 
 ription, both as to person and character. She was of 
 ledium size, slender, but not thin. Her features were 
 tall, soft and pretty. Her eyes were dark hazel, large, 
 iquid, tender, and fringed with thickly-set, curled 
 lashes and arched with slender dark brows. Her hair 
 )f soft brown rippled off in tiny wavelets from her 
 >ure, pale forehead and was gathered in a curly bunch 
 at the back of her head. Her complexion was clear and 
 pale, save where it warmed into a peachy bloom on her 
 ^oval cheeks and brightened to crimson buds on her 
 small, plump lips. 
 
 She was wearing second mourning for her brother, 
 and her plain gray dress harmonized well with her 
 quiet style of beauty. 
 
 Eglantine Seton had never met Lady Margaret 
 Douglas before her visit to the castle. But she had 
 heard much of that sweet girl s devotion to her aged, 
 ill and impoverished father, and thus she was prepared 
 to love her. 
 
 Eglantine learned from Lady Ornoch that even this 
 short relaxation was a matter of necessity that had 
 been forced upon the devoted daughter. Her nervous 
 system was breaking down under the severe ordeal 
 of a sick room in London in the dogdays. And the 
 duke s medical attendant ordered her to the Highlands 
 for recuperation. The duke, who was or seemed to be 
 recovering his health, refused to take so long a journey 
 himself, but he enforced the doctor s orders that his 
 daughter should go to Scotland; and he wrote a note 
 to his old friend Lady Ornoch, whose arrival at her 
 
62 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 town house in Park Lane, en route for Scotland, he 
 had seen chronicled in the morning paper; and he re 
 quested the countess to take charge of Lady Margaret 
 for the journey, as he intended to send his daughter to 
 visit his kinsman, Dugald Douglas of Stony Isle, near 
 Trosach Castle. 
 
 This note brought a call and an invitation from Lady 
 Ornoch, which ended in Lady Margaret becoming her 
 guest for the season. 
 
 As soon as Eglantine Seton and Margaret Douglas 
 met, they began to love each other. 
 
 Eglantine begged Margaret to be her second brides 
 maid, as Lady Katherine Moray was to be her first. 
 
 And Margaret consented to lay off her mourning for 
 the occasion, that she might oblige one for whom she 
 felt almost a sisterly affection. 
 
 It wanted yet three days to the wedding morning, 
 when Lady Ornoch, thinking that the young people in 
 the house were rather dull, proposed to her sister, Lady 
 Shetland, that they should get up a dance for the next 
 evening. And as the weather was quite cool, and there 
 seemed nothing to prevent it, the countess consented. 
 And accordingly the few necessary preparations for the 
 almost impromptu entertainment were made. Invita 
 tions were sent out to neighboring friends, and a tele 
 gram sent to Glasgow to bring down a band of music. 
 The great hall was cleared out and decorated for the 
 dancers, and all was ready by noon of the next day. 
 
 That very noon William Douglas was traveling be 
 tween Edinburgh and Stirling on his way to Trosach 
 Castle. 
 
 When the hour came for the assembling of the com 
 pany, the house began to fill with a merry crowd of 
 young people, who were all the merrier because the en 
 tertainment was so informal and so unexpected. 
 
 The Earl of Ornoch opened the ball, with Lady Lin- 
 lithgow as his partner. Their vis-a-vis were Captain 
 Sinclair of the Royal Guards and Lady Katherine Mo 
 ray. Kilgour of Kilgour with Lady Margaret Douglas, 
 and the Honorable Duncan Kier, with Miss Kilgour, 
 completed the set. 
 
THE LOST HEIR 63 
 
 The pleasure was at its very acme; the young ladies 
 and gentlemen were dancing, chatting, flirting, laugh 
 ing, as if there were no such thing as a care, a want, or 
 a duty in the world; and their elders, occupying the 
 sofas against the walls, were gossiping with each other 
 or silently speculating on the probable or even possible 
 marriages, eligible or otherwise, for these youthful can 
 didates for matrimonial honors, when the doors were 
 thrown open by a hall footman, w r ho announced a name 
 that was only heard by those standing nearest the en 
 trance. 
 
 There was a slight commotion among these as they 
 made way for the newcomer, just as Eglantine, with a 
 wild cry of joy, fled across the hall and threw herself 
 half-fainting into the arms of the stranger, who caught 
 and strained her sinking form to his breast. 
 
 The startled crowd turned to see the cause of all this. 
 
 There stood William Douglas, as one raised from the 
 dead, supporting the fainting form of Eglantine Seton. 
 
 A spell as of sudden death fell upon the stupefied as 
 sembly! The gentle turbulence made up of gliding 
 feet, floating forms, low tones and sweet laughter, was 
 suddenly hushed into stillness. 
 
 And then a murmur of voices arose among those who 
 recognized the visitor. One of the first to know him 
 again was the Marquis of Shetland, who exclaimed : 
 
 "Why, Lord bless my soul ! it is young Douglas, come 
 back from Canada, alive after all." 
 
 "Why, yes," said Captain Sinclair, of the Guards, 
 "the report of his death was contradicted in the Times. 
 Didn t you know it?" 
 
 "No, I did not," answered the marquis, leaving the 
 others to discuss the matter, and striding toward the 
 door where he thought his interference much needed. 
 He was followed by the Earl of Ornoch, Lady Shetland 
 and other members of the family circle. All the guests 
 had the tact and delicacy to keep aloof. 
 
 "Release that young lady immediately, sir!" com 
 manded the Marquis of Shetland, attempting to with 
 draw Eglantine. 
 
 "Thanks, no ; she is my wife," answered young Doug- 
 
64: THE LOST HEIR 
 
 las quite coolly, as he put off the marquis with one 
 arm, while he gathered Eglantine closer to his heart 
 with the other. 
 
 "Your wife! Are you mad, sir? Release her this 
 moment!" ordered the marquis, in the low, intense 
 tones of repressed anger. 
 
 The young man replied only by gazing upon Eglan 
 tine s pale and quivering face with looks of unutterable 
 affection. 
 
 "Lady Linlithgow, leave that man s support, and 
 come with me!" said the marquis, appealing to hir 
 niece. 
 
 "I cannot, uncle! He is my husband! Aunt Shet 
 land knows it ; so does Lord Ornoch ; so does Dr. Seton : 
 so does Elspeth," answered Eglantine in quivering 
 tones. Then, looking up into youmg Douglas face, she 
 broke forth suddenly, "Oh, Willie! We thought yov 
 were dead, and my heart was broken broken, but faith 
 ful to you, Willie, notwithstanding all this !" 
 
 "I know it, beloved I know it well," he answered, 
 with his loyal faith in her. 
 
 "And you live! you live! Oh, it is too much joy! 
 And oh, it may be only a dream! Oh, Willie, tell me 
 that it is no dream that I look in your face again !" 
 
 "It is no dream, my own dear, dear wife !" 
 
 "Oh, I am so happy! so happy!" sighed Eglantine. 
 
 Then suddenly, compassionately remembering one 
 who was made utterly miserable by the same event 
 that rendered her so happy, she turned and looked for 
 Lord Ornoch. 
 
 He was standing at a short distance, leaning against 
 one of the wreathed pillars for support. He was deadly 
 pale, but, outwardly at least, calm. Eglantine s eyes 
 filled with ears. 
 
 "Oh, pardon me, pardon me, if I have hurt you, Lord 
 Ornoch! I did not know what I was doing. I did not 
 know that my dear husband was alive!" she pleaded. 
 
 "I have nothing to pardon, Lady Linlithgow, how 
 ever much I may have to regret. You have done me no 
 intentional wrong. I hope that you may be happy," 
 answered the earl, in a roice vibrating with the deep 
 
THE LOST HEIR 65 
 
 emotion of his soul. And he was moving sadly away, 
 when he was stopped by Lady Shetland, who had al 
 most lost her high-bred self-possession. 
 
 "And will you give her up in this manner? Then 
 you deserve to lose her !" said her ladyship, in the low, 
 deep tones of intense and concentrated passion. 
 
 "She is the wife of another man," coldly replied the 
 earl, bowing and moving off. 
 
 "The wife of another man, indeed ! She is nothing of 
 the kind. In professing to be such, she only proclaims 
 her own dishonor. That marriage ceremony, privately 
 performed in England, between two minors, is perfectly 
 null and void. Will no one take that girl from that 
 man?" she hissed between her set teeth, as she laid her- 
 own hands upon the form of Eglantine. 
 
 "Softly, Lady Shetland," said young Douglas, gently 
 putting her back. "Your ladyship is utterly mistaken. 
 The marriage ceremony privately performed between 
 two minors in London, and openly acknowledged by 
 both parties in Scotland, is as valid as church and state 
 can make it. I appeal to the marquis here, if this is- 
 not true?" 
 
 The Marquis of Shetland, who for the last ten min 
 utes had been standing in a state of stupefied silence,, 
 now recovered his faculties, and also recollected that 
 William Douglas was no longer the poor lieutenant,, 
 with nothing but his pay for the present, and no pros 
 pects but of slow promotion for the future. He was- 
 now the heir presumptive of a dukedom with a rent roll 
 of thirty thousand pounds a year, and consequently he 
 was a much more eligible match for Eglantine than, 
 was the impoverished young Earl of Ornoch. 
 
 "I appeal to the marquis here; I appeal to the whole 
 company assembled here, if our marriage is not now 
 perfectly valid !" repeated Mr. Douglas. 
 
 "Hush, hush; for Heaven s sake, don t call others 
 into our counsels," whispered the marquis. Then, ad 
 dressing the marchioness, he astonished her by saying, 
 quite coolly: "Mr. Douglas is perfectly correct in his 
 statement. The marriage openly acknowledged here is. 
 valid and binding, and cannot be dissolved except by/ 
 
66 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 death or crime. But see ! our friends are watching us 
 from a distance, and wondering what we are doing. 
 This must end. Lady Margaret Douglas, my dear, come 
 here. Take Eglantine and lead her away to her cham 
 ber, and remain with her until she recovers her calm 
 ness. Mr. Douglas, do me the favor to follow me to the 
 library." 
 
 And gently Lady Margaet put her arm around the 
 waist of her friend and led her from the hall. 
 
 And Mr. Douglas followed the Marquis of Shetland 
 to the library, leaving a general low murmur of voices 
 behind them. 
 
 The Earl of Ornoch had also disappeared. There 
 remained standing near the door Lady Shetland, Lady 
 Ornoch and Lady Katherine Moray. 
 
 "Did you know of this?" inquired the Countess of 
 Ornoch, addressing her sister in a tone of reproach. 
 
 Lady Shetland made a gesture of disgust as she an 
 swered : 
 
 "I knew of the private marriage months after it had 
 taken place, and after we had heard the report of 
 young Douglas death. I told Ornoch of it, and left 
 him to keep or break his engagement with my niece as 
 he deemed best. He decided to keep it, not dreaming 
 of such a contingency as the return of Douglas, whom 
 we believed to be dead." 
 
 "And I, his mother, was told nothing of all this," 
 complained Lady Ornoch. 
 
 "It rested with him to tell you, not with me. He was 
 the person most concerned, you perceive. And there is 
 little doubt but that he would have told you some 
 time." 
 
 "Some time!" echoed Lady Ornoch. 
 
 "Come, sister, you know that I feel as much annoyed, 
 disappointed, mortified, as you can possibly be. But 
 we must both try to prevent scandal, if possible. Let 
 us mingle with our guests and promote their enjoy 
 ment," said Lady Shetland. 
 
 And seeing her groom of the chambers passing near, 
 in the outer hall, she beckoned him to approach, and 
 
THE LOST HEIK 67 
 
 directed him to go to the band of musicians and order 
 them to go on with the music. 
 
 The next music on the programme was a waltz, and 
 twenty or thirty couples were soon whirling round and 
 round to its delightful measure. To the waltz suc 
 ceeded the quadrille. And then, in the interval of rest 
 that ensued, Eglantine re-entered the hall, leaning on 
 the arm of the Marquis of Shetland, and followed by 
 the Lady Margaret Douglas on the arm of her cousin, 
 Lieutenant Douglas. It had been decided among them 
 that no announcement of the marriage should be made 
 to the assembled company that evening, and no explana 
 tion of the little scene at the door should be offered, 
 but that the programme of the evening s entertainment 
 should be carried out, just as if nothing extraordinary 
 had occurred to interrupt it. 
 
 William Douglas was warmly welcomed by his 
 friends and acquaintances in the assembly, and each 
 and all were anxious to hear the story of his captivity 
 and his deliverance. But he smilingly replied to all in 
 quiries that he could not satisfy their curiosity with 
 out making a speech, and this was not an occasion for 
 oratory. 
 
 Then the music struck up again, and the dancing re 
 commenced. 
 
 But neither William Douglas nor Eglantine joined 
 the dancers, nor did they approach each other again 
 during the evening. It was judged best that they 
 should not do so, especially as the company seemed to 
 have no suspicion of the true state of the case, but ap 
 peared to have satisfied themselves with a little theory 
 of their own, to the effect that the sudden arrival of 
 a man supposed to have been murdered many months 
 ago was quite sufficient to cause a disturbance much 
 greater than that which for a few moments had inter 
 rupted their festivities quite sufficient, in fact, to 
 cause the fainting of Eglantine, who was prevented 
 from sinking by being supported in the arms of the 
 newcomer. Such was their theory, from all they had 
 seen. Of course, they had heard nothing of the con- 
 
68 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 versation, carried on in the low, intense tones in which 
 the parties spoke. 
 
 At eleven o clock the supper-room was thrown open, 
 and the guests marched in to the table. 
 
 After supper the ancient dance of Sir Roger de Cov- 
 erly was performed. 
 
 After that the ball broke up, and the company left 
 the house. 
 
 William Douglas lingered last of all. He hardly knew 
 yet what his fate was to be. 
 
 Lady Ornoch and Lady Katherine Moray retired to 
 their apartments. Lady Shetland, too indignant to re 
 main behind, followed. 
 
 Still William Douglas lingered, expecting perhaps, 
 poor love-sick boy! to be invited to stay all night. And 
 Eglantine lingered, holding on to the arm of Lady Mar 
 garet Douglas, whom she detained to keep her in coun 
 tenance. And meanwhile the servants were going 
 around snuffing out the wax lights in the chandeliers. 
 At length the Marquis of Shetland spoke: 
 
 "It seems very inhospitable, my good boy, but really 
 I think you had better say good-night, and go away. 
 You know where to find a boat to take you over to 
 Stony Isle, and you can get there in time to surprise the 
 servants, who will be just stirring. Come again to 
 morrow, and we will talk this matter over amicably. 
 You shall have Eglantine, of course, the sooner because 
 you have got her already. But we must try to arrange 
 affairs so as to avoid having you talked about." 
 
 William Douglas bowed in acknowledgment of the 
 marquis prudence, and then took his leave. 
 
 Lady Margaret Douglas drew Eglantine away, and 
 remained with her during the night. 
 
 The family were late in rising the next morning. 
 
 The Marquis of Shetland, Lady Margaret Douglas 
 and Eglantine were the only members of the family 
 that appeared at the breakfast table. The marquis 
 greeted the two young ladies affectionately. In fact, 
 the more he reflected upon Eglantine s marriage, the 
 better he felt pleased with it. 
 
THE LOST HEIR 69 
 
 "The girl has done much better for herself than we 
 could have done for her," he said to himself. 
 
 While they were still at breakfast they were sur 
 prised by an unexpected visitor, in the person of Dr. 
 McGill, who entered unannounced. 
 
 The marquis half arose from his seat, with a look of 
 interrogation on his face. 
 
 "Excuse me, your lordship! The footman told me 
 you were at breakfast, but my business is one that will 
 not admit of delay," said Dr. McGill, in a hurried 
 voice. 
 
 "Sit down, doctor. Have a cup of coffee?" 
 
 Thanks; no. Permit me to explain my errand. Dr. 
 Seton is extremely ill dying, in fact. He had a fit of 
 apoplexy two days ago. Yesterday, toward evening, he 
 rallied a little, recovered consciousness, and, in an im 
 perfect degree, his speech. But, in the course of the 
 night, some injudicious person suddenly informed him 
 of the unexpected return of Lieutenant Douglas, who 
 was supposed to have been murdered by the Indians. 
 The shock was, for some unknown reason, so great as to 
 cause a very dangerous, and, I fear, fatal relapse. But 
 this morning he has again rallied a little, and contrived 
 to make me understand that he must see Mr. Douglas 
 and Lady Linlithgow immediately; for that he has a 
 communication to make to them, of the most vital im 
 portance. Of course, your lordship, under such cir 
 cumstances, neither the young gentleman nor the young 
 lady will deny the request of a dying man." 
 
 Most assuredly not," answered the marquis, who 
 had listened with fixed attention to the hurried account 
 given by Dr. McGill. "David, order the carriage 
 around instantly. Eglantine, my dear, go and get 
 ready as quickly as possible. I will myself attend you 
 to the bedside of Dr. Seton. His request may be only 
 a dying man s whim, but it must not be neglected." 
 
 Eglantine, who, for reasons of her own, had listened 
 with breathless attention and pallid cheeks to Dr. Mc- 
 Gill s words, arose and hurried from the room, followed 
 by Lady Margaret Douglas. 
 
70 THE LOST HEIK 
 
 She had scarcely disappeared when Mr. William 
 Douglas was announced. 
 
 "Ah, Douglas, you are just in time. Such a strange 
 event! Dr. Seton, who is dying, has sent a message, 
 requiring the presence of Eglantine and yourself at his 
 bedside, to hear some important communication that 
 he has to make to you," said the marquis, cordially 
 shaking the hand of the young gentleman, who looked 
 very much surprised. 
 
 But Eglantine appeared, and the carriage was an 
 nounced at the same instant. 
 
 "Take her to the carriage, Douglas, and I will fol 
 low," said the marquis, good-naturedly. 
 
 The young husband drew his wife s hand within his 
 arm, pressed it affectionately, and led her out, followed 
 by the marquis. 
 
 When they were seated in the carriage, the marquis 
 ordered the coachman to drive as fast as possible to 
 the village of Seton. A rapid drive of an hour s length 
 brought them to their destination. 
 
 They alighted before Dr. Seton s door, and were at 
 once admitted into the house and shown to his dark 
 ened sickroom. 
 
 Dr. McGill went and opened one of the windows, ad 
 mitting the light into the chamber. And then the vis 
 itors approached the bed where the sick man lay, ap 
 parently in the stupor that precedes death. On the 
 other side of the bed stood his housekeeper and his 
 young medical assistant. 
 
 "Leave the room, you two, for a few minutes," said 
 Dr. McGill. 
 
 And the housekeeper and the student withdrew. 
 Then Dr. McGill stooped and spoke to the dying man, 
 saying : 
 
 "Seton, here are the young people whom you sent 
 for." 
 
 The dying man slowly and heavily opened his eyes, 
 and recognizing Eglantine and William Douglas, strug 
 gled to speak ; but failed, for the faculty of speech had 
 left him. 
 
 Dr. McGill poured out a restorative, and put it to his 
 
THE LOST HEIR 71 
 
 lips, but he choked, for the power of swallowing was 
 also gone. 
 
 Yet he was perfectly and most painfully conscious, 
 for he struggled again and again to confess the secret 
 that was burdening his conscience; and, failing again 
 and again to do so, he turned his dying eyes, full of un 
 utterable agony, on the face of Eglantine, and kept 
 them so till they became fixed in death. 
 
 And thus the only one in all the world who knew the 
 existence of Eglantine s son left the world, taking the 
 secret with him. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 BURIED AND MARRIED. 
 
 "He is gone!" said the marquis, solemnly. "Come 
 away, my child." And he led Eglantine out of the 
 room, followed by William Douglas. 
 
 He left behind him a wailing group, for the doctor 
 was well beloved by his small household. 
 
 He led his niece to the front parlor, and sat her 
 down on an easy chair. She was pale, faint and almost 
 entirely overcome. 
 
 She was, for one so young, very familiar with death. 
 She had seen her father die, then her mother, and 
 lastly her good old tutor ; but there was something more 
 than sorrow and solemnity in this death; there was 
 horror the horror of a soul passing away burdened 
 with a secret it had labored and agonized to divulge, 
 without success. She dropped back on her chair, al 
 most ready to swoon. Lord Shetland and Mr. Douglas 
 stood over her. There chanced to be a decanter of port 
 wine standing on the table. Mr. Douglas stepped up 
 to it, poured out a glass full, and brought it to her. At 
 his request, she sipped half the contents of the glass, 
 and in a few moments felt its reviving effects. 
 
 "Now," suggested the marquis, u as my niece Eglan- 
 time is the nearest of kin to the deceased, and as I am 
 
72 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 her guardian, acting for her, to make necessary ar 
 rangements for the funeral, you will oblige me, Doug 
 las, by taking Eglantine home. You can afterward or 
 der fresh horses put to the carriage and send it back 
 for me." 
 
 Young Douglas saw through and appreciated the 
 motive of the marquis, and with all his lover heart 
 thanked the old man for his kindness in affording him 
 such an excellent opportunity for a tete-a-tete with his 
 beloved as their long journey would insure. 
 
 Eglantine also seemed even more revived by this 
 prospect than by the wine. She lifted her head, fin 
 ished her glass, and then accep dte,mloJ shrdlu pauo 
 ished the glass, and then accepted the arm William 
 Douglas offered to lead her to the carriage. 
 
 When they were seated and the order was given to 
 drive back to Torsach Castle, and the door was closed 
 and the carriage in motion, William Douglas put his 
 arms around his wife s waist and drew her to his 
 bosom, murmuring: 
 
 "Oh, my dearest! my dearest! this blessed meeting 
 make up for all." 
 
 Too full of emotion for any words, she dropped her 
 head upon his shoulder and wept tears of mingled joy 
 and sorrow, which from time to time he wiped or 
 kissed away. 
 
 At length, when she grew more composed, she lifted 
 her head and repeated the first words she had spoken 
 to him on their first reunion. 
 
 "Oh, Willie! Willie! I have been faithful to you at 
 heart, notwithstanding all." 
 
 "I am sure that you have, my own dearest love," he 
 replied. 
 
 "And you do not reproach me, and you do not sus 
 pect me, even though you found me on the eve of mar 
 riage with Lord Ornoch ! Oh, Willie!" 
 
 "You, like all others, believed me dead. Then you, 
 still a very young and very gentle girl, yielded to the 
 irresistible power of those who still had authority 
 over you. I understand it all, dear love," he softly 
 answered. 
 
THE LOST HEIR 73 
 
 "Oh, Willie ! dearest, there was something more than 
 authority exercised," she sobbed. 
 
 More than authority?" questioned Douglas, frown 
 ing. 
 
 There was held over me the what shall I say? 
 not the threat, but the impending fall of a deep dis 
 honor, and not on me only, but on mine ancient name !" 
 
 " Dishonor ! Eglantine ?" 
 
 "Yes; for you know they said our English marriage 
 was not legal, since it was contracted between minors, 
 without the consent of their parents or guardians." 
 
 "It was legal ! The Marquis of Shetland himself de 
 clared it to be so !" indignantly exclaimed young Doug 
 las. 
 
 "Yes, dearest, when you publicly acknowledged it in 
 Scotland, it was made legal ; but until you did that it 
 was not so," gently observed Eglantine. 
 
 "Ah! and so they told you I was dead and could 
 never acknowledge our marriage. And so they terrified 
 you into consenting to another marriage which, in the 
 peasant s language, w^ould make an honest woman of 
 you. Ugh!" exclaimed Douglas in extreme disgust. 
 
 "Have patience, dear Willie! All things considered, 
 were they not right?" gently suggested Eglantine. 
 
 William Douglas did not answer. He was grinding 
 his teeth, but whether he was grinding the problem, or 
 grinding, in imagination, those who first propounded it 
 to Eglantine was not quite clear. 
 
 "Willie," she whispered at length, "there was some 
 thing else that complicated matters. There was a 
 child." 
 
 "A child!" he echoed, in a sudden and strange com 
 mingling of emotions. 
 
 She hid her face upon his shoulder and wept. 
 
 "Where is the child ?" at length he murmured. 
 
 "Until to-day, I believed him to be in heaven. Now 
 I doubt." 
 
 "For Heaven s sake, dear Eglantine, speak more 
 clearly!" cried Douglas, deeply agitated. 
 
 "Dr. Seton attended me in my confinement, and also 
 took away our child to put it out to nurse. I was ill 
 
74 THE LOST HEIK 
 
 and delirious for many days after its birth. When I 
 came to myself and asked for my child, I was told that 
 it was dead, and that it was best it should be so." 
 
 "The brutes!" 
 
 "Nay, you know you were supposed to have been 
 murdered, and our marriage unacknowledged." 
 
 "Well, dearest what next?" 
 
 "I believed them ! I believed my child to be dead un 
 til to-day. To-day, since I have heard that Dr. Seton 
 on his deathbed, hearing of your return, anxiously de 
 sired to see you and me together, to divulge some 
 secret nearly concerning us both, I believe that my 
 child still lives my poor disowned and forsaken child, 
 that I thought was in heaven!" cried Eglantine, drop 
 ping her head on her husband s shoulder and bursting 
 into tears. 
 
 "There ; I will weep no more, dear Willie. I will go 
 to Aunt Shetland and question her again," said Eglan 
 tine, wiping her eyes. 
 
 And during the rest of their ride, Eglantine gave a 
 more detailed account of all that had happened to her 
 self during the long absence of her husband, and then, 
 in turn, she received from him the history of his own 
 dreary captivity among the Indians of the plains. 
 
 It was quite late in the afternoon when they got 
 back to Trosach Castle. 
 
 When the young people entered the morning-parlor, 
 they found there Lady Margaret Douglas alone. 
 
 She arose smilingly to greet them. 
 
 "Where is my Aunt Shetland, dear Meg?" inquired 
 Eglantine. 
 
 "She returned to her own room, immediately after 
 receiving the adieus of the Ornochs," answered Lady 
 Margaret. 
 
 "Is she not well?" uneasily inquired Eglantine. 
 
 Lady Margaret smiled. 
 
 "She is well, I think in health, at least," she said. 
 
 "But not in temper," added Mr. Douglas, with an an 
 swering smile. 
 
 "Well or ill, I must see her immediately, if possible. 
 Willie, I cannot rest for a moment in the suspense and 
 
THE LOST HEIR 75 
 
 anxiety I have been suffering ever since the doctor 
 failed to communicate his secret to us." 
 
 "Ah, the doctor ! I hope you found him better," put 
 in Lad} 7 Margaret. 
 
 "We left him dead," answered Mr. Douglas, gravely. 
 
 "Ah, poor man! I never knew him, but I have al 
 ways heard him well spoken of." 
 
 "Willie, stay here and improve you acquaintance 
 with our kinswoman, while I go and find my aunt," 
 said Eglantine in a low voice, as she passed out of the 
 room. 
 
 She went upstairs, and then straight to the door of 
 the anteroom leading to Lady Shetland s private apart 
 ments. The door was fastened; but when Eglantine 
 knocked it was opened by Gillis, Lady Shetland s own 
 woman. 
 
 "I wish to see my aunt," said Eglantine, perceiving 
 that the woman held the door ajar, and stood within it 
 as if to bar entrance. 
 
 "I beg your pardon, me leddy, but her leddyship hae 
 forbidden me to admit any one this morning," said 
 the woman respectfully. 
 
 Eglantine slept long that night, and when she 
 reached the breakfast-room next morning she found it 
 quite empty. She seated herself before the solitary 
 cover and then rang for breakfast. It was promptly 
 served and soon dispatched. And then Eglantine went 
 off to the library, as the most likely place at that hour 
 to find her uncle, who was now the most powerful, if 
 not the most disinterested, friend she had in the fam- 
 
 iiy- 
 
 She found him closeted with William Douglas. 
 
 Both gentlemen arose at her entrance, and Mr. Doug 
 las embraced her and led her to a seat at the same 
 table with themselves. 
 
 "Mr. Douglas and myself have come to an under 
 standing, my love," began the marquis. "We see by 
 this morning s paper that his regiment is ordered to 
 India. Now, as the question of your going out with 
 him to risk your life and health in that infernal climate 
 is not for a moment to be entertained, and, as, after 
 
76 THE LOST HEIK 
 
 so long a separation and so brief a reunion, the thought 
 of his leaving you again is not for an instant to be con 
 sidered as possible, I have advised him to sell out his 
 commission, and retire from the army; and for your 
 sake he has consented to do so." 
 
 "Oh, I am so glad, and so grateful ! I had forgotten 
 all about the hateful regiment and his obligation to re 
 port for duty. But now I am so glad! I never even 
 thought of it, until you informed me he is going to sell 
 out," said Eglantine, gleefully. 
 
 "And now for the rest, my very imprudent boy and 
 girl ; though your English marriage, privately per 
 formed in London while you were both still minors, 
 publicly acknowledged in Scotland, now that one of you 
 has attained his majority, may be, and really is, so bind 
 ing on you both, in Scotland, that it could not be 
 broken, yet it ma} 7 not be held so valid in England. 
 You will have large possessions and interests in both 
 kingdoms. Therefore I deem it necessary that the 
 marriage ceremony should be again formally solemn 
 ized between you, according to the ritual of the Church 
 of England. It should be done at once by special 
 license. So, if you please, we will start for London 
 without loss of time I, you, Douglas and any attend 
 ant you may wish to select. Lady Shetland, I grieve 
 to say, cannot leave her guests to go with us." 
 
 Neither of the young people said that they could 
 easily dispense with her ladyship s company, but both 
 perhaps thought so. 
 
 "I may as well tell you, Eglantine," continued the 
 marquis, "that I have talked over the matter with Lady 
 Shetland, and she favors my views so much as even to 
 express some regret that she cannot be your chaperon 
 to London." 
 
 Here Eglantine looked so astonished that the mar 
 quis smiled, and added: 
 
 "Ah, well, I did not mean to give you a riddle to 
 solve, so I will even solve it for you. I proposed to her 
 ladyship another, and even a wealthier bride, for her 
 favorite nephew. Yes, Eglantine, you may open your 
 
THE LOST HEIB 77 
 
 eyes, but there is an heiress now in England of double 
 your wealth. What do you think of that?" 
 
 "I should be very glad if Lord Ornoch should marry 
 any lady who would be likely to make him happy. But 
 who is she, then, uncle, dear?" 
 
 "Miss Chimboza, the daughter of General Chimboza, 
 of the Honorable East India Company s service. The 
 general married a begum of enormous, of fabulous 
 wealth. She brought him several hundred millions of 
 pounds, and several children, but all the latter died ex 
 cept the youngest this girl, Hinda whom he sent to 
 England to be brought up. She was educated at a first- 
 class ladies school at Brighton. The general has re 
 tired from the army, and come with his dark wife to 
 spend the remainder of his life in England. They have 
 taken their daughter from school, and are now all three 
 stopping at the Morley House in London. You are 
 aware that there is scarcely anybody left in London at 
 this season, and so, of course, they see but very little 
 society. But, as the general had been my classmate 
 at college, as soon as I saw his arrival announced, I 
 called to see him. And, of course, there being no one 
 else in London, as I told you, we soon renewed our in 
 timacy." 
 
 k Is Miss Chimboza pretty? Tell me how she the 
 heiress, looks?" said Eglantine. 
 
 "I shall leave that for you to say. And, now," con 
 cluded the marquis, looking at his watch, "I ordered 
 the carriage to be at the door immediately after lunch 
 to take us to Seton, so as to be in time to meet the 
 Stirling coach. We may thus reach Glasgow in time to 
 secure the night express train to London. You have 
 three hours, Eglantine. Can you be ready in that 
 time?" 
 
 "I could be ready in less than half that time," said 
 the young lady, flying off to announce the sudden jour 
 ney to old Elspeth, whom she had resolved to take with 
 her. 
 
78 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 A MEETING AT THE CHURCH. 
 
 Lady Shetland had a brief interview with Eglantine, 
 in which she expressed regret that she could not ac 
 company the young people and witness the marriage 
 ceremony, but hoped that all manner of good luck 
 would follow. .,, ,, 
 
 Eglantine accepted her ladyship s regrets with all 
 sincerity, but she upset the calm of the interview by 
 
 5U "Oh) Aunt Shetland, pray tell me, does that poor 
 child of mine still live?" 
 
 But Lady Shetland was equal to the occasion, and 
 she answered, according to her own belief, that 
 child was indeed dead. 
 
 "Then what could have been the doctor s secret/ 
 inquired Eglantine, meditatively. 
 
 -Who can tell? No secret at all, perhaps. A dying 
 man s dream, most probably. Give yourself no further 
 concern about it, Eglantine." 
 
 "I cannot so easily dismiss the subject from my 
 mind Aunt Shetland, were it possible for a departed 
 Tpirit to return to this world, I think that man s ; spirit 
 would return to tell the secret he tried and failed to 
 tell in life!" said Eglantine, solemnly. 
 "What nonsense you talk, my dear! Come in! 
 The last words were addressed to some one without, 
 who was knocking at the door. 
 Lady Margaret Douglas walked into the room. 
 "You have come to bid me good-by, Meg. I thank 
 you, dear; but I would not have gone without seeing 
 YOU!" said Eglantine, smiling. 
 
 "No I have come to ask leave to go with you. I have 
 just received a letter from my father, calling me to 
 
 -id the marchioness and 
 he says, to see his little 
 
THE LOST HEIR 79 
 
 Maggie. He adds, that I may return here again in a 
 few days to complete my visit. Now, may I go with 
 you?" asked Lady Margaret. 
 
 "May you go with me, dear Meg? Of course, I 
 shall be overjoyed to have you!" answered Eglantine 
 
 and 
 
 "Besides, I promised to be your bridesmaid, vou 
 know. And, as I am in the secret, and, as, no matter 
 how quietly the ceremony may be performed, you inav 
 want one attendant at your marriage, I think I must 
 keep my word," added Lady Margaret, archly. 
 
 "You are a darling, Meg, and I am delighted," re 
 plied Eglantine; "but you are quite prepared?" she in 
 quired, dubiously. 
 
 "Oh, quite! My maid has packed up all I need for 
 the journey, and is waiting outside with my hat and 
 cloak on her arm." 
 
 r i you are rea11 ^ S in to leave us o suddenly, 
 Lady Margaret?" inquired the marchioness, with a 
 show of regret as sincere as it was polite. 
 
 "Only for a few days, dear Lady Shetland. Then I 
 shall be so pleased to come back, if you will permit me " 
 You are a dear, good girl! And we shall look for 
 your return with much pleasure. And now we will go 
 down. The lunch bell rang five minutes since," said 
 the marchioness, leading the way. 
 
 When they left the table the carriage was announced 
 
 Their adieus were soon said. And then the marquis 
 with Lady Margaret Douglas, and Lieutenant Douglas 
 with Eglantine, entered the carriage that was to take 
 them to the village of Seton to meet the stage coach 
 
 Eglantine s nurse, Lady Margaret s maid, the mar 
 quis valet, and Mr. Douglas groom followed in a 
 chaise. 
 
 They reached Stirling in good time to catch the 
 tram for Glasgow, where they took a whole compart 
 ment in a first-class carriage of the night express 
 tram for London. 
 
 It was very early in the morning, and the rising sun 
 
80 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 was just struggling through the fog, when the train 
 slackened speed and ran slowly into the station. 
 
 They went across to the hotel and engaged apart 
 ments The gentlemen each found a comfortable cham 
 ber, and the two young ladies took a double bedded 
 room together. And the whole party separated and 
 retired to rest, and enjoyed several hours of very i 
 freshing sleep. . 
 
 At nine o clock they all met again at breakfast in a 
 private parlor. And, after breakfast, they ordered two 
 cabs and drove to the Morley House, where they en- 
 gaged apartments for several days. 
 
 As it was still too early to see the Chimbozas, the 
 marquis, after seeing the two young ladies comfortably 
 settled in their apartments, took young Douglas and 
 drove off to Doctors Commons to procure a special 
 license for the immediate marriage of the lovers. 
 
 Eglantine and Lady Margaret sat together in then 
 bedroom, watching old Elspeth and young Flora, Lady 
 Margaret s maid, unpack their wardrobe. 
 
 * We have been negligent, dear Meg. We should have 
 gone first to Cavendish Square to inquire for yom 
 father. I am very sorry we did not ; but the error shall 
 be repaired as soon as my uncle returns," said Eglan- 
 
 a will be quite time enough, dear. Had it been 
 possible to see my dear papa earlier, I should myself 
 have suggested that you should set me down at his 
 lodgingsTbut he never rises till afternoon," replied 
 
 changed their travel l ng su i ts 
 
 for morning dresses, and went into their private parlor 
 to await the return of the gentlemen. 
 
 They had to wait much longer than they expected. 
 It was one o clock, post meridian, when the marquis 
 
 ^\S^tti+r said the marquis, as he 
 dropped into a chair. "First to Doctors Commons, 
 where we procured a special license; next to Hanover 
 Square, to call on the rector of St. George s to engage 
 his services for to-morrow at eleven o clock; then to 
 
THE LOST HEIR 81 
 
 Cavendish Square, to see our friend the duke and to re 
 port our arrival, my dear, and also to ask him to be one 
 of our witnesses at the marriage to-morrow." 
 
 "I hope you found dear papa improving, sir?" said 
 Lady Margaret. 
 
 Improving so fast, my dear, that he promised to 
 join us at the church to-morrow, in behalf of his kins 
 man and heir-at-law, Willie here ! Also, he sends by me 
 his permission to you to remain with your young friend. 
 Eglantine, until after the marriage; furthermore, he 
 insists that Mr. Douglas shall be his guest in the in 
 terim. So this young gentleman will only stop to dine 
 with us and then return to Cavendish Square, whence 
 the duke will bring him in his own carriage to the 
 church." 
 
 As the marquis spoke there came a rap at the door, 
 followed, on permission given, by the entrance of the 
 waiter. 
 
 "Send my own servant here," said his lordship. 
 
 In a few moments the marquis man made his ap 
 pearance. 
 
 "Give me a card, dear," said his lordship. And when 
 Eglantine had produced the litle slip of pasteboard 
 from her card-case, he added it to his own, put both 
 into an envelope, and gave them to his servant, say 
 ing: 
 
 "Here, take these to General Chimboza s apart 
 ments." 
 
 The man bowed and went on his errand. 
 
 "I have penciled a line asking the Chimbozas to call 
 on us as soon as may be convenient to them," said the 
 marquis, in explanation. 
 
 He had scarcely ceased to speak when the door was 
 opened and: 
 
 "General Chimboza," announced. 
 
 A fine, tall, broad-shouldered, martial-looking old 
 man he was, w^ith a noble face, once fair, but now deeply 
 bronzed by the Indian sun, and framed in with a full 
 suit of flowing, snow-white hair and beard. He ad 
 vanced, smiling, with both hands outstretched toward 
 the marquis, who arose and went to meet him. 
 
82 THE LOST HEIK 
 
 "I am equally pleased and surprised to see you back 
 so soon," said the general, cordially shaking the hands 
 of the marquis. 
 
 "Thanks. I hope I find you quite well?" 
 
 "Never better in my life." 
 
 "And Mrs. and Miss Chimboza?" 
 
 "Capital, both of them. They are out shopping. I 
 think they will never tire of shopping. If we do not 
 find a settled home soon, we shall have to warehouse 
 their purchases. But I am wondering all this time to 
 see you back," added the general, in a half interroga 
 tive manner. 
 
 "I will tell you the whole of my errand presently. A 
 part of it is to bring you an invitation from Lady Shet 
 land, praying that you and Mrs. and Miss Chimboza 
 will honor us with your company at Trosach Castle for 
 a few weeks. Come! I even hope to take you back 
 with me." 
 
 "Thanks, old friend! That would be a capital pro 
 gramme. And, in fact, I do not know why we have 
 stopped in town so long while looking about for an op 
 portunity of purchasing a country seat, unless it is 
 that, after India, we do not find London so hot as 
 others complain that it is." 
 
 "You will find it cool enough in the Highlands," 
 said the marquis. "But come, let me introduce you 
 to my young friends," he added, taking the general 
 across the room, and presenting him to Lady Linlith- 
 gow, Lady Margaret Douglas and Lieutenant Douglas. 
 
 The general politely expressed his pleasure at form 
 ing their acquaintance, and his regret that his own 
 ladies happened to be out of the house at this mo 
 ment, but his assurance that they would call as soon 
 as they should come in. 
 
 After a little more conversation the general took his 
 friend across to his sunny smoking-room and there the 
 marquis told him why the lovers had been brought to 
 town and the reason for a quiet wedding. 
 
 The general expressed his readiness to assist as a 
 witness at the ceremony and promised to be on hand 
 
THE LOST HEIR 83 
 
 at eight o clock that evening with his wife and daugh 
 ter. 
 
 And then the marquis took leave. 
 
 He returned to the drawing-room of his own party, 
 where he found lunch and the ladies waiting for him. 
 
 After lunch, the marquis and the young lieutenant 
 went out again on business touching the connection 
 of the latter with his regiment. They found that the 
 place of William Douglas had been supplied for many 
 months past by a young gentleman who had been ga 
 zetted as : 
 
 "Mr. Augustus Ibbetson, commissioned lieutenant in 
 the Regiment of Foot, vice Mr. William Doug 
 las, dead. 7 
 
 But as Mr. Douglas had come to life again, there 
 were certain forms to be observed before he could be 
 free to go upon his bridal tour. These were attended 
 to that afternoon ; and then William Douglas returned 
 with an easy mind to spend the evening with his 
 friends. 
 
 They dined en famille. 
 
 After dinner they remained in waiting to receive 
 the Chimbozas. 
 
 At eight o clock punctually, and according to prom 
 ise, the visitors were announced. And the general and 
 Mrs. and Miss Chimboza entered the room. The gen 
 eral we have already described. Mrs. Chimboza was a 
 tall, very stout and very dark woman, with a quantity 
 of blue-black curls heaped up on her forehead, under 
 many folds of a fine white India muslin turban. And, 
 although this was midsummer, her form was covered 
 with a gorgeous camel s hair shawl, worth a small prin 
 cipality. This slid from her shoulders as she seated 
 herself, revealing a richly bejeweled dress, half Eng 
 lish, half Indian in style, and altogether indescrib 
 able. 
 
 Miss Chimboza was singularly beautiful, with a tall 
 and slender form, an elegant and graceful mien, a 
 small, shapely head, covered with silky, jet-black ring 
 lets that hung down far below her girdle; with clear, 
 dark complexion, and delicate and regular features. 
 
84: THE LOST HEIR 
 
 She wore a dress that was well suited to her singular 
 style of beauty an Indian fabric of thin, black tissue, 
 sprigged with slight gold flowers, and a single large 
 blazing ruby on her bosom. 
 
 Our young people were struck with surprise; and 
 not more by the exceeding beauty of the young Anglo- 
 Indian, as by its great peculiarity. They almost ex 
 pected to find something bizarre in her manners as 
 there certainly was in her personal appearance; but 
 Miss Chimboza had been brought up and educated in 
 a fashionable young ladies boarding-school at Brighton 
 and she talked and acted much as other well-bred 
 girls do. 
 
 The evening passed very pleasantly for all parties. 
 
 The litle company separated at a late hour. The 
 Chimbozas went to their own apartments, Mr. Douglas 
 to Cavendish Square, and our own party to their sev 
 eral rooms to prepare by a good night s rest for the 
 great event of the morning. 
 
 Lady Linlithgow and Lady Margaret Douglas, from 
 choice, occupied together the same suite of apartments, 
 consisting of bed-chamber, dressing-room and bath 
 room. 
 
 They arose early in the morning, and had a tray of 
 tea and toast brought to them in their room. After 
 partaking of this refreshment, they put themselves in 
 the hands of their attendants to be dressed for the 
 coming ceremony. 
 
 When they reached the church and drew up before 
 its entrance, they found other carriages there those 
 of the Duke of Cheviot and of General Chimboza. 
 Their occupants had already alighted from them and 
 gone into the church. 
 
 The marquis conducted his fair charges into the 
 vestibule of the church, where they found the Duke of 
 Cheviot, Lieutenant Douglas and Captain Francis 
 Harry, of the Royal Guards, waiting for them. 
 
 The marquis presented the duke to his future niece. 
 His grace saluted Eglantine, and said that he should 
 be happy to welcome her into the Douglas family. He 
 then embraced his daughter, Lady Margaret, and 
 
THE LOST HEIR 85 
 
 finally presented them to both, Captain Francis Harry, 
 who had come to act as best man to the bridegroom. 
 
 Then the bridal procession formed in the following 
 order: Captain Francis Harry and Lady Margaret 
 Douglas, as best man and bridesmaid ; Lieutenant Wil 
 liam Douglas and Lady Linlithgow, bridegroom and 
 bride; the Duke of Cheviot and the Marquis of Shet 
 land. 
 
 The procession passed up the middle aisle and formed 
 in a semi-circle before the altar, where the rector and 
 his clerk were awaiting the bridal party. In a front 
 pew sat the Chimbozas, looking on with interest upon 
 the first English wedding they had been called to wit 
 ness for many years. 
 
 The ceremony commenced and proceeded with due 
 solemnity. 
 
 At its close, when the bridegroom had saluted his 
 bride, the Duke of Cheviot again took her in his arms, 
 kissed her and welcomed her into his family. The 
 Chimbozas came forward with hearty congratulations. 
 And then the whole party proceeded to the vestry to 
 set their signatures to the marriage register. After 
 this, and after a few more congratulations and kindly 
 wishes, they all left the church to re-enter their car 
 riages. 
 
 There was, for some unforeseen reason, some little 
 delay in bringing up Mr. Douglas carriage, so that 
 really all the little company were seated in their re 
 spective equipages before Mr. Douglas 7 carriage could 
 come up. While the bridegroom and the bride stood 
 together waiting for it, Eglantine s ear was caught by 
 the plaintive wail of a young child a wail that went 
 to her heart. 
 
 She turned her eyes in the direction whence the 
 sound came, and she saw, sitting upon the curbstone, a 
 beggar woman, having upon her lap the most pitiable 
 object, the bride thought, she had ever seen in her life 
 a poor litle babe some four or five months old, so pale 
 and thin, and such a mere skeleton, that its little fair 
 head seemed preternaturally large, as it lay over the 
 knee of the woman, and hung back as by its own 
 
I 
 
 86 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 weight. A fair, sweet face it had, with a look of pa 
 tient suffering on it that only holy infancy can wear. 
 
 Eglantine obeyed an irresistible impulse, and left her 
 husband s side to approach the infant. 
 
 The woman who had it in charge, seeing the lady 
 draw near, stretched out an emaciated hand and raised 
 a pair of large, black, fierce, hungry-looking eyes to her 
 face, and whined: 
 
 "A penny, for the love of the Lord, my lady." 
 
 "Yes, yes," said Eglantine, hastily taking out her 
 purse, but never removing her eyes from the baby, 
 whose pure wan face and helpless, hanging head so 
 deeply moved her pity "yes, yes; but, oh! do lift that 
 poor baby s head on your arm and support it. See 
 how painfully it droops!" she added, as she put a few 
 silver coins in the hand of the woman. 
 
 "Come, my dear Eglantine; our carriage is ready at 
 last," said Mr. Douglas, who had followed his bride, 
 and stood unobserved until now, by her side. 
 
 "Yes, yes, in a moment," said the lady, who could not 
 at once tear herself away from the pathetic scene be 
 fore her. And she stooped and put her own delicately- 
 gloved hand under the baby s fair head, and raised it 
 into an easier position on the woman s lap. And as 
 she did so she met the clear, blue eyes of the little one 
 turned full upon hers with that mute, pathetic look 
 that is so touching in suffering infancy. 
 
 Eglantine burst into tears, and emptied her purse in 
 the lap of the baby, saying to the woman: 
 
 "Oh, get it clean clothes and nice food and medicines, 
 and whatever it may need, and " 
 
 "Come, come, Eglantine, my love !" impatiently urged 
 the bridegroom. 
 
 "Yes, in one instant." Then, turning to the woman 
 with a last word, she said: 
 
 "Leave your name and address with the sexton of 
 this church. Say I told you to do so; and I will look 
 you up when I come back! Now, then, Willie, I will 
 go," she added, wiping her eyes and lowering her veil. 
 
 "My dear, impulsive Eglantine!" said Mr. Douglas, 
 
THE LOST HEIR 87 
 
 when they were once more seated together in their car 
 riage, "if you succor to such an extent every beggar 
 and every beggar s babe in London, you will have your 
 hands and heart and life full." 
 
 "I wish to Heaven I could, Willie ! Oh, why are inno 
 cent children called to suffer so much!" she sighed, 
 gazing from the window of her carriage upon the pa 
 thetic face of the babe, that haunted her, and con 
 tinued to haunt her, for many a day. And well it 
 might, for it was the face of her own outcast, dis 
 owned, unknown child! 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE HAUNTING LITTLE FACE. 
 
 On arriving at the Morley House, Mr. Douglas con 
 ducted his bride to the drawing-room of the private 
 suite of apartments appropriated to her own party, 
 and where the few wedding guests were assembled. 
 
 Lady Margaret Douglas met her at the door, and 
 took her away at once to the chamber, to take off her 
 hat and veil for the breakfast that was laid in tlie 
 private dining-room. 
 
 "I declare, you have been weeping!" said Lady Mar 
 garet, as she gazed into the tear-stained countenance of 
 her friend. 
 
 "Well, and why not? Is it not indeed de riguer that 
 a bride should weep?" inquired Eglantine, smiling 
 through her tears. 
 
 "I suppose so; but it is also de riguer that a bride 
 should look never so beautiful as on her bridal day; 
 and red eyes are not beautiful; so just bathe them in 
 rose water, and then come down with me to break 
 fast," said Lady Margaret. 
 
 Eglantine followed her advice, and then went down 
 into the drawing-room, attended by Lady Margaret. 
 
 There again she was received with affectionate con 
 gratulations, and soon the doors of the adjoining room 
 were thrown open, displaying an elegantly appointed 
 breakfast table. 
 
88 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 Mr. Douglas gave his arm to his bride, Captain 
 Frank Harry gave his to the bridesmaid, the Duke of 
 Cheviot escorted the begum, the Marquis of Shetland 
 led Miss Chimboza, and General Chimboza followed 
 with Miss Judson, later governess and now companion 
 to the heiress, and in this order they entered the break 
 fast room and sat down to the table, the Marquis of 
 Shetland presiding at one end, having on his right 
 hand the bride and groom and on his left the brides 
 maid and groomsman; the Duke of Cheviot presiding 
 at the other end, having on his right hand the begum 
 and General Chimboza and on his left Miss Judson. 
 
 The party was small but merry ; a due proportion of 
 cake was eaten and wine drank in honor of the bride 
 and bridegroom; speeches were made and toasts were 
 offered, and so the feast was protracted until the strik 
 ing of the clock warned the newly-married pair that 
 it was time for them to prepare to start, in order to 
 catch the express train. 
 
 They arose from the table. 
 
 Lady Margaret Douglas attended Lady Linlithgow 
 to her chamber, where the later put on her gray trav 
 eling hat, veil and gloves. 
 
 They then went downstairs, where their friends were 
 waiting to take leave of them. 
 
 Their baggage had already gone forward to the sta 
 tion, under the charge of Elspeth and James. And 
 they had nothing to do but to bid good-by to their circle 
 and enter the fly that was engaged to take them to the 
 station. Their desination was Penzance, on the coast 
 of Cornwall, where they proposed to spend the honey 
 moon. 
 
 After the departure of the bride and bridegroom, the 
 Duke of Cheviot arose to take leave, with the intention 
 of taking his daughter, Lady Margaret Douglas, with 
 him. 
 
 "But your grace will remember that our bright Lady 
 Margaret is pledged, with your permission to return 
 with me to Trosach Castle. Lady Shetland will ex 
 pect her," said the marquis, affectionately retaining the 
 hand of his young favorite. 
 
THE LOST HEIR 89 
 
 The duke looked fondly down upon the child of his 
 old age, and hesitated. 
 
 "You do not like to part with her again. And 
 neither would you like to make her break her word. 
 Well, then, there is but one way. Your grace is cer 
 tainly able to travel now. You must, therefore, be 
 pleased to accept our often-urged invitation to spend a 
 few weeks with us at Trosach Castle," said the mar 
 quis. 
 
 The duke looked from the cordial face of his would- 
 be host to the pleading eyes of his daughter, and then 
 answered : 
 
 Well, well; thanks! I think I may inflict myself and 
 my infirmities upon you for a season. Good-morning. 
 You and your friends dine with us to-morrow evening, 
 remember eight o clock. Come, Maggie." And so 
 saying, his grace bowed to the circle and led his 
 daughter from the room. 
 
 One pair of eyes, full of admiration, followed the 
 young lady. They belonged to Captain Francis Harry, 
 of the Royal Guards. 
 
 The Marquis of Shetland noticed this, and good- 
 naturedly determined to add the young guardsman to 
 his summer party in the Highlands. So when the 
 captain, after a little polite delay at the side of Miss 
 Chimboza, made his retiring bow, the marquis said: 
 
 "By the way, Harry, it would give me great pleas 
 ure to see you at Trosach Castle. The game is plenti 
 ful there, and really requires a little trimming. You 
 like field sports?" 
 
 "Who does not?" laughed the young officer. 
 
 "Then come and shoot over my moors. This is the 
 very last of July, you know, and in September the 
 sport is very fine." 
 
 "Thanks, marquis. I should indeed take much pleas 
 ure in accepting your frank invitation, if I could get 
 leave." 
 
 "Is there any doubt about that? Then I will get 
 you leave. My word is still worth something at head 
 quarters," said the marquis. 
 
90 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 The young guardsman thanked him again, bowed 
 and withdrew. 
 
 "There," said the marquis to himself, "I maneu 
 vered that as well as any matchmaking old dowager 
 of them all could have done. Mag is beautiful and 
 high-born, but portionless. He is the heir-at-law of 
 his granduncle, old Elphinstone of Harewood, and 
 will some day come into a cool thirty thousand a 
 year." 
 
 The Marquis of Shetland remained five days longer 
 in London, waiting the convenience of his invited com 
 pany, who were to be his fellow-travelers. 
 
 At length, on the Saturday, the party, consisting of 
 the Duke of Cheviot, with the Lady Margaret Doug 
 las, the general, with Mrs. and Miss Chirnboza and 
 Miss Judson, Captain Frank Harry and their host, 
 the Marquis of Shetland, met by mutual appointment 
 in the first-class waiting room of the railway station. 
 This company of eight persons engaged an entire com 
 partment of a first-class carriage for themselves, and 
 so formed a very sociable and pleasant traveling party 
 for that long northern journey. 
 
 It passed without incident worth recording, unless 
 the devotion of the gallant young guardsman to the 
 beautiful Lady Margaret Douglas, a devotion that was 
 noticed without disapprobation by her friends, might 
 be deemed worthy of mention. 
 
 It was late when they arrived at Trosach Castle. 
 
 The guests staying at the house had all retired to 
 rest. But Lady Shetland, who expected the party, was 
 waiting up to welcome them. Supper was also laid in 
 the small dining-room. And the bedchambers of the 
 travelers were ready for them. 
 
 Lady Shetland received this large accession to her 
 company with her usual courtesy. She shook hands 
 with General Chimboza and Captain Harry, and wel 
 comed them to Trosach Castle. She kissed Lady Mar 
 garet Douglas, and whispered that Lady Margaret was 
 at home, and knew where to find her suite of rooms, 
 which were quite prepared for her ; and then she 
 
,THE LOST HEIR 91 
 
 turned to Mrs. and Miss Chimboza, and herself at 
 tended them to their apartments. 
 
 The travelers reassembled at the supper table, where 
 they did full justice to the luxuries set before them. 
 
 Then, as they were all fatigued from their long 
 journey, with mutual "good-nights" they separated 
 and retired to rest. 
 
 A large party assembled in the breakfast room the 
 next morning. The Chimbozas and Captain Harry 
 were presented to the other guests. The striking 
 beauty of Hinda Chimboza created an instantaneous 
 sensation, as Lady Shetland had predicted that it 
 would. 
 
 The young people of the party were all out on the 
 open ground lying between the castle and the lake, 
 engaged in their favorite morning pastime of archery, 
 when Lord Ornoch s boat was seen crossing the lake in 
 the direction of Trosach Castle. 
 
 As soon as the boat touched the land, the young earl, 
 leaving it to the care of his oarsmen, leaped ashore 
 and walked toward the castle. 
 
 He raised his hat as he joined the archery party. 
 
 Lady Margaret Douglas presented him to her friend, 
 Miss Chimboza, and she noted with secret delight his 
 involuntary gaze of admiration, which was, however, 
 quickly withdrawn. 
 
 Lady Margaret challenged the earl to take a part in 
 their game, and compete with them for the prize. 
 
 He smilingly assented, and took from the hands of 
 an attending groom a bow and a quiver of arrows. 
 
 "We have not one of us hit the bull s-eye yet, you 
 see," said Lady Margaret, pointing to the distant tar 
 get, whose every circle was well specked with arrow 
 marks, but whose center was intact. 
 
 Lord Ornoch selected an arrow, fitted it to his bow, 
 and took his place in the group of competitors to wait 
 his turn. 
 
 "What is to be the prize?" he inquired of his fair 
 friend. 
 
 "A small golden arrow set with diamonds," said 
 Lady Margaret. 
 
92 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 "And what would be the use of such a toy?" he 
 smilingly inquired. 
 
 "Oh, of none at all to a gentleman. But to a lady 
 it might serve as a brooch, a buckle, or even as a hair 
 pin. There! Now, it s your turn, my lord. See if you 
 can hit the center!" she added. 
 
 The young earl raised his bow, took aim, drew the 
 string, and let the arrow fly. 
 
 It quivered in the very center of the circle. 
 
 "He has hit the bull s-eye!" 
 
 "Just in the pupil!" 
 
 "He has won!" 
 
 "The prize is Lord Ornoch s!" exclaimed some half- 
 dozen young voices, all speaking at once. 
 
 Lady Shetland held the prize in her hands. 
 
 The archers by acclamation awarded it to Lord 
 Ornoch, as the successful competitor. 
 
 The marchioness beckoned him to approach, and, 
 with some few appropriate words, put it in his hands. 
 
 He bowed his acknowledgments, and then, looking 
 around and seeing Hinda Chimboza standing apart, 
 he went up to her, and, with a deep bow, begged her to 
 honor him by wearing the jewel his shaft had won. 
 
 And Lady Shetland, who, from her seat, saw the look 
 of admiration with which the offering was made, and 
 the blush of delight with which it was accepted, au 
 gured well for her matrimonial scheme. 
 
 After the archery meeting was over, the whole party 
 returned to the house to lunch. 
 
 During the remainder of that day, and during the 
 few days that followed, Lady Shetland had reason to 
 congratulate herself on the fair prospects of her fa 
 vorite nephew. 
 
 "Ornoch may not be able to forget Eglantine soon, 
 but he is certainly very much pleased with Miss Chim 
 boza and as for the girl herself, she is over head and 
 ears in love with him," her ladyship remarked to Lord 
 Shetland one morning when their young guests had 
 lef them tete-a-tete in the drawing-room. 
 
 "Yes; I agree with you. And Chimboza looks fa 
 vorably on the prospect of a match between his heiress 
 
THE LOST HEIR 93 
 
 and the young earl. He is willing to gild the coronet 
 with his gold, if only the coronet rests upon the 
 of his daughter. But, my lady, there is another match 
 brewing here; have you noticed?" 
 
 "You refer to Captain Harry and Lady Margaret 
 Douglas?" 
 
 "Yes : and a very good match it will be. She has 
 rank, beauty, title, but no money. He has an unblem 
 ished name, an honorable position, and will have 
 wealth. He is the heir-at-law of his uncle, old Elphin- 
 stone of Harewood. and will come into a comfortable 
 thirty thousand a year on the old man s death. And 
 I have no doubt that if Harry marries a duke s daugh 
 ter, Elphinstone will come down very handsomely in 
 the way of settlements." 
 
 "He will have good reason to do so," remarked her 
 ladyship. 
 
 "Now I may take credit for having made that match. 
 I am getting to be quite an old woman at such maneu 
 vering. It is diplomacy in its dotage, I suppose," 
 laughed the ex-ambassador, jesting at his own ex 
 pense. 
 
 Now. leaving the party assembled at Trosach Cas 
 tle the elders to their maneuverings. the youngers to 
 their flirtations and leaving also the newly-married 
 pair of lovers in the full enjoyment of their honeymoon 
 on the wild and beautiful coast of Cornwall, we must 
 go down into the depths of human life to look after 
 Eglantine s outcast child. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 BABY BENNY. 
 
 The beggar, with the baby on her breast, remained 
 seated on the curbstone, gazing after the retreating 
 form of the lady who had relieved her necessities, until 
 she saw her enter the carriage, and saw the carriage 
 drive away. 
 
94 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 Then she gathered up the silver and gold coins that 
 had been scattered so freely upon her lap, and counted 
 them. 
 
 "Two pounds ten in sovereigns and half sovereigns, 
 and seven shillings and threepence in silver. Two 
 pounds, seventeen shillings and threepence! Nearly 
 three pounds! I never had so much money at one 
 time in my life, except when that Scotch doctor gave 
 me ten pounds. Ten pounds! It makes me gasp to 
 think of it now which he said the good Christian folk 
 of his neighborhood had made up for me! I never be 
 lieved him. And I never could guess why he gave me 
 so much money; no, nor where the money came from. 
 But one don t look a gift horse in the mouth. And, 
 moreover, the money never did me any good, for it 
 was stolen from me on board the Shaft. * But this lady 
 why does she give me so much money? Ay, that s 
 easy seen! She s from the country; any one can see 
 that. She s not used to sights of misery, nor hardened 
 by them. Any one could feel that. And she s rolling 
 in wealth. Any one could see that. And she s a bride, 
 as happy as the day is long! Any one can feel that. 
 And so she can t abide the sight of poverty and suffer 
 ing, and so she empties her purse into my lap. She ll 
 not do the like again, I ll bet! She ll get used to the 
 world. But now, while I think of it, I ll go and leave 
 my name and dwelling-place with the sexton, as she 
 bade me; and I ll be given in charge for my pains, 
 maybe, and never hear any more of the open-handed 
 lady," said the woman to herself, as she arose, laid the 
 languid babe over her bosom, so that its head drooped 
 over her shoulder, and so walked into the church. 
 
 The sexton, much surprised, wrote down her name 
 with the utmost good-nature, though he considered it 
 wise to "just mention that rich folk forget easily." 
 
 "Ay, she ll forget," sighed the woman; "but I ha 
 done as she bade me, anyway." 
 
 With which philosophical remark, she hitched her 
 baby higher on her shoulder and departed for her 
 squalid home in Junk lane. 
 The child, wearied with the walk, had fallen asleep 
 
THE LOST HEIR 95 
 
 on her shoulder long before she reached the tenement 
 where she lived. 
 
 She laid it down on the poor bed, and took the light 
 shawl from her shoulder and covered it up. 
 
 Then she sat down in the rickety rocking-chair, and 
 rocking herself slowly to and fro, began to sum up her 
 case of Life versus Magdalene Hurst. 
 
 When but partially recovered from the united effects 
 of her pneumonia and confinement, she had embarked 
 on the steamer Shaft from Killford to London. 
 
 Two misfortunes befell her on that voyage home. 
 
 First, in the changeable April weather, she took a 
 severe cold and had a serious relapse; next she was 
 robbed of the ten pounds conscience money bestowed 
 upon her by the doctor. 
 
 Thus she reached London, ill and penniless, and bur 
 dened with a young child. 
 
 Worse still, she found her aged mother bedridden 
 with rheumatic fever, and obstinately determined not 
 to go into the Union. 
 
 Up to the time of her daughter s return, the old 
 creature had been provided for by "outside" parochial 
 aid, and by the good offices of her fellow-lodgers of 
 the tenement-house. After that, the parish aid was 
 still continued; but, though the need was greater than 
 ever, the poor fellow-lodgers withdrew their help, if 
 not their sympathy. 
 
 Madge had a severe struggle with illness and 
 poverty. 
 
 The broken state of her health precluded the possi 
 bility of her recovering her situation as stewardess of 
 the Shaft, or indeed of obtaining any other employ 
 ment. 
 
 With the very poor, it is but a step from enforced 
 idleness to beggary, and too often but another step 
 from beggary to crime, or to death. 
 
 One by one the poor pieces of furniture or of cloth 
 ing went to the pawnbroker s, to be pledged for the few 
 pence that was to procure dry bread upon which they 
 subsisted from day to day. 
 
 W T henever Madge was able to walk, she crept out 
 
96 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 with the child in her arms, and found her way to some 
 populous thoroughfare, where she sat down upon some 
 curbstone, beseeching a passenger for a penny, when 
 ever she dared to do so, begging silently with every fea 
 ture of her worn face, whenever she could not venture 
 to ask charity in any other way. 
 
 And so from day to day, she picked up enough to 
 keep two wretched souls and bodies together. 
 
 In June some relief came in this manner: the poor 
 old mother grew better and went about again. 
 
 Madge Hurst wished that she and the child and all 
 might die; but as Death does not often come when 
 called for, being generally absent in some other &cene 
 where he is not at all wanted, she and her infant bur 
 den lived on and suffered on, until we found them on 
 the curbstone near the front of St. George s Church, as 
 has been related in a preceding chapter. 
 
 Now Madge sat in the rickety rocking-chair, sum 
 ming up her case and counting up her money nearly 
 three pounds in all. She felt rich; she had never had 
 so much money in her life before, except, as she said, 
 when the doctor donated her ten pounds, which never 
 did her any good, because the note had been stolen on 
 the boat. 
 
 "Now I can get back my things from the pawn 
 brokers," she said; "and now I could put that baby 
 out to nurse and get back my place as stewardess of 
 the steamer, if only it wasn t for this horrid cough. 
 I doubt if Captain Caird would take me with this 
 cough! But, anyways, I can try, and I will try just 
 as the steamer comes in again." 
 
 While she was thus ruminating, there was heard the 
 heavy tramp of a man s step ascending the stairs. 
 
 It was much too common an occurrence in that close 
 ly crowded tenement-house, where the inmates were 
 hourly passing up and down, and daily indulging in 
 some drunken scuffle, to attract any attention from 
 Madge. 
 
 Now, however, the steps ceased at her own door 
 and were followed by a smart rap. 
 
THE LOST HEIR 97 
 
 "Come in," said Madge, expecting to see some one 
 of her rude and rather dangerous neighbors. 
 
 The latch was lifted, and a tall, strong, muscular- 
 looking man, with a bull neck, a large head covered 
 with a shock of red hair, and brutal features, somewhat 
 relieved now by an expression of stupid good nature, 
 entered the room. 
 
 Madge looked up, and recognized Tony Brice, one 
 of the firemen engaged on the steamer Shaft. 
 
 "Well, Madge, old gal, I ve found you at last," he 
 said, seating himself without invitation upon the rick 
 ety table, which, thanks to the support of the wall, 
 did not give way. 
 
 "Why, Tony, I m surprised to see you here!" ex 
 claimed the woman, staring at him, for he had never 
 entered her doors before. 
 
 "And no ways glad to see me, I m bound to say, Mrs. 
 Hurst," put in Tony, twirling his old hat about. 
 
 "Nay, Tony; I never said that. I am glad to see 
 you. I have too few friends in the world not to be 
 glad to see them I have got." 
 
 "Thanky, lass. And I tell you this; you ain t got 
 no better friend than me in this world. Don t you 
 believe me?" 
 
 "I yes, I believe you, Tony," said the woman, hesi 
 tatingly, for she was beginning to shrink from the 
 friendly advances of her visitor. 
 
 He saw that shrinking, perhaps, and, stupid as he 
 was, hastened to relieve her fears by saying: 
 
 "Well, and I wasn t going to intrude my company 
 on you, Mrs. Hurst; leastways if I hadn t a had a 
 message to bring to you." 
 
 "A message to bring me!" exclaimed the woman, in 
 much surprise. 
 
 "Ay, lass, and a very particular one, too." 
 
 "A message! Is it from the captain? Does he want 
 me to come back and be his stewardess again? I can, 
 you know, if he wants me," said Madge, eagerly. 
 
 "Nay, it s not from the captain I bring you a mes 
 sage neither ; not but what I think as he would like to 
 have you back again, if so be you was well enough to 
 
98 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 do the duties, for he hasn t got any one in your place, 
 and seems to be a-keeping on it open for you. No ; my 
 message ain t from the captain, though it may bring 
 you as much good luck as if it was. But it is not from 
 the captain." 
 
 "Then, for the Lord s sake, who is it from? If there 
 is any hope of good luck in it, don t keep it back a 
 minute, but tell me at once," said Madge, impatiently. 
 
 "Well, then, it was from old mother Gaunt." 
 
 "Jean Gaunt, the old woman who nursed me through 
 my sickness at Killford?" 
 
 "Ay, lass, that s her. The last time the boat stopped 
 at Killford, on her voyage back to London, there comes 
 on board an old woman, bent with age and weakness, 
 and she asks if so be the stewardess, Magdalene Hurst, 
 could be seen. I happened to be standing by, and 
 told her that you had never been able to take your 
 place since your bad illness." 
 
 "She nursed me through that. Go on." 
 
 "Yes; so she said. And then she asked did any one 
 know where you lived, and would any one take a mes 
 sage to you. I told her there I was to the fore, quite 
 at her service and yours, to fetch or to carry. And 
 then she says, which these are her werry words: 
 
 " Tell Magdalene Hurst, says she, if so be she s 
 only able to crawl, to leave everything else and take 
 the baby and come aboard the steamer, and come 
 direct to Killford by the next trip ; for I have that to 
 tell her which concerns her interests in this world, and 
 mayhap in the next, too." 
 
 "That is very strange!" said Madge. 
 
 "Ay, it were, lass; and you d a thought it was 
 stranger still, if you d seen that old woman s looks, 
 and heard how she told her message over and over 
 again, six or seven times at least, to beat it into my 
 head." 
 
 "I think I ought to go," said Madge, hesitatingly. 
 
 "I think ye ought, lass ; and as for the money to pay 
 your passage, don t ye let that be a hindrance, so 
 long as Tony Brice has his week s pay untouched," said 
 the fireman, thrusting his hand deep into the recesses 
 
THE LOST HEIR 99 
 
 of his trousers pocket, and drawing forth a leathern 
 purse, from which he poured out a handful of silver 
 and copper coins. "There now, lass, help yourself." 
 
 "Thanky, Tony, all the same, but I have got some 
 money and can pay my own way; not as I think the 
 captain will be charging his old stewardess for one 
 trip in the steerage of his boat. When does she sail 
 again, Tony?" 
 
 "To-morrow morning at eight o clock. And I wish 
 I could come to fetch ye, old gal, but I shall be on 
 the ingine." 
 
 "What need to fetch me, Tony? Don t I know the 
 way to my own old ship?" said the woman, laughing. 
 
 At this moment there came a wail from the waking 
 child on the bed. 
 
 Madge went and took it up, and sat down with it 
 stretched upon her lap. 
 
 The man Brice got down from the table, and drew 
 an old deal box from a corner up to the side of the 
 woman, seated himself upon it, and looked attentively 
 at the child. 
 
 "Madge," he said, at length, "you are as swarthy as 
 any gypsy, with dark skin, black eyes, and black hair. 
 Ben Hurst were, if anything, darker and blacker nor 
 you. Black crows don t have white doves, you know! 
 Now T want to know where this child s lily-white skin 
 and blue eyes and yellow hair comes from?" 
 
 The total want of resemblance between the child and 
 Madge, or her dead husband, had often been noticed 
 by her neighbors, and not to her own credit. 
 
 "Drat the brat!" exclaimed Madge, with shame and 
 rage. "You ll make me hate it! How can I help its 
 looks. It looks as Nature made it look, I reckon. And 
 I won t have you flinging out your slurs on me for 
 it! The Lord knows I m as poor as poverty can make 
 me; I ve been brought down to beg my bread in the 
 streets; but for all that I ve been an honest woman; 
 and if anybody says I haven t I ll kill em!" 
 
 She had thrown the frightened and screaming child 
 upon the bed, and turned round upon the man. Her 
 black eyes were burning and blazing, her nostrils were 
 
100 THE LOST HEIK 
 
 expanded, her teeth clinched, and her lips drawn back 
 and down like a wildcat in the act of springing. 
 
 The great red-headed brute of a fireman shrank 
 away, appalled at the fury he had raised. 
 
 "There, there, there, there, lass! I know as you re 
 an honest oman ; everybody knows it. Don t holler till 
 you re hurt, old gal, and don t mistreat the poor 
 baby," he said, soothingly. 
 
 With a change as sudden as the fall of rain upon the 
 flash of lightning and the clap of thunder, the woman 
 burst into tears, and took up the child and began to 
 soothe it tenderly. 
 
 "You ought to be beaten, you brute, for driving me 
 mad with your slurs, and setting me against the poor 
 child !" 
 
 "I know I ought, and you may beat me, Madge, as 
 soon as is convenient. But now, I must go back to the 
 boat. And you ll be on board on time to-morrow?" 
 
 "I ll be on board by seven o clock," said the woman. 
 
 And Tony Brice went away, leaving Madge Hurst to 
 soothe the child that was sobbing forth its fright and 
 trouble on her stormy bosom. 
 
 CHAPTEK XIII. 
 
 THE HERITAGE OF MISERY. 
 
 Madge Hurst had just replaced the sleeping child on 
 the wretched bed, when the door opened again, and 
 a woman entered a tall, dark woman, clothed in rags 
 and bowed with age or infirmities, and leaning on a 
 stick. She crossed the room, and sank down exhausted 
 on the old hair trunk, and let her tattered shawl fall 
 from her head and shoulders, revealing a tangled mass 
 of iron-gray hair, that hung in elf-locks down her neck 
 on each side of her swarthy and wrinkled visage. 
 
 "Why, mother, where s you cap and kerchief?" in 
 quired the young woman, staring in painful surprise 
 at the bared gray head. 
 
THE LOST HEIR 101 
 
 "Parted with em, parted with em for a sup of 
 rum, out which I should never a tottered home. Eh r 
 Madge, lass," she said, rocking herself to and fro, 
 "no luck to-day! There I ve set the livelong day on 
 the curbstone by the Church of St. Mary le Strand, 
 watching the people go in and out the church. And no 
 one of them dropped a penny into the palm of an old 
 wife like me! And they think if they only go to 
 church, they will go to heaven, the 
 
 And here the poor wretch, embittered by a long life 
 of want and woe, exasperated by this last day of keen 
 hunger and disappointment, broke forth into a torrent 
 of profane and indecent invective, utterly unfit to be 
 heard or read. 
 
 "Hush, hush, mother, for goodness sake!" cried 
 Madge, who, passionate and reckless as she was, felt 
 shocked to hear such imprecations from lips that 
 womanhood should have made decent, and age ven 
 erable. "Do hush, mother; and look here what I have 
 got," she added, displaying her handful of coins. 
 
 "Eh, lass, what a lot!" cried the crone, opening wide 
 her greedy eyes, and staring half in delight, half in 
 doubt, as though she saw the money, yet distrusted 
 her own sight, and while calculating its value, feared 
 that it might vanish like a vision of the night, or turn 
 to dry leaves like fairy gold. 
 
 Madge sat down on the side of the bed, and briefly 
 told her mother of the young, beautiful and happy 
 bride at St. George s Church, who, out of the wealth 
 of her own prosperity of joy, gave so freely to the 
 poor beggar with the baby at the gate. 
 
 "Welladay! I have heard of sich things in my life, 
 but never did I believe in them till now," said the old 
 woman, crossing her hands and lifting up her eyes. 
 "And now, Madge, I think ye might be a leetle liberal, 
 and buy some tea and white sugar, and a sup o milk, 
 and a loaf of white bread, and a rasher o bacon and 
 some eggs, Madge. And don t forget to take our frying- 
 pan out of pawn. And, Madge, lass, remember to 
 fetch some coals and a bundle of kindlings. And, 
 Madge, hinny, whatever yer do, bring a bottle o rum." 
 
102 THE LOST HEIK 
 
 "Yes, I ll bring everything that is needful," said the 
 young woman, as she left the room. 
 
 "Dearie me, it will be a feast," said the dame to her 
 self, as she went to the cupboard and took from it a 
 few cracked cups and saucers and plates, and arranged 
 them on the table. 
 
 Meanwhile Madge went out upon her errand. Thick 
 as a beehive with cells was this old tenement-house 
 with human life. Madge Hurst s room opened upon a 
 wide hall lighted by a sklight, and having four doors, 
 two on the right and two on the left, opening from 
 it into corresponding rooms. 
 
 And each of these rooms was tenanted by a separate 
 family. 
 
 The one on the same side and in front of Madge s 
 apartment was occupied by a seamstress and her bed 
 ridden sister. 
 
 The front room opposite to that contained an old 
 couple and two young granddaughters, ballet girls at 
 the Thespian Temple. 
 
 The room back of theirs and opposite to Madge s 
 accommodated a stage carpenter and his wife and 
 children. 
 
 The head of the staircase was at the back of the hall, 
 and thus it was just between Madge s room and the 
 stage carpenter s room. 
 
 Madge crossed the hall, and rapped at the door of 
 the latter. 
 
 It was opened by a pale and poorly-clad woman, who 
 had one babe in her arms and two clinging to her 
 skirts. 
 
 "Good-e en to you, Mrs. Juniper. Would you kindly 
 lend me the loan of your big basket for half an hour, 
 and drop in after that time to a cup of tea with me 
 and mother?" inquired Madge of the pale woman. 
 
 "Thank ye kindly, Mrs. Hurst, and I ll do so; and 
 yer heartily welcome to the basket. Fetch it, Billy," 
 said the stage carpenter s wife, looking in upon her 
 room and calling one of her children. 
 
 The lower rooms of this old rookery were occupied 
 
THE LOST HEIR 103 
 
 on the right by an old clothes dealer, and on the left 
 by a pawnbroker. 
 
 Madge went down to the ground floor and in through 
 a side door to the pawnbroker s, where she proceeded to 
 redeem a pot, a tea-kettle and a frying-pan, all of which 
 she put into her big basket, while the well-satined 
 Israelite behind the counter looked as if he secretly 
 wondered how long it would be before these articles 
 would be left in pledge again. 
 
 Madge then crossed the lower hall and entered by 
 an opposite side door into the old clothes dealer s shop. 
 Here she seemed to be well acquainted, for she ac 
 costed the woman behind the counter with : 
 
 "Well, Mrs. Kempton, and how is trade?" 
 
 "It is just so poor, Missus Hurst, that I m thinking 
 I ll have to send my Mary out to service," said the 
 old-clothes woman. 
 
 "Ain t Mr. Kempton at work?" 
 
 "Yes, just now; but lor , what s sixteen shilling a 
 week and find yerself, when there s eleven childun, 
 which, with me" and the father, make thirteen in 
 family? 
 
 "But the shop?" 
 
 "Yes, the shop. Much good that do me! I took in 
 just eighteen pence yesterday and sixpence to-day." 
 
 "Well, but the day is not finished yet. I have come 
 to deal with you, for one. I want a decent linsey 
 woolsey gown, and a plain plaid shawl and a cheap 
 straw bonnet for myself, and a nankeen or pique cloak 
 and a little straw cap for the babe," said Madge, 
 confidently. 
 
 "Don t say so! What s up now, Magdalene Hurst? 
 Has that rich uncle come home from Indy, or Aus- 
 traly, or Californy, or any o them countries which 
 grows rich uncles?" laughed the old-clothes woman. 
 
 "Nothing of the sort. I have been sent for to 
 Scotland, where I was ill, you know. And a friend 
 has advanced me the money to pay my expenses. And 
 I must have decent clothes to travel in, you know," 
 answered Madge, who had grown tired of repeating the 
 
104 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 story of the beautiful bride who had been her bene 
 factress. 
 
 "Then here s a black serge. Come, now, a nice dress 
 for a widow woman like you; fit you like a glove, I 
 know; and dirt cheap at six and ninepence." 
 
 "That will do. If it shouldn t fit me, I ll make it do 
 so. Now for the shawl and bonnet," said Madge, as 
 Mrs. Kempton took down the dress and laid it on the 
 counter. 
 
 "Here s a good black woolen shawl as will match the 
 dress beautiful; indeed, it were bought with the 
 dress," said Mrs. Kempton, taking down a folded parcel 
 from a shelf. "Cheap at four and sixpence." 
 
 "Well, now the bonnet." 
 
 "Here it is; a good black leghorn, not much worn, 
 dirt cheap at one and threepence." 
 
 "Hem let s see," said Madge, counting rapidly 
 upon her fingers "four and nine for the dress, and one 
 and trippings for the bonnet, makes eight shillings, 
 and four and six for the shawl, makes twelve shilling 
 sixpence, and seven and six for the cloak and hood 
 makes yes, exactly one pound. Now, I ll tell you 
 what I ll do with you, Mrs. Kempton; I ll give you ten 
 shilling for the whole lot." 
 
 "Whew! I don t think as how you will, Mrs. Hurst," 
 said the old-clothes woman. 
 
 There ensued a great deal of bargaining, which was 
 ended at last by the parties compromising on fifteen 
 shillings as the price of the lot of goods. 
 
 "Drop in and take a cup of tea with mother and me, 
 in bout half an hour," said Madge, magnificently, as 
 she put her purchases in the big basket on the top of 
 her redeemed pans and kettles. 
 
 As the basket was now full, it was necessary to take 
 it upstairs and empty it before she could go out and 
 purchase the materials for her evening feast. 
 
 On reaching the upper floor and the door of her own 
 room, she just slipped the basket inside, saying: 
 
 "Fill the kettle, mother, and put it on, and I ll be 
 back again by the time the water is boiled. 
 
THE LOST HEIR 105 
 
 Then around to old Mrs. Flowers sped Madge, to 
 carry her invitation to her "tea party." 
 
 The next door Madge rapped at was that of the 
 front room opposite the old couple s apartment, and on 
 the same side of the hall with her own. It was tenant 
 ed by the poor young seamstress and her invalid sister. 
 
 To the sweetly spoken "come in," Madge entered a 
 room different in many respects from the other three 
 on that floor. 
 
 It was not almost bare, like her own room, or crowd 
 ed with furniture, like the other two. It was neatly, 
 thought scantily, furnished. And every part of the 
 room, and every article in it, was scrupulously clean. 
 
 On a clean, plain bed, covered with a patchwork 
 quilt, lay a deathly-pale girl. 
 
 At the fire, with a bright tin saucepan in her hand, 
 stood another girl, scarcely less delicate looking than 
 the invalid on the bed. This girl was quite pretty, and 
 might have been called beautiful had it not been for 
 the pallor of her complexion and the thinness of her 
 cheeks. She had soft, bright, brown hair, parted over 
 a full, broad, intellectual-looking forehead, and wound 
 in a rich roll at the back of her head. She had large, 
 soft gray eyes, fringed with thick, black lashes, and 
 arched with fine black brows. She had a small, straight 
 nose, and small, full lips, expressive of much sweet 
 ness of temper. 
 
 "Well, Rachel, and how is Matty this evening?" com 
 menced Madge. 
 
 "Very well, Mrs. Hurst. Will you sit down?" 
 
 "No, thanky. I only came to ask you to drop in this 
 evening. Me and mother are having of a little tea 
 party." 
 
 Rachel Wood lifted her pretty eyebrows in natural 
 surprise, on hearing that the two women who had been 
 starving for the last few weeks were giving a tea party 
 this evening. 
 
 "Will you come?" inquired Madge. 
 
 "No, thank you kindly, Mrs. Hurst. You know I 
 never leave poor Matty except when I m compelled to 
 do so," said Rachel W ; ood, as. she poured the oatmeal 
 
106 THE LOST HEIE 
 
 gruel she had been making from the saucepan into a 
 little white bowl. 
 
 "But it is only for to-night, and only into the next 
 room, and you can slip in here every ten minutes, if 
 you like, to see how Matty is getting on. And besides, 
 I m going to Scotland to-morrow morning, and it is a 
 sort o leave-taking, you know," urged Madge. 
 
 "Ay? Have you got your place on the boat back 
 again?" inquired Rachel. 
 
 "Maybe so," answered Madge, evasively, for she did 
 not wish to enter into explanations. 
 
 "Fm right glad to hear it," said Rachel, as she set 
 the bowl of gruel on a small, red tray, and gave it to 
 her sister. 
 
 "Thanky. But will you come to tea?" 
 
 "No; I would rather not leave, Matty," said Rachel. 
 
 "Oh, do go, Ray," spoke the invalid from the bed; "do 
 go, Ray, and have a good time. Never mind me. I 
 shall do very well. After I have eaten my gruel, I shall 
 turn over and go to sleep. And when you come back 
 again, you can tell me all about it, you know. It will 
 amuse me." 
 
 Still Rachel hesitated; but she yielded at length, so 
 far as to say that she would "drop in" to Mrs. Hurst s 
 room for a few minutes after her poor sister had fallen 
 asleep. 
 
 With this understanding Madge took leave of the 
 sick girl, and left the room. 
 
 And in a very few moments afterward Matty Wood 
 complained of drowsiness, and turned her face to the 
 wall and fell asleep, jor feigned to do so. 
 
 After watching her sister suspiciously for a little 
 while, Rachel arose and brushed her soft brown hair, 
 took off her white apron, smoothed down the folds of 
 her neat brown calico dress, put on a clean collar, and 
 then, after taking another look at her sleeping sister, 
 went in to the "tea party." 
 
 There have been many costly and fashionable enter 
 tainments, at which there was much less of enjoyment 
 than at this very humble little feast in the poor tene 
 ment-house. 
 
THE LOST HEIR 107 
 
 Rachel Wood found all the invited guests assembled. 
 
 Old Mrs. Flowers and old Mrs. Hurst sat together 
 on the side of the bed, each with a cup of tea well- 
 flavored with rum in her hand Mrs. Juniper and Mrs. 
 Kempton sat, the one on the old hair trunk and the 
 other on the rickety chair, each sipping her tea, not 
 flavored with anything more objectionable than doubt 
 ful milk and sugar. 
 
 Madge Hurst stood at the fire with a frying-pan in 
 her hand, frying rashers of bacon, whose aroma filled 
 the air. 
 
 Rachel Wood, who seldom showed herself among 
 her fellow-lodgers, was greeted noisily. 
 
 Each woman, young or old, got up and offered her 
 own seat to the newcomer. 
 
 And Rachel smiled on all, and thanked each, but took 
 none of the proffered seats, until Madge Hurst called 
 out: 
 
 "There s room on the edge of the bed, Rachel. Sit 
 down there by mother till I bring you a cup o tea." 
 
 Rachel did as she was directed, and Madge soon sup 
 plied her with tea, toast and bacon. 
 
 The party kept up merrily until quite a late hour, 
 when it broke up, and each woman went to her own 
 room Rachel Wood to make her wakeful sister laugh 
 at the comic descriptions she gave of the tea party; 
 old Mrs. Flowers to have a basin of porridge ready for 
 her girls when they should come in, and Mrs. Juniper 
 to wait up for her husband to give him his supper. 
 
 Very early next morning Madge was astir. And 
 while old Ruth Drug was sleeping off the effects of her 
 last night s feast, Madge prepared breakfast and ate 
 it, and dressed her child and herself for the journey. 
 
 And still the old woman slept on, and still Madge 
 forbore to wake her. 
 
 But it was now seven o clock, and she had to go, in 
 order to catch the steamer before it should leave the 
 wharf. So she took a look at her mother, kissed her 
 where she lay, and then, with her child in her arms, 
 left the room and closed the door behind her. 
 
 She walked rapidly through a labyrinth of lanes, 
 
108 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 alleys and by streets that lay between her dwelling and 
 the riverside, and then kept along the docks until she 
 came to the place where the Shaft was swiftly getting 
 up her steam. 
 
 "There, I hadn t a minute more to lose," said the 
 young woman, as she went to the side of the steamer 
 and crossed the gangplank leading to its deck. 
 
 Madge was fortunate. While she was standing on 
 the deck waiting for some one whom she had known 
 on the boat to pass by her way, the captain himself 
 came along and saw her, and hailed her good- 
 humoredly. 
 
 "Eh, Madge, woman, is that you? You re unco hard 
 to kill ! Aweel ! and hae ye come back to get your old 
 place on the boat?" 
 
 "If you please, captain, I am going up to that town 
 where I was so long ill, but I would like very much to 
 have my old place as stewardess again. I could leave 
 the child with my mother." 
 
 "Ay, woman, and I mysel should like vera weel to 
 hae such a skillfu hand about the cabin; but this will 
 be my last trip. The old Shaft is going to be laid up 
 for repairs, and myseP for the same purpose, I m think 
 ing." 
 
 "You don t look like laying up, sir, if you ll pardon 
 me the liberty of saying so. You look well, sir," 
 
 "Ay, lass/ for threescore and ten. Aweel, then. 
 There, gang your ways intil your old quarters, and ye 
 shall no be at any costs for your trip," said the captain, 
 heartily, as he passed her on his errand. 
 
 "Thanky, most kindly, sir; and may the Lord 
 
 "There f that will do. Go make yourselves comfort 
 able," said the captain, as he hurried off. 
 
 So privileged, Madge found her way to the little room 
 she had used while stewardess of the boat. And there 
 she sat down on the side of her berth, to nurse her child 
 and put him to sleep. 
 
THE LOST HEIE 109 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 STILL UNREVEALED. 
 
 The two days voyage passed without other incident 
 to Madge Hurst than the spasmodic courtship of her 
 friend Tony Brice. 
 
 On the evening of the second day the steamer dropped 
 anchor in the little bay of Killford. 
 
 Madge, with the child in her arms, left the boat. As 
 soon as she went on shore she turned her steps to the 
 suburbs of the town, where the hut of the old dame, 
 Jean Gaunt, was standing. 
 
 The way was long, and the night grew dark before 
 she came in sight of the hut, to which she was then 
 only guided by the glow of the firelight seen through 
 its little windows. 
 
 She knocked, but, receiving no answer, opened the 
 door and entered the hut. 
 
 All was dark within, except for the dim red glow of 
 the smoldering peat fire, that scarcely served to show 
 the outlines of the wretched bed in the distant corner. 
 
 Madge went to the fireplace, and, feeling around, 
 found the stump of an old iron poker, with which she 
 stirred the smoldering peat into a blaze that lit up the 
 small room. Then, from a pile of the same fuel that 
 lay close by the chimney corner, she threw on a fresh 
 supply to feed the fire. 
 
 At the same moment the child, whom she held in one 
 arm all this while, began to crow and laugh with de 
 light at the sudden blaze. 
 
 The light and the laughter together aroused the old 
 woman, who seemed to have been sleeping soundly on 
 the corner bed. Raising herself upon her elbow, and 
 staring wildly at the woman and child, she inquired, in 
 a very weak and cracked voice : 
 
 "Wha syou?" 
 
 "It is I, Magdalene Hurst, Mrs. Gaunt You said 
 you wanted to see me, and I have come all the way 
 
110 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 from London to see you," said Madge, going to the side 
 of the bed. 
 
 "Ay, ay, lass, I behooved to see ye before I deed." 
 
 "I hope you are not sick, Mrs. Gaunt," said Madge, 
 seating herself on the side of the bed. 
 
 "Fm na sick, or onywise ailing of ony thing waur 
 than auld age, whilk ye ken is often a fatal disorder, 
 Madge woman." 
 
 "You said, Mrs. Gaunt, that you had something to 
 tell me. Do you wish to tell me now, or shall I come 
 some other time?" inquired Madge. 
 
 "Some ither time? How lang do ye think I hae got 
 to live, lass? Na, na, ye maun hear the truth noo. And 
 now, Madge, woman, barken till me. That bonny bairn 
 in your arms is nane o your n." 
 
 "Bosh, dame! Did you bring me all the way from 
 London to tell me such rubbish as this?" demanded 
 Madge Hurst, half angrily. 
 
 "It s nae rubbish. I did na help that bairn intil the 
 warld," insisted Jean Gaunt. 
 
 "Fiddle-de-dee ! Then I reckon you never nursed me 
 in my confinement?" 
 
 "Ou, ay, I did; and I delivered you of a puir wee 
 bairn, that deed the day it was born, the while ye were 
 in a dead sleep, sae ye did na ken onything about the 
 change o the bairns." 
 
 "The change of the babies!" exclaimed Madge, now 
 fairly aroused. 
 
 "Ay, just. I m no wandering, as ye think, lass." 
 
 Surprise, pain, perplexity, all possessed the mind of 
 Madge at once. "What do you mean? This is not my 
 child? This not mine?" she cried, gazing down into 
 the face of the delicate babe, and being struck all at 
 once by its utter dissimilarity to herself, her late hus 
 band and all their dark race. "Not mine! In the 
 name of goodness, then, whose is it?" she gasped, with 
 a pang at her heart. 
 
 "I dinna ken just that preceesely. It will be a leddy, 
 noo, in Stirling or in Callendor, I dinna mind whilk. 
 But she s dead, too." 
 
 "Who is dead?" sharply demanded Madge. 
 
THE LOST HEIR 111 
 
 "The mither of that bairn, whilk will be a luve child, 
 I tak it." 
 
 "Who is she? what is her name? Who is the mother 
 of this child that has been thrown upon me?" cried 
 Madge, with increasing excitement. 
 
 "Ou, dinna mak sic a noise ! I dinna ken, I telled ye ! 
 On, I m vera bad in my chest ! Raise me up !" gasped 
 the dying woman, breathing very hard. 
 
 "Tell me, then," said Madge, as she lifted her -"tell 
 me how you dared to deceive me so." 
 
 "Ay, ay to keep ye fra breaking yer heart for yer 
 deed bairn. Your bairn was deed, and it wanted a 
 
 mither. And sae and sae Ou ! lay me doon. I 
 
 canna fetch my breath," gasped the dying sinner, 
 changing so suddenly that Madge dropped her form in 
 a fright and a hurry, and ran to get the cordial, which 
 she poured into a spoon and put to the patient s lips. 
 
 But the rattle in her throat prevented her from swal 
 lowing, and her eyes were fixed. 
 
 Overcome by the awful presence of death, Madge 
 dropped on her knees, and, with the long forgotten in 
 stinct of reverence, repeated aloud the only prayer she 
 knew. 
 
 Madge stayed in the village for a few days, in order 
 to ascertain whether the mystery surrounding the un 
 known child might be cleared up. 
 
 But all that she learned was, firstly, that the babe 
 was not hers ; second, that it was the child of a lady of 
 Stirling or of Callendor, who had died in giving it 
 birth ; and all that she had in the way of a clew was a 
 little white flannel sack that she had found in the dead 
 woman s trunk a sack lined with white silk and em 
 broidered with white floss, and a tiny white sock of 
 Shetland wool, with a white silk cord and tassel. 
 
 With this much in the way of information and clew, 
 she left old Jean Gaunt to be buried by the parish, and 
 she went on board the Shaft to return to London. 
 
 While they were steaming out to sea, Madge sat on 
 the deck, with the child on her lap. 
 
 She was very miserable. She was naturally grieved 
 and angry at the cruel deception and heavy burden that 
 
112 THE LOST HEIK 
 
 had been put upon her. She had loved and nursed thi? 
 poor child for more than six months; now she some 
 times felt as if she hated it. She was at cross-purposes 
 with herself; often, in a paroxysm of indignation, she 
 felt impelled to pitch the poor child overboard, even if 
 she had followed him the next moment; and often 
 again, in a great passion of pity, she would clasp the 
 forlorn child to her bosom and cover him with caresses. 
 
 Poor storm-beaten soul ! She had neither a particle 
 of self-knowledge nor of self-control. 
 
 While she sat on the deck, with all this commotion 
 within her seeming quiet bosom, Tony Brice found a 
 brief opportunity to come and speak to her. 
 
 "Well, lass!" he said, looking at her wistfully, "what 
 was the secret the dame had to tell you? Is it any 
 thing you can tell again ? My eyes ! now I can see you 
 good, I m blowed if you don t look as black and glum as 
 if you had had a murder confessed to you. Was it a 
 murder, lass?" 
 
 "It might just as well have been a murder," said 
 Madge, savagely. 
 
 And then shetold him of the strange communication 
 made to her by old Jean Gaunt. 
 
 "Never mind, old gall, you take care of the little lad, 
 and I ll help you to do it," said Tony Brice, as he left 
 the side of the woman and went about his business. 
 
 In due time the steamer reached London. 
 
 It was late in the evening when she ran in alongside 
 of her wharf. 
 
 Tony Brice, in hurrying past Madge, expressed a re 
 gret that his duties would not allow him to see her 
 safe home and carry the baby for her ; but he promised 
 to come to her as soon as he should be able to get off. 
 
 Madge only laughed at him, and shouldered the baby 
 on one side and the bundle on the other, and set off for 
 Junk lane. 
 
 , Madge found the old rookery very much as she had 
 left it the doorsteps occupied by the same group of 
 ragged and dirty children, the passage and stairs filthy 
 thoroughfares for men, women, boys and girls, them 
 selves almost as filthy. 
 
THE LOST HEIR 
 
 Old Ruth Drug sat in her room, smoking and grum 
 bling over a handful of coals in the grate, where she 
 was boiling a saucepan full of water. 
 
 Well, my gall, and so you re home at last! And 
 now tell me what that ere secret as the old Scotch 
 oman had to tell you," she growled. 
 
 "Let me take off my bonnet and rest first, mother," 
 said Madge, as she sat down on the side of the bed. 
 
 After a few moments she told her mother the oft- 
 repeated story first told her by old Jean Gaunt. 
 
 Ruth Drug listened in silence, and puffed away at 
 her pipe until the story was all told and the pipe was 
 smoked out. Then, singularly enough, she gave the 
 same advice that had been given by Tony Brice. 
 
 "Take care on him, Madge. That babby would a been 
 worth stealing if he hadn t been put upon you. Yes r 
 he d a been worth stealing; he s sich a first-rate babby 
 to beg with. So he s wallable on that account, Madge, 
 let alone some o these days his fine friends coming to 
 claim him, and to pay you handsome for taking care 
 on him." 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 DUKE OP CHEVIOT. 
 
 The "happy pair," a really very "happy pair," were 
 enjoying themselves so much that, at the end of the 
 fourth week of their stay at Penzance, neither Eglan 
 tine nor her husband felt any desire to leave, and so 
 they determined to duplicate their honeymoon by stay 
 ing four weeks longer. 
 
 They had just returned from a trip to Land s End, 
 and Eglantine had run upstairs to lay off her hat and 
 wrappings, and William Douglas was about to follow 
 her, when their landlady, who had opened the door to 
 admit them, made him a sign to remain behind. 
 
 "Well, what is it, Mrs. Ashe?" inquired Mr. Douglas. 
 
 The landlady waited till she heard Eglantine enter 
 
114 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 the room above and close the door, and then she came 
 near and whispered : 
 
 "A telegram, sir. I thought, as it might, perhaps, 
 bring bad news, you would prefer to open it alone, not 
 to alarm the lady." 
 
 "Certainly; thanks for your precaution, Mrs. Ashe," 
 replied Mr. Douglas, as he took the telegram, and, with 
 some trepidation, opened and read: 
 
 TROSACK CASTLE, September 9. 
 The Duke of Cheviot died suddenly this morning. 
 
 SHETLAND. 
 
 It was very unpleasant to have their happy honey 
 moon broken up by a death and a funeral, even though 
 it had been the death and funeral of a mere acquaint 
 ance. And they both loved the aged Duke of Cheviot, 
 whom, they said, often reminded them of some grand 
 old Douglas of history. 
 
 So William Douglas broke the news to his wife as 
 gently as if he had been telling her of the death of a 
 parent. And Eglantine sat down and wept. 
 
 "We have been so happy, so perfectly happy, for the 
 last six weeks, and now comes this to make us sorrow 
 ful, 7 she said. 
 
 "No one can be happy for any length of time in this 
 world, you know, darling. And there are a great many 
 things a great deal worse than the death of |he aged," 
 said William Douglas. 
 
 "And now, of course, we must go back directly." 
 
 "Yes, of course, dear." 
 
 Eglantine rang for old Elspeth, whom she still re 
 tained as her attendant, in preference to any younger 
 and more pretentious lady s maid. 
 
 And they were all soon in all the bustle of prepara 
 tion. 
 
 They left Penzance that same evening. 
 
 At the end of the second day s journey they reached 
 Trosach Castle. 
 
 "I hope the family are all well in this trying time, 
 Burnside," said Mr. Douglas to the solemn hall porter 
 who admitted them. 
 
THE LOST HEIR 115 
 
 "Yes, your grace," answered the man, with a bow. 
 
 William Douglas started slightly and looked at the 
 speaker, and then recollected himself. 
 
 To be sure. Six weeks since he had left Trosach 
 Castle as plain Mr. William Douglas. Now, by the 
 death of his greatuncle, he returned to Trosach Castle 
 as the Duke of Cheviot, Earl of Wellrose, viscount this, 
 that and the other, and baron something else. There 
 were at least half a dozen other titles attached to the 
 dukedom of Cheviot. 
 
 "Will your grace take some refreshment?" inquired 
 the butler, who came out of the dining-room. 
 
 "When will dinner be ready?" inquired the new duke. 
 
 "At eight, your grace," said the butler. 
 
 "Then we will take nothing till dinner; eh, Eglan 
 tine?" 
 
 "Nothing," assented the new duchess. 
 
 The groom of the chambers now advanced, and in 
 quired if he might have the honor of showing their 
 graces to their rooms. 
 
 The duke, as we must henceforth call him, drew 
 Eglantine s arm within his own, and followed their 
 conductor upstairs. 
 
 They were shown into the very same suite of apart 
 ments once occupied by Eglantine, and in which she 
 had suffered such anguish of mind. The place had been 
 "swept and garnished" for their reception now, and an 
 adjoining chamber fitted up as a dressing-room for the 
 young duke, into which he passed. 
 
 Old Elspeth soon entered, with her lady s dressing- 
 bag in her hands. 
 
 And Eglantine, after washing the dust from her 
 face and hands, and submitting her hair to old Elspeth s 
 hands to be combed and arranged, found a suitable 
 dress in her wardrobe that had been left behind here, 
 and proceeded to make her toilet for dinner. 
 
 She had not quite finished it when there came a 
 knock at the door, followed by the entrance of Gillispie, 
 Lady Shetland s maid. 
 
 "Well, my good Gillispie, how do you do? and 
 
 What do you want?" asked Eglantine, good-humoredly. 
 
116 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 "Please, your grace, my lady directed me to ask if 
 you would be so good as to look in at her ladyship s 
 boudoir before going down," said the woman. 
 
 "Tell my aunt I will be with her in a moment," said 
 Eglantine, rising from her dressing chair, and taking a 
 last survey of herself in the mirror before leaving the 
 room. 
 
 She passed out of her room and across the hall to the 
 opposite wing of the house, in which her aunt s apart 
 ments were situated. 
 
 Lady Shetland was sitting alone. She was also very 
 plainly dressed, in a brown moire antique, with a little 
 lace collar, fastened with a pearl brooch at her neck, 
 and a little pair of lace cuffs at her wrists. She arose 
 and kissed Eglantine, and said: 
 
 "I am very glad to see you, my love. You will forgive 
 my not coming to you, but in truth I have not been 
 well for some days, and this sad event was very sudden 
 and shocking." 
 
 "Very," echoed Eglantine, with a shudder, as she sat 
 down on a cushion at her aunt s feet. 
 
 "He went to bed Monday night as well as ever I saw 
 him. He rang the bell for his valet at eight on Tues 
 day morning. It was some two hours earlier than the 
 duke s usual time of rising, and his servant, not expect 
 ing such a summons, was in bed, as it seems. He arose 
 and dressed himself quickly, however, fearing that 
 something might be wrong. And he hastened to hia 
 master s room, to find him quite dead." 
 
 "How dreadful" muttered Eglantine, covering her 
 eyes. 
 
 "Very dreadful! He must have died immediately 
 after ringing his bell, for the man Kichardson declares 
 that the bell was rung at eight, and that he himself was 
 at the duke s bedside ten minutes after. He gave the 
 alarm immediately, and some time before nine o clock 
 the marquis, myself and Lady Margaret, with Dr. Me 
 Gill and others, were assembled around his bed. He 
 was quite dead. McGill said that he must have been 
 dead full three-quarters of an hour." 
 
THE LOST HEIK 117 
 
 "And dear Lady Margaret? How does she bear it?" 
 inquired Eglantine. 
 
 "I can scarcely tell you? There were no demon 
 strations from her. She stood by the bedside and 
 gazed upon the body with a look of unutterable grief, or 
 turned her eyes in an agony of anxiety from one face 
 to another, as if searching for some ground of hope 
 from their expression. But when she heard the doc 
 tor s final sentence, Dead, quite dead/ she fainted, and 
 was borne in a state of unconsciousness to her own 
 room. She has not left it since." 
 
 "Ah, poor child ! I must go in and see her. She 
 will let me in, don t you think?" 
 
 "I do not know. She receives me, of course, when I 
 go to see her ; but I think she only does so in courtesy. 
 I do not think she likes my visits. Though I am 
 bound in duty to make them sometimes, I restrict my 
 self to one short call each morning." 
 
 "I will send Elspeth to ask if I may go and see her 
 this evening." 
 
 "Yes, I wish you would. Perhaps you may be able 
 to rouse her from her deep depression, though it is 
 scarcely probable that she will rally her spirits until 
 after the funeral." 
 
 "When is the funeral to be?" 
 
 "On Tuesday. He lays in the long drawing-room. 
 He looks very well, like some noble effigy. Would you 
 like to see him, Eglantine?" 
 
 "Yes, aunt, if you please," answered the young 
 duchess; then, suddenly recollecting herself, she ex 
 claimed : 
 
 "Oh, no ! I would rather not, please ! The last time 
 1 saw him he was alive, and he looked so finely then 
 that I would rather not have his living image replaced 
 by his dead one." 
 
 And then, as if to change the conversation from a 
 subject too gloomy for her spirits, she inquired : 
 
 "Who are staying in the house, dear aunt?" 
 
 "No one but the home circle and Lady Margaret, my 
 love. The Chimbozas went two weeks ago. The duke 
 
118 THE LOST HEIE 
 
 and Lady Margaret stayed on, at our repeated invita 
 tion. The air here seemed to do him so much good." 
 
 "Yes; so Margaret wrote me. Strange that he 
 should have died after all !" 
 
 "Yes ; it is often so with the aged, however. It was 
 a stroke of apoplexy, my love." 
 
 "Yes, aunt, I supposed so." 
 
 "Well, dear, as I said, the duke and Margaret stayed 
 on at our invitation. And Captain Harry lingered, I 
 fancy, because he could not tear himself away from 
 Margaret." 
 
 "Ah, that suit prospers, then?" 
 
 "I think so." 
 
 "Where is Captain Harry now?" 
 
 "At the Seton Arms. He lingered there Ifntil the 
 sudden death of the duke and the self-seclusions of 
 Margaret, and then he went away, leaving a letter of 
 adieu to us all. He is staying at the Seton Arms for 
 the funeral, of course. There is the dinner-bell, my 
 love. Come." 
 
 The two ladies arose and left the room together. In 
 the hall they met the young duke, who was gravely 
 welcomed by Lady Shetland. In the second drawing- 
 room below they were joined by the marquis, who cor 
 dially greeted his niece and nephew, and offered his 
 arm to the former, leaving Lady Shetland to be taken 
 in by the latter. 
 
 A rather gloomy dinner this was to those who re 
 membered what lay in the long drawing-room across 
 the hall. 
 
 The marquis did his best to enliven the scene. 
 
 "We have, after all, something fairer than funerals 
 to tell you of, my dear Eglantine," he began. "There 
 are two prospective weddings, which, however, must of 
 course, be delayed for a while, under the present cir 
 cumstances. But time and the hour wear away the 
 weariest day/ 
 
 "Two weddings, did you say?" inquired Eglantine, 
 at once interested. 
 
 "Two prospective weddings, my love. And as none 
 of the parties are present, I think we may speak to the 
 
THE LOST HEIE 119 
 
 point. Lady Margaret Douglas and Captain Francis 
 Harry are engaged. Almost the last act of the duke s 
 life was to sanction the engagement." 
 
 "Oh, I m so glad!" said Eglantine. 
 
 "And you will be even better pleased to hear that Or- 
 noch and Miss Chimboza are progressing favorably 
 in the same direction. And if they are not now posi 
 tively engaged, they must be very nearly so. He fol 
 lowed her to Torquay, where the family have gone for 
 a few weeks, having found the Highlands in September 
 too bracing for their Indian constitutions. Humph ! I 
 suppose it is all settled by this time." 
 
 "Ah ! I hope it is !" fervently exclaimed Eglantine. 
 
 "Hardly so soon, I should judge," coldly suggested 
 Lady Shetland. 
 
 The party of four did not linger long over the dinner- 
 table. Lady Sheland and Eglantine withdrew, leaving 
 the two gentlemen over their wine, and went to the lit 
 tle drawing-room, where Eglantine said: 
 
 "Aunt, if you will please excuse me, I will go up 
 stairs now, and se if I can get admission to poor Mar 
 garet." 
 
 "Certainly, my dear; go, and give my best love to 
 the poor girl." 
 
 So permitted, Eglantine went upstairs to her own 
 room, where Elspeth was engaged in unpacking her 
 boxes, which had just arrived. 
 
 "Elspeth, dear, I want you to go to Lady Margaret 
 Douglas room, and give her my love, and ask her if 
 I may come and see her." 
 
 Elspeth let down the lid of the trunk she was un 
 packing, and got up and went away upon her errand. 
 
 Eglantine, feeling very tired, threw herself into a 
 resting-cair to await the return of her messenger. 
 
 Presently Elspeth came back, and said: 
 
 "If you please, me leddy I mean, yer grace, but I 
 canna just mind a the time Leddy Margaret sends 
 her love, and will be unco glad to see you, and 
 
 Eglantine waited not an instant to hear one word 
 more, but sprang up and hurried out of the room and 
 down the whole length of the hall to the door of Lady 
 

 120 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 Margaret s boudoir. She rapped softly, and was told 
 by Margaret to come in. 
 
 She entered, and found her friend alone and lying 
 one a lounge, pale, tearful, wasted with grief. 
 
 Eglantine went and knelt down beside her and kissed 
 her, almost ready to weep for company. 
 
 "Oh, my poor darling," she murmured, softly; "why 
 do you grieve so bitterly? Why, your poor, sweet face 
 is as white as your gown! Don t grieve so, love!" 
 
 "Oh, Eglantine!" cried the bereaved daughter, with 
 a great burst of tears and sobs. "We two lived alone 
 together so many, many years. We two were all the 
 world to one another all that time. Poor Wellrose 
 lived at his club mostly, and we two were always alone 
 together. And now he is gone, and I am left! And 
 though Heaven has sent new friends and better days, I 
 cannot reconcile myself to his loss! Oh, Eglantine! 
 after we had suffered so many hardships and priva 
 tions together, I did so much want him to live many 
 years, to enjoy with me these better and happier days !" 
 
 "My darling Margaret, I know how sad it is for you 
 to lose the sight of his kind old face; but as for him, 
 dear, Margaret, don t your faith teach you that even 
 now he is enjoying better and happier days in Heaven 
 than the best and happiest this earth could give him?" 
 
 "I know, I know ; but I must weep, all the same !" 
 
 Then Eglantine, finding that she could in no way 
 comfort her friend, fairly broke down and wept for 
 sympathy. And they mingled their tears together un 
 til there came a rap at the door, followed by the en 
 trance of a housemaid, bearing a tray with tea and 
 toast for Lady Margaret, and bringing a message from 
 Lady Shetland to the young duchess, to the effect that 
 her ladyship waited for her grace in the drawing-room. 
 
 Eglantine, with her own loving hands, helped to ar 
 range Margaret s repast upon a little stand beside her 
 lounge, and after that still lingered until she saw her 
 sipping some tea, before she obeyed the summons of 
 Lady Shetland and went below. 
 
 Soon after tea, Eglantine, feeling very tired from her 
 
THE LOST HEIR 121 
 
 long journey, excused herself and retired to her cham 
 ber. 
 
 The next day, and every intervening day until that 
 of the funeral, Eglantine spent several hours with 
 Lady Margaret Douglas. And though she caused her 
 to weep, she felt that she did her good. 
 
 On Tuesday, the eighth day since the Duke of Chev 
 iot s death, his funeral obsequies were performed. 
 
 It was a magnificent and solemn pageant. All the 
 nobility and gentry of the country side attended in 
 person or sent their carriages, though these latter were 
 of little use, because the body of the duke was to be 
 laid for the present in the vault of the ancient chapel of 
 Trosach Castle. Later on, it was destined to be re 
 moved to the old family vault at Cheviot Castle. 
 
 But Cheviot Castle was just now in the hands of 
 strangers, who, though their right of occupancy ex 
 pired with the death of the Duke of Cheviot, who had 
 signed away his life interest in the same, could not in 
 common courtesy be required to vacate the premises 
 at a moment s warning. Thus the corpse of the Duke 
 of Cheviot became a temporary tenant of the vault un 
 der Trosach Chapel. 
 
 After the funeral, the young Duke and Duchess of 
 Cheviot took their orphaned relative, the youthful 
 Lady Margaret Douglas, to their hearts and homes. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 THE INFANT EARL. 
 
 The weeks passed on. Early in June the Queen 
 held a drawing-room. And the young Duchess of Chev 
 iot was presented, on her marriage, by the Marchioness 
 of Shetland. The youth, beauty and grace of this new 
 debutante into court circles made the sensation of the 
 day. Her presentation was a perfect success. After 
 this triumph, she might have become the reigning belle 
 and the queen of fashion for the short remainder of the 
 
122 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 season, but for one circumstance. It became neces 
 sary that the young Duke and Duchess of Cheviot 
 should leave London for Cheviot Castle, Invernesshire, 
 in anticipation of an important family event. 
 
 An heir was expected, and it was deemed fit and 
 proper that the little stranger should first see the light 
 in the old ancestral halls of its race. So to Cheviot 
 Castle, in the warm month of July, they went. 
 
 On the west coast of Invernesshire, there is a small 
 bay making up from the Atlantic. It runs about a mile 
 inland, and is surrounded by high mountainous cliffs. 
 Within the embrace of this bay, and almost as large 
 as the bay, stands a high, rocky island, surrounded on 
 three sides by a deep, narrow arm of the sea, and 
 bounded on the fourth by the open sea itself. On this 
 isolated island stands the ancient feudal hold or fort 
 ress known as Cheviot Castle; memorable for its great 
 antiquity, its immense strength, and its historical fame 
 and family associations. It was not a pleasant place 
 to live in. All the fine London flunkies carried thither 
 in the train of the duke and duchess, voted it "an or- 
 rid hold ole," and existence there "a hawful bore." 
 Only old Elspeth thought it was "an unco grand auld 
 place." 
 
 Whoever was right, at all events there, on the thir 
 tieth day of October, to the young duke and duchess 
 of Cheviot was born a son, who, in the next year s issue 
 of Burke s Peerage, was duly recorded as: 
 
 William-Alexander-Cromarte-Seton-Douglas, Earl of 
 Wellrose. 
 
 They continued to reside at Cheviot Castle until the 
 first of December, when they went south, and took pos 
 session of their handsome seaside residence on Bruns 
 wick Terrace, Brighton, which, except Torquay, is the 
 brightest, mildest and pleasantest winter quarters in 
 all England. 
 
 In February they went up to London and opened 
 their magnificent town house in Piccadilly. 
 
 There Lady Margaret Douglas, who had been spend 
 ing several months on the Continent with the March 
 ioness of Shetland as her guest, came home to them. 
 
THE LOST HEIR 123 
 
 Early as it now was in the London season, all their 
 friends were already in town. The Marquis and Mar 
 chioness of Shetland were at the house in Park Lane. 
 
 The Earl and Countess Dowager of Ornoch were at 
 Westbourne Terrace. 
 
 The Chimbozas were in South Audley street. 
 
 And Captain Francis Harry was on duty at St. 
 James . 
 
 And on the fourteenth of this month there was an 
 other pageant at St. George s Church, Hanover Square, 
 upon which occasion the rights of holy baptism were 
 administered to the infant Earl of Wellrose, when a 
 bishop, assisted by two priests, officiated ; and two royal 
 dukes stood as godfathers, and a princess of the blood 
 as godmother. 
 
 As the christening party came out of the church to 
 enter their carriages, they were stared at by the usual 
 crowd of wretched idlers, who, amid all their own 
 squalor and misery, seemed to delight in a spectacle of 
 pomp and splendor, as in some free theatrical exhibi 
 tion. 
 
 Among this crowd stood one who took no pleasure 
 in this scene a tall, dark woman, haggard in features 
 and tattered in dress. She was staring, with gleaming 
 eyes and gathering brows, upon the pageantry before 
 her. 
 
 She held by the hand a fair, wan child of about two 
 years of age. His delicate, thinly-clad form was shiv 
 ering with cold and famine, and his fine, light hair was 
 blown about by the wind, but his clear blue eyes were 
 beaming in sympathy with the gay and happy party 
 he saw before him. Though from his tender age and 
 physical weakness he was scarcely able to keep his feet, 
 he danced with delight and clapped his little hands and 
 shouted. 
 
 And when the beautiful young mother came out of 
 the church, veiled and holding her head down to pro 
 tect her face from the high winds, leaning on the arm 
 of her handsome husband, and followed by the nurse, 
 bearing the child, the poor little outcast shouted again 
 
124 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 with delight, and pulled the woman s skirts, and cried, 
 joyfully : 
 
 "Oh, mammy; ook! ook! hee! hee! booful lady; boo- 
 ful baby!" 
 
 "Be quiet, Benny !" scowled and growled the woman. 
 "I hate em ! I hate em all ! They are devils ! proud, 
 scornful, cruel, heartless devils! One such as them 
 had a child she didn t want to own, and she heaved it 
 to the dogs to perish. I don t know who she was, but 
 the child she heaved to the dogs was you, Benny, and 
 the dog that picked you up was me. I wish I could 
 find her! I wish I could kill her! I wish I could kill 
 ? em all, and send em to burning " 
 
 "Come! you re drunk! Move on there!" said a po 
 liceman, interrupting Madge s growling monologue, 
 by taking her by the shoulder and turning her about. 
 
 And so Madge Hurst, for the woman was no other, 
 "moved on" with the child in her hand, never guessing 
 that she had ever met that elegantly-dressed, veiled 
 lady before. 
 
 And the beautiful young Duchess of Cheviot entered 
 her carriage without ever suspecting that she had 
 passed so near the woman and child for whom she had 
 looked and inquired so long and so vainly. 
 
 And the elder brother, the innocent little outcast, 
 was dragged off by a desperate and drunken woman 
 to his squalid garret in the London rookery, to suffer 
 and pine in want and sin. 
 
 And the younger brother, the infant earl, was borne 
 away by his happy mother to his palace home, to live 
 and smile in the lap of luxury and the sunlight of love. 
 
 On the seventh of May there was a splendid pageant 
 at St. Peter s Church, Eaton Square ; a double wedding 
 in high life, in which Alexander, Earl of Ornoch, was 
 united in marriage to Hinda, only daughter and heir 
 ess of General Chimboza, late of the Honorable East 
 India Company s Service, and Captain Francis Harry, 
 of the Royal Guards, to the Lady Margaret Douglas, 
 sole surviving daughter of the late Duke of Cheviot. 
 
 The church was crowded with the friends of the two 
 
THE LOST HEIR 125 
 
 young bridal pairs. And the space in front of the 
 church was crowded with carriages. 
 
 At the close of the ceremonies the whole party ad 
 journed to the house of General and Mrs. Chimboza, 
 where a sumptuous and elegant wedding-breakfast 
 awaited them. 
 
 Here speeches were made and toasts were drank, and 
 the festivity kept up for nearly three hours, at the end 
 of which the brides changed their bridal dresses for 
 traveling suits, and started with their bridegrooms for 
 their wedding tours. 
 
 The young Earl and Countess of Ornoch went to the 
 Continent. 
 
 Captain and Lady Margaret Harry went no further 
 off than the Westmoreland Lakes. 
 
 There was fine weather in London now, in this 
 "merry month of May." And the young Duchess of 
 Cheviot drove out daily with her boy and his nurse. 
 
 Though a fine, healthy child in body, he was very 
 delicate and sensitive in mind. He could scarcely en 
 dure to see pain, yet his mother taught him to look upon 
 it, to pity it and to relieve it. And whenever, in the 
 course of their daily drives, the boy would shrink and 
 hide his head from the sight of some tattered, fam 
 ished, diseased beggar, his mother would gently turn 
 him around, and direct his attention to the object of 
 misery, and murmur, in tones of tenderest compas 
 sion: 
 
 "Look, Willie poor man! poor, poor man. Willie! 
 Give him something, Willie!" And then she would 
 slip a coin into the boy s hand, and make him the me 
 dium of her charities. 
 
 And so the boy grew in grace and favor, and in all 
 gentle humanities and Christian affections. 
 
 And meanwhile his little elder brother was not only 
 shut out from all the comforts and necessaries of life, 
 but from all domestic love, and all good and holy in 
 fluences. 
 
12 6 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 CHAPTEK XVII. 
 
 THE LITTLE OUTCAST. 
 
 "Well then, keep out of my way, you little devil! 
 Ain t it enough to be burdened with one s own business 
 without being bothered along o other people s casta 
 way brats? Hold yer noise now, before I give yer 
 something to howl for !" 
 
 Madge Hurst, to use her own expression, was up to 
 her eyes in work," though this was Sunday morning. 
 She had been scouring pots and pans and washing win 
 dows, and then she was down on her knees scrubbing 
 the floor, when little Benny, in his chi dish efforts to 
 help her got into her way, and got himse If knocked 
 down and hurt; for he was a very weak little fellow, 
 anl easily upset also very sensitive and easily affected 
 
 There was no mother to pick him up and soothe his 
 pain with tender caresses; there was only Madge to 
 seize and shake him and scream at him, until his little 
 heart trembled with grief and terror 
 
 For the slight mistake of trying with his tiny hands 
 to help her she reproached him as fiercely as if, instead 
 of being an innocent child, he had been a vicious man 
 
 And the little one crept away to a corner, and sobbed 
 
 r ceaning up, this spring Sun- 
 
 dav morning, was that Madge and Tony Brice were 
 gofng to be married this day, and the wedding-feast 
 was to be held in Madge s room this night. 
 
 Madge worked with a will, and soon competed her 
 task and then she washed and dressed herse f m her 
 best holiday clothes-a thin and tarnished yellow silk 
 eown bought second-hand from Mrs. Kempton s shop 
 for five shillings, and a square, flowered shawl, and a 
 Vzhorn bonnet, trimmed with green ribbon from the 
 lame repository of cast-off finery. And Madge sur- 
 Tpd Self in the cracked and mildewed oval mirror 
 IhafhSoveV \er chest of drawers between the two 
 back windows, and was well satisfied. And, m fact, 
 
THE LOST HEIE 127 
 
 her appearance was rather picturesque than otherwise ; 
 for no absurdity of costume could possibly detract 
 from the effect of the savage creature s rough, dark, 
 wild beauty. 
 
 So pleased with herself was this "bride-elect," that 
 she went to the corner cupboard, where the viands for 
 the wedding-feast was stored, and took a piece of gin 
 gerbread and carried it to the sobbing child in the 
 corner and gave it to him, saying : 
 
 "There, take that and stop crying, you little brat!" 
 
 "Love Benny, mammy! Oh, pease love Benny!" 
 sobbed the child, his desolate little heart longing for 
 an embrace. 
 
 "Oh, there! now stow all! Take your cake, and let 
 your vittles stop your mouth," said Madge, turning 
 away to look up her blue cotton gloves. 
 
 "Why, w at s the matter wi my little man?" in 
 quired the rough voice of an individual who had just 
 entered the room. 
 
 It was Tony Brice, dressed very smartly in his holi 
 day clothes, with his shock of red hair plastered down 
 with grease, that had turned it to a reddish brown, 
 and made it a funny contrast to his full and fiery 
 beard. 
 
 "What s the matter, old fellow?" he again asked the 
 child. 
 
 "Mammy won t tiss me! mammy won t love me!" 
 sobbed Benny. 
 
 "She won t, eh? Then swear at her, my man! That 
 is the way to treat the women when they won t mind 
 you," said Tony Brice, with a loud laugh, as he lifted 
 the child in his arms. 
 
 And Madge, instead of rebuking him, laughed loudly 
 also. 
 
 "Come now, my jolly boy, let s see you shake your 
 
 fist at her and swear so " said the man; and then 
 
 and there he taught the child a fearful oath, thinking 
 it "good fun" to hear the innocent baby lips repeat the 
 blasphemies put into its mouth. 
 
 And the child, ignorant of the meaning of the words, 
 tkinking it was all play, and wishing to please "mam- 
 
128 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 my," whom he loved, and "daddy," as he already called 
 his rough friend, tried his very best to learn the lesson 
 and swear the oath. And when he had succeeded he 
 clapped his hands for joy, and was rewarded with an 
 other piece of cake, while Madge and Tony laughed. 
 
 "And now, Madge, old gal, it s time to go to church, 
 if we expect to be spliced to-day, because the sexton 
 told me we must be there an hour before morning serv 
 ice, else it couldn t be done. It s most ten o clock now, 
 you know, and sarvice begins at eleven," urged Tony. 
 
 There was a sound of laughter in the passage out 
 side. And Tony immediately exclaimed: 
 
 "There! there s my groomsman outside a talking to 
 your bridesmaids! Let s go." 
 
 "Yes. Benny, you stay here and be quiet till we 
 come back; do you hear?" said Madge. 
 
 " Es, mammy ! Benny be twiet !" said the child. 
 The engaged couple went outside, where they were 
 joined by the Misses Flowers, in smart white mull mus 
 lin dresses and chip hats, all trimmed with pink rib 
 bons, and also by John Hobbs, a fellow-fireman of 
 Tony s. 
 
 The five went downstairs and went on in an orderly 
 procession to the church. 
 
 It was a very ancient, very dilapidated and compara 
 tively unfrequented church. 
 
 Around the door was a small crowd of idlers of the 
 lowest order, drawn together by the rumor of a mar 
 riage in their own class. At the dor sat old Ruth 
 Drug, Madge s mother, silently holding out her skinny 
 hand to any chance passer-by and receiving now and 
 then a penny. As the wedding-party reached the door 
 she hobbled up on her feet and went in before them. 
 
 The pews nearest the chancel were filled up with the 
 friends of the parties. There were old Daddy and 
 Granny Flowers and old Ruth Drug in one pew, the 
 Junipers in another, and the Kemptons in a third. 
 
 The curate on duty at the altar scarcely waited for 
 the wedding-party to form in front of him before he 
 opened the prayerbook and commenced the ceremony, 
 which he hurried through with almost irreverent 
 
THE LOST HEIR 129 
 
 haste. But he was scarcely to be blamed, for the bell 
 was already ringing to call Christians to the morning 
 service. At the close of the ceremony the denizens of 
 Junk lane clustered about Madge and Tony with their 
 good wishes, very much after the manner in which the 
 lords and ladies of Belgravia crowd with congratula 
 tions around the noble bride and bridegroom married 
 by a bishop at St. George s or St. Peter s. 
 
 And now the marriage was duly registered, and the 
 newly-married man and woman, followed by all their 
 party, went back to the old house in Junk lane. 
 
 That Sunday evening there was great feasting in 
 Madge s room. All their fellow-lodgers in the house 
 were invited, and also many of Tony Brice s water-side 
 friends. There was only one absentee Rachel Wood. 
 And the room was very much crowded, and they ate 
 and drank and sang and danced as though this were 
 not the Sabbath evening. And the company might 
 have been broken up by the police, had it not been in 
 a back room on the third floor, where their noise could 
 scarcely reach the street. That evening, too, all the 
 rude guests were very kind to little Benny, according 
 to their notions of kindness. They fed the child with 
 unwholesome food, and plied him with as much sweet 
 ened rum and water as his tender brain could possibly 
 bear, and then excited him to monkey antics. 
 
 "Where s Rachel Wood? Why an t she here?" in 
 quired Mrs. Juniper, who had found her way to the 
 side of Madge Brice. 
 
 "Oh, why, you know Rachel never leaves her sister 
 no how, cept to fetch and carry work on week days; 
 not as I think she d go to a merry-making o Sundays 
 anywhays. But I m glad you asked me, Missus Juni 
 per, for that minds me I ought to take something to 
 her and Matty," said Madge ; and, pushing rudely past 
 Fanny Flowers, who stood in her way, she called Tony 
 Brice to her side, and she went to the cupboard and 
 filled a plate with bread, cheese, cakes and apples, and 
 filled a pitcher with spiced rum, and took up the plate 
 herself, and ordered Tony to take up the pitcher and 
 
130 THE LOST HEIE 
 
 follow her. Tony good-naturedly obeyed. And they 
 went to Rachel Wood s room. 
 
 Tony passed in front of Madge, and opened the door 
 and looked in. 
 
 And then a vision met his eyes that shocked and 
 sobered him like a sudden douche of ice water. 
 
 On the white bed lay a form just as white, and very 
 still. On one side knelt Rachel Wood, clasping her 
 sister s cold hand, and gazing into her sister s glazed 
 eyes as if hoping still for one more answering ray of 
 light. On the other side knelt a lady, a stranger, with 
 her hand clasping the pale hand of the dying girl, and 
 with her head bowed over it in prayer. 
 
 "My Lord! Here s death here!" whispered Brice 
 under his breath, as he softly closed the door. "Come 
 away, Madge, girl ! This is awful ! We must send all 
 them gals and fellows away." 
 
 Madge, struck dumb with awe, followed him back to 
 their own room, where their very faces at once pro 
 claimed that something serious had happened, or was 
 about to happen. 
 
 Every one silently departed. Those who lodged in 
 the house quietly retired to their rooms to wait silently 
 there. And the others went away to their homes. And 
 the old tenement was at once restored to the order and 
 quiet befitting the solemn presence of death. 
 
 Let us enter the chamber of death for a moment and 
 see what is going on there. Nothing is as yet changed 
 since Tony Brice opened the door and looked in, just 
 fifteen minutes ago. The white form still lies upon the 
 white bed, and the two young women still kneel, the 
 one upon the right, the other on the left side, and 
 watch. At length there comes a deep sigh from the 
 pale lips, and then all is still. 
 
 "That is the last," whispered the stranger lady, ris 
 ing from her knees. 
 
 And then the sister s strained nerves gave way, and 
 she fell to weeping bitterly by the side of her dead. 
 
 The lady stood in reverential silence. She did not 
 attempt to comfort the mourner then. She could not 
 bear to intrude on the first sacred moments of such a 
 
THE LOST HEIR 131 
 
 grief. She turned silently to the dead. And she drew 
 a handkerchief from her pocket and tenderly tied up 
 the relaxed jaws, and closed the faded eyes. She was 
 still standing with her thumbs softly pressed upon the 
 shut lids, when Rachel Wood, who had cried herself 
 into calmness, got up and came around to her, saying: 
 
 "Thanks, dear lady! Oh, thanks! Oh, how many 
 thanks! What should I have done this awful night 
 without you?" 
 
 "Hush, dear! not one word more. If I had not come, 
 the good Lord would have sent you some one else. . 
 Come, now, dear, lock the door to keep people out, and 
 you and I will quietly do all that is needful here." 
 
 "You, Mrs. Melliss ? You ? Why, you cannot ! You 
 
 have not been used to doing " began Rachel; but 
 
 she broke down and wept. 
 
 "Hush, dear. I have been used to doing more than 
 you think. I will help you now. And to-night I will 
 stay with you. And to-morrow I will order everything 
 that is requisite to be done, so that you need not dis 
 tress yourself about details," said the lady, with so 
 much gentle firmness that Rachel Wood could only 
 weep and obey. 
 
 The door was locked, for these two good women did 
 not want any of those late rioters and profaners of the 
 Sabbath to break in upon their holy calm with any offi 
 cious proffers of service. 
 
 And who was Mrs. Melliss? Why, in the first place, 
 as you might see at a glance, she was a very beautiful 
 young woman, with the face of an angel a small, per 
 fectly formed graceful woman, with delicate features, 
 a clear, pale complexion, deeply-fringed, soft-brown 
 eyes, and crispy, curling bright, brown hair, and a very 
 sweet mouth. 
 
 So much you might see for yourself. But if you had 
 asked Rachel Wood who that lovely lady was, she could 
 have told you that Mrs. Melliss was the loving and be 
 loved young wife of an old Lombard street banker of 
 three times her years; that her husband was a widower, 
 who had disinherited his only daughter on account of 
 the girl having eloped with a gay dragoon; and who 
 
132 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 had subsequently married the youngest and brightest 
 of a large family of girls, daughters of a needy, half- 
 pay major, living at Kemptown, Brighton. And, fur 
 ther, that Mrs. Meliss had employed her, Rachel Wood, 
 to do plain sewing, and had given her good wages for 
 three years past. 
 
 Now, when their sacred task was completed, and a 
 clean, fine white sheet, saved for this purpose, was care 
 fully spread over the still white form, the two young 
 women the banker s wife and the poor seamstress 
 sat down to watch for day. 
 
 They sat a long time in silence, which Rachel Wood 
 was the first to break. 
 
 "Mrs. Melliss, may I ask you a question?" she in 
 quired. 
 
 "Certainly, dear." 
 
 "Have you heard any news of of " 
 
 "Of Melinda? No, dear, not since her unfortunate 
 husband was discharged for intemperance/ sighed the 
 lady. 
 
 "And her father " 
 
 "Is still unrelenting, dear." 
 
 Rachel sighed, and both relapsed into silence. 
 
 They watched together through the darkness of the 
 night and into the dawning of the day. When the sun 
 was up, Angela Melliss kissed the mourner, promised to 
 return in the course of the day, and went away on foot, 
 walking until she reached the Strand, where she called 
 a cab to take her to Charles street. 
 
 She entered her husband s dressing-room just as he 
 was brushing his hair. 
 
 A very handsome man was the banker; really sixty, 
 but scarcely looking fifty years of age. He was tall and 
 stout, with very dark hair, and beard and well-marked 
 eyebrows, and, with glowing dark eyes, a rich, ruddy 
 complexion, and an expression full of genial warmth. 
 
 As he turned and saw his wife, he dropped his hair 
 brushes and came and embraced her, asking : 
 
 "And where now has my little sister of the poor 
 been?" 
 
THE LOST HEIE 133 
 
 "Watching beside a dying bed, dearest. The sick 
 girl I told you of is gone," she answered. 
 
 "Ah, poor thing! What can we do, Angel?" 
 
 "We can bury her. Her sister is not able to do it 
 herself, and is not willing to let the parish do it." 
 
 "Very well, my darling. I will send Brown to give 
 the necessary orders. But, as for you, you must not 
 worry yourself another bit. You must go and lie 
 down, and have some tea and toast brought to you." 
 
 She laughed and kissed him, and then went away to 
 follow his advice. 
 
 And, a few days after this, the remains of poor Mar 
 tha Wood were laid in the churchyard of that old 
 church, in which Madge Hurst and Tony Brice had 
 been so recently married. 
 
 CHAPTEK XVIII. 
 
 A FAIRY GRANDMOTHER. 
 
 ^ 
 Angela Melliss was very much younger than her hus 
 band, but it is a question whether more perfect love 
 reigned in any household. 
 I The banker made munificent settlements upon his 
 young bride, yielding her a princely income that en 
 abled her to indulge her benevolent sympathies to the 
 utmost. 
 
 She was very seldom imposed upon even by the ex 
 perienced London street beggars. Her purity of heart/ 
 made her a discoverer of spirits. She could at once/ 
 ; discriminate between a sufferer and an impostor, al-l 
 though she could not have told you the reason why. 
 
 But in all her almsgiving and personal serving she\ 
 did not forget that "charity begins at home." She 
 neglected no part of her duty to her husband, her step 
 son or her servants. She also did a great deal for "the 
 girls," as she naively called six maiden half-sisters, 
 the youngest of whom was ten years older than herself. 
 Surely never was a chaperone more successful in se- 
 
134 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 curing establishments for her charge. Before the sea 
 son was over she had married off both her maiden sis 
 ters advantageously Arabella to a pursy broker of 
 forty-five, and Belinda to a banker s clerk of forty-two. 
 
 The banker admitted that the "girls" were very 
 handsome and showy women, but declared that he 
 thought the broker and the clerk had married them 
 partly for the sake of having Angela for a sister-in-law! 
 
 After the double marriage ceremony by which these 
 two "girls" were made women, and at which all the 
 other "girls" assisted as bridesmaids, Angela invited 
 her next two in order to come and live with her ; these 
 were Carolina and Dorothea, aged respectively thirty- 
 four and thirty-six. 
 
 And, to be brief, she married these two off in the 
 course of the next year Caroline to a physician with 
 a good city practice, and Dorothea to a fox-hunting 
 country squire. 
 
 And in the third year she disposed of Frances to an 
 elderly barrister-at-law, and her favorite Agnes to a 
 very handsome and very eloquent young minister of the 
 Gospel. 
 
 If all these marriages, except the last, were rather 
 mercenary on the part of the handsome "girls," An 
 gela never suspected the fact. For she herself had 
 married a wealthy man thirty years her senior without 
 one selfish thought given to his wealth, and she loved 
 him with a pure and fervent affection. How, then, 
 could she suspect or even comprehend mercenary or 
 even mixed motives in marriage? Her marriage was 
 perfect in its love, trust and contentment. She loved 
 and honored her husband far above all other earthly 
 beings. And he loved and trusted her utterly. 
 
 She could do what she pleased with him, except in 
 one particular she could not induce him to forgive his 
 refractory daughter Melinda, who had run away and 
 got married to her good-for-nothing cousin, Charles 
 Faulkner Captain Faulkner, of the Hussars who 
 had gambled away his own fortune before he ran away 
 with the banker s daughter, in the hope, said the bank 
 er, of gaining another fortune. 
 
THE LOST HEIR 135 
 
 "If Melinda s mother had been living she would have 
 gained Melinda s forgiveness. I am now in her mother s 
 place, and will do a mother s part by her," said the 
 banker s pretty little wife to herself. 
 
 And so, sincerely and earnestly, she tried to gain the 
 daughter s pardon from the father, but tried in vain. 
 In all other respects her indulgent husband was as wax 
 in her hands ; in that respect he was as adamant. 
 
 Once she thought she saw her way to win him to for 
 giveness. She happened to read in the "Births, Mar 
 riages and Deaths" column of the Times this para 
 graph : 
 
 "At Brighton, on the fifteenth instant, the wife of 
 Captain Faulkner, of the Hussars, of a daughter." 
 
 She went with this to her husband, seated herself on 
 his lap, put her arm around his neck, kissed him, and 
 then said: 
 
 "Dearest, congratulate me. I am a grandmother!" 
 
 And she pointed to the paragraph and looked up in 
 his face. 
 
 As soon as he saw what she meant, the funny aspect 
 of the question struck him first, and struck him so for 
 cibly that he burst out laughing and caught her to his 
 heart. 
 
 Then she thought certainly that he would be merciful 
 to his daughter. And she pleaded eloquently for her, 
 but pleaded in vain. Then she tried to laugh and jest 
 and coax him into compliance with her wishes. 
 
 "I want to see my little grandchild," she said ; "I am 
 so fond of children, and Heaven denies me children of 
 my own ; and I want to see my little grandchild so very, 
 very much !" 
 
 "What a funny little grandmother! what a fairy lit 
 tle grandmother! Ay, that will do a fairy grand 
 mother!" smiled the old banker, running his fingers 
 through the soft brown curls that nearly hid the face 
 of his young wife. 
 
 So he jested with her, and he laughed at her and pet 
 ted her, but he would not yield one inch to her wishes. 
 
 That same day, however, Angela ordered her 
 brougham and drove to "Asser s," in Regent street, and 
 
136 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 spent a hundred guineas on a complete and beautiful 
 outfit for the infant, comprising embroidered robes, 
 slips and underclothing of the finest fabrics and 
 trimmed with the most delicate lace, and also a deco 
 rated berceaunette. 
 
 These she had packed and directed to "Mrs. Charles 
 Faulkner, care of Captain Faulkner, Brighton Bar 
 racks." In the inside of the parcel was a card on 
 which was written the line: 
 
 For Miss Faulkner, from her fairy grandmother. 
 
 Very welcome, you may depend, was the rich pres 
 ent to the poor young mother, living in the captain s 
 limited quarters and living on the captain s limited 
 pay most of which he spent in wine and cigars. But, 
 though the card that accompanied it bore the words to 
 Miss Faulkner from her fairy grandmother, neither 
 Melinda nor her husband suspected the quarter from 
 which it had come. They could not have guessed that 
 the youthful wife of the banker would ever have writ 
 ten herself down "grandmother," nor could they have 
 given her credit for the least degree of kindly feeling 
 for themselves. 
 
 Meanwhile Angela still pleaded the cause of the dis 
 owned daughter, whenever she could find a favorable 
 opoprtunity of doing so, until one day, when her lips 
 were peremtorily ordered to close forever upon that 
 subject. 
 
 The occasion was this: One morning Mr. Melliss 
 came into her boudoir and laid the Times before her, 
 pointing to a paragraph, and saying: 
 
 "Child, you once showed me a couple of lines in this 
 paper, relative to the Faulkners, as a reason why I 
 should be reconciled to them. I now call your atten 
 tion to this article, and request you to consider it cause 
 sufficient to close your lips on the subject of these 
 Faulkners forever." 
 
 Angela took up the paper and read an announce 
 ment to the effect that Charles Faulkner, Esquire, late 
 of the Hussars, had been dismissed from her ma 
 jesty s service for conduct unbecoming an officer and a 
 gentleman. 
 
THE LOST HEIK 137 
 
 "Oh, poor fellow, poor fellow ! what can he have been 
 doing?" sighed Angela. 
 
 Neglecting his duty, drinking, swearing, swagger 
 ing, fighting, gambling and worse !" 
 
 "Oh, I am so sorry for him, and for his poor wife; 
 and oh, for the poor child ! Oh, surely, dearest, for that 
 poor little innocent child s sake, you will help your 
 daughter now?" 
 
 "I wish I may be perfect-participled, if I do! Now, 
 no more, Angela. I will not hear another word on that 
 subject, even from you." 
 
 "But, please let me ask a question, then." 
 
 "Well, what is it?" 
 
 "Where are they now?" she inquired, with a secret 
 thought of helping the mother and child from her own 
 income. 
 
 "Somewhere in Tophet, no doubt! I neither knov 
 ffor eare in what exact abyss!" replied the banker, 
 walking out of the room to avoid the subject. 
 
 Angela made secret enquiry for the Faulkners, but 
 could learn nothing beyond this that they had left 
 England for the Continent, that great haven for ship 
 wrecked lives. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 MADGE S VENGEANCE. 
 
 Affairs were still falling from bad to worse in miser 
 able Junk lane, as well as in many other wretched 
 abodes of ignorance, vice, want and disease. 
 
 Rachel Wood began to think that this house was no 
 proper place for her, and that she would have to move 
 away. 
 
 There was only one person in the house with whom 
 Rachel Wood could associate with any comfort. This 
 was Mary Kempton, the daughter of the old-clothes 
 dealer on the first floor front. Mary had resisted all 
 the blandishments of the Flowers sisters, and all the 
 scoldings of her own family, and steadily refused to 
 
138 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 earn twelve shillings a week as a ballet girl at the Thes 
 pian. She cooked the family meals, mended the family 
 clothes and minded the shop, or did anything else they 
 wanted her to do, but she would not go on the stage. 
 
 So Mary and Rachel were good friends ; with but one 
 point of difference between them. This was their creed. 
 Rachel was a stanch Church-of-England woman. Mary 
 pinned her faith on the coat of the celebrated and Rev. 
 Mr. Sturgeon, and went to a dissenting chapel. 
 
 As each of these two young women thought herself 
 right, and entirely and exclusively right, she tried to 
 convert the other one. And this led to frequent warm 
 disputes, the only disputes that ever happened between 
 them. At the end of these controversies, each would 
 pray for the conversion of the other. And all the time 
 both were quite right. 
 
 But, of all the ne er-do-wells in the unlucky house, 
 certainly Tony Brice was the worst, and Madge was 
 the next. 
 
 Tony was almost always drunk, and Madge was very 
 seldom sober. 
 
 There was this difference between them : Tony, when 
 tipsy, was always maudlin and good-natured weak in 
 body and mind. Madge, under the same circum 
 stances, was always quarrelsome and excitable. 
 
 Tony used to say that the liquor always fell into his 
 feet and made him feeble, and that it always flew into 
 Madge s head and made her furious. 
 
 Had Madge been a reader of Shakespeare she might 
 have said : "That which hath made him drunk, hath 
 made me bold." 
 
 But Tony was falling into more dangerous ways than 
 even those of drunkenness; he was falling under the 
 fascinations of Miss Fanny Flowers, the fair-haired 
 ballet girl of the "Thespian Temple." And he took to 
 escorting her to and from the theatre, and treating her 
 to gin and cakes when the performance was over, and 
 then, at a late hour, bringing her home. For, bless your 
 soul, "free love" is not by any means limited to "the 
 most enlightened and progressive spirits of the nine 
 teenth century;" it may be found wherever weakness, 
 
THE LOST HEIE 139 
 
 folly, selfishness and their kindred vices are present, 
 and good sense, decency and morality absent, whether 
 it be in the palace or the hut. 
 
 Madge knew nothing of all this. If she had, her ven 
 geance would have been sudden, swift and sharp. 
 
 Madge, with all her faults and her fury, was "true as 
 steel" to her friends, and much too stupid to under 
 stand treachery in others. 
 
 One day Rachel Wood was sitting at her sewing, put 
 ting the last stitches in a dainty undergarment belong 
 ing to a set she was making up for a lady, when her 
 door was violently thrown open, and Fanny Flowers 
 burst in, in wild disorder. 
 
 "Oh, Miss Rachel," she exclaimed, "I know you look 
 down on us all! But if you are a Christian, come to 
 help us now!" 
 
 "Sit down, Fanny! Be quiet, and tell me what is 
 the matter!" said the seamstress calmly, though she 
 was frightened by the girl s manner. 
 
 "Oh, Miss Rachel !" exclaimed Fanny, dropping into 
 a chair, and continuing in an excited manner, "Rose 
 has run away, and grandpa has fallen in a fit; and Mrs. 
 Juniper an t in, and I durstn t ask Madge Brice, be 
 cause she s that down on me! And there s no one to 
 help us, unless you will come!" 
 
 Rachel Wood, much shocked, laid aside her needle 
 work, called Fanny to follow her, and walked across 
 the passage to the opposite room, occupied by the Flow 
 ers family. 
 
 There she found a sad scene. 
 
 Old Granddaddy Flowers lay upon the floor, where 
 he had fallen on hearing the news of his favorite grand 
 daughter s elopement, a heavy old man, whom it would 
 require more than one strong pair of arms to lift. 
 
 Over him stood Grandmother Flowers, trembling and 
 whimpering and twisting her fingers in impotent sor 
 row. 
 
 "It s rum as did it!" she whined. "It s rum as did it 
 all! It s rum as broke down his constertootion, and 
 it s rum as has runned her to her ruin! Oh, me! oh, 
 me! oh, me!" 
 
140 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 By the side of the old man also stood two fair chil 
 dren who had come into the room, drawn by the cries of 
 distress. One was little Suzy, who was looking on, 
 with her hands clasped behind her, and her long, fair 
 hair rolling halfway down to her feet. She had just 
 come home with Fanny, from the morning rehearsal at 
 the theatre. The other was little Benny, who, having, in 
 company with Granny Ruth, made a successful morn 
 ing s work in filching a bunch of carrots and a link of 
 sausage and some other trifles, had returned to the 
 house to rest from his labors. 
 
 The children were gazing upon the fallen man with 
 looks of astonishment and compassion. 
 
 "Oh, me! Oh, that I should live to see the day!" 
 whimpered Grandmother Flowers, wringing her hands. 
 
 "Come and sit down in your chair, granny, and let 
 me attend to daddy," said Rachel Wood, kindly lead 
 ing the old woman to her easy old seat in the chimney 
 corner. 
 
 "Benny, dear, do you know where Mr. Bentley, the 
 parish doctor, lives?" said Rachel, addressing the child. 
 
 "You bet! Will I fetch him?" inquired little Benny, 
 anxious to help. 
 
 "Yes; and tell him what you have seen here. You 
 are a very bright boy. You can do it." 
 
 "All right! Come, Suzy!" 
 
 And the "prodigy" picked up her hat, which had 
 fallen upon the floor, and followed her friend. 
 
 "Come, Fanny, lend a hand here," said Rachel Wood ; 
 "we must lift daddy and lay him on the bed." 
 
 It was easy to say "lift daddy," but it was utterly im 
 possible, with even their united strength, to do it. 
 "Daddy" was a very large and heavy old man, and Ra 
 chel and Fanny were both very slight and delicate 
 young women. 
 
 "Wait here till I see if I can find help," said Rachel, 
 as she left the room and went into the passage. 
 
 The first person she met there was Tony Brice, on his 
 way to his room and to his dinner. 
 
 "What s up, Miss Wood?" he inquired "You looks 
 
THE LOST HEIE Ul 
 
 sorter scared! And coming out of that room, where 
 you never goes." 
 
 "Mr. Brice, Grandfather Flowers has fallen down 
 in a fit, and we cannot lift him to put him to bed, and 
 
 80 
 
 "Hold hard! Let me come to him," said Tony. 
 
 And, passing Rachel, he opened to door of the Flow 
 ers room, and went in. He found Fanny on her knees 
 by the side of the old man. 
 
 "Fan, lass, what s this? Why didn t yer send for 
 me?" he inquired, coming up to the group. 
 
 "Oh, Tony, I was frightened of my life! Madge is 
 that down on me, because she says as she knows all 
 about it now. Though what she knows all about as 
 can make her so down on me, I can t tell," added the 
 girl, even in her trouble playing the hypocrite. 
 
 "Down on yer, is she? She is, is she? Well, let 
 that stand by a little. I ll sort her! Now, then, la 
 dies, what can I do for yer? This here seems to be 
 a bad case!" said Tony. 
 
 "We want you to help us lift the old man onto the 
 bed, first of all," said Rachel. 
 
 "Oh, that, indeed! Well, I won t help yer to do 
 that, but I ll do it all myself," said the man, squaring 
 his shoulders and essaying to lift the body. 
 
 By the exertion of all his strength, he succeeded in 
 effecting his purpose. By the time he had laid Grand 
 father Flowers on the bed, the door was pushed open, 
 and little Benny, who had been sent for the doctor, ran 
 in, followed by Suzy. 
 
 "Doctor says as how he ll be here in one minute!" 
 exclaimed the boy, panting from the breathless haste 
 with which he had run his errand. 
 
 "I m thinking as this be a job for a grave-digger, 
 and not for the doctor," remarked Tony Brice, as he 
 felt first the pulseless wrist and then the motionless 
 heart of the old man. 
 
 The parish doctor, true to his word, arrived the mo 
 ment afterward. He examined the patient, and then 
 confirmed the opinion advanced by Tony, and pro 
 nounced the old man dead. 
 
142 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 After his funeral his family fell into deeper troubles. 
 
 Just as the winter was setting in very cold, Fanny 
 lost her situation at the Thespian Temple. The man 
 agers had resolved to try an experiment, which ulti 
 mately proved to be an unsuccessful speculation; they 
 resolved to discontinue the u leg-i tern-ate" drama in fa 
 vor of the legitimate. And so they disbanded their bal 
 let corps, and engaged a ninth-rate tragedian of the 
 Bombastes Furioso order, to murder Shakespeare at so 
 much a night. 
 
 Fanny Flowers was out of employment, out of 
 money, out of spirits, and, as Mr. Tony Brice elegantly 
 expressed it, down on her luck." Well she might be. 
 She could do nothing but dance, poor creature, and she 
 could get no dancing to do. There was no money com 
 ing into her poor room at all. One article of furniture 
 or clothing after another had to be sold or pawned to 
 buy food and fuel, to keep the old woman and herself 
 from famishing or freezing. To be sure, they could 
 both have gone to the Union; but that would have in 
 volved loss of home and liberty. And even the most 
 wretched cling to the poorest home as long as they pos 
 sibly can, and to liberty long after they become home 
 less; yes, they cling to liberty to the bitter end. That 
 was not the worst of Fanny Flowers troubles. Her 
 fellow-lodgers all "looked down" on her. Mrs. Juniper 
 would not let her girls speak to Fanny Flowers. Mary 
 Kempton turned her head another way when she passed 
 her. Even kind-hearted Rachel Wood carefully avoid- 
 er her. As for Madge, she did so glare at the girl with 
 her fiery black eyes that Fanny would fly at the first 
 sight of her. 
 
 She had no friends in the house except Tony Brice, 
 whom she was afraid to speak with, except by stealth. 
 
 Why was this? Fanny knew well enough, though 
 she would not confess the knowledge to herself. 
 
 One fatal evening Tony Brice, being much the worse 
 for a dozen or so "thrippun orths" of rum, met Fanny 
 Flowers in Ship alley. 
 
 "Hey, my lass ! how goes it wi yos? It s many a day 
 since I had a word wi yer, my girl," he said, turning 
 
THE LOST HEIR 143 
 
 about and joining her, and walking by her side. "Which 
 way be you going?" 
 
 "I don t know! Any way! The shortest way to my 
 grave would be the best way, I think," said Fanny bit 
 terly. 
 
 Don t yer talk so, lass! Yer knows yer got one 
 good friend in me. Don t talk so !" 
 
 "How can I help it? You asked me just now how it 
 was with me. How do you expect it can be?" 
 
 "Well, lass, I s pose yer do miss all the merry danc 
 ing and singing at the theatre, and you find it dull like 
 evenings with the old un at home. But never yer 
 mind. Keep a stiff upper lip ! They ll want yer back 
 ag in, some o these days." 
 
 " Tain t that, Tony ! though, true for you, I do miss 
 going to the theatre every evening. It was very gay 
 and pleasant there, say what you will. And then one 
 always got treated by somebody when it was all over. 
 And then there was the salary, which was best of all. 
 But it ain t the loss of the plays and the shillings and 
 all them things, Tony, though I feel them, too." 
 
 "Well, then, what is it, my lass? Tell me; I m yer 
 friend." 
 
 "It s everything together, Tony. What, with grand 
 father s death and Rose s running away, and granny s 
 dropping down into her driveling dotage, and Madge a 
 flying out every time she sees me, and even you a snub 
 bing me 
 
 "I a snubbing you !" 
 
 "Yes ; and what, with all that, and the cold, and the 
 hunger, and the grief, and the loneliness, and the fear 
 of worse to come, I get that low in my mind and that 
 wild, as I think some night I shall go and jump off o 
 London bridge, that I do!" 
 
 "Whisht! lass, whisht! You mustn t talk that way. 
 Come home along o me, and have something hot to 
 drink to put the life inter yer." 
 
 And, in the evil hour, the girl fatally consented to in 
 vade the forbidden ground of Madge s home. 
 
 It was bitter cold December weather, and, though still 
 early in the evening, it was quite dark. There was 
 
144 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 very few street lamps in that squalid neighborhood. But 
 there was one at the corner of Ship alley, where they 
 turned into Junk lane. As Tony and Fanny came un 
 der this light, in turning the corner, a man passed them 
 coming out of the lane. 
 
 "That was Jerry Juniper. He has seen us!" said 
 Fanny, in a terrified whisper. 
 
 "Oh, no he didn t lass! And, what if he did? Is 
 there any law ag in my taking a poor frozen girl inter 
 our room to give her a warm and a drink?" 
 
 "No; but he ll tell Madge, and she ll make harm of 
 it" 
 
 "Not he! He ain t no michief-maker, an t Jerry. 
 He s a good fellow !" 
 
 By this time they had reached the house. 
 
 "Now, let us go in separate, Tony. You go first I ll 
 step down in the pawnbroker s and see if I can get old 
 Moses to give me something on my bonnet. I know he 
 won t; but it will be an excuse, you see. And, then 
 after that I can go upstairs promiscuous like, and 
 when there s no one in the passage I can step into your 
 room and get warm," said Fanny. 
 
 "All right, my lass! But you needn t be so feared. 
 Yer an t a doin no harm." 
 
 "No ; but they d all make harm of it, and tell Madge, 
 and she d tear my eyes out!" said Fanny, as she drop 
 ped behind into the shadows, and let Tony enter the 
 house alone. 
 
 He went up to his own room, where there was a good 
 coal fire burning. But the room was not unoccupied. 
 Sitting upon the old rug, before the fire were the two 
 children, blue-eyed little Benny and golden-haired 
 Suzy. 
 
 Benny was cracking nuts and picking out the kernels 
 for Suzy, who was feasting on them with much relish. 
 
 Both the children got up from the rugs as soon as 
 they saw Tony. 
 
 "I m off the boards to-night, Mr. Brice," said the lit 
 tle actress. "I m off the boards to-night, because 
 they re playing Hamlet, and there are no children in 
 Hamlet. But o Monday they re a-going to play Rich- 
 
THE LOST HEIK 145 
 
 ard, and I m a-going on again as Little Dookeryoke." 
 (Duke of York.) 
 
 "Are you so? How much money you must make! 
 You ll make your fortin one o these days. What da 
 they give you now?" inquired Tony, much amused. 
 
 "Ten shillin every time I play," proudly replied the 
 child. 
 
 "My eyes! that much for playing? I wish I could 
 only get half of that for working!" laughed Tony. 
 
 "You didn t mind my fetching o Suzy in here to have 
 a party by ourselves, did you, Tony? You see, as Suzy 
 told you, she s off to-night, and so I cribbed a handful 
 of filberts from the stand there as I cut round the cor 
 ner o Low street, as you comes into Ship alley. And 
 I brings em here to make a little party for Suzy, seeing 
 as she s off to-night. You don t mind, do you, Tony?" 
 
 "No, my little man, I don t mind! Bless you! I m a- 
 going to bring my own gal here presently to have a 
 party with her. I don t mind, but Madge will! You 
 bet!" 
 
 "Oh, will she?" inquired the child, in alarm. 
 
 "Ah!" breathed Tony, as if he meant to express, the 
 less said the soonest mended on that subject. 
 
 "You know," said the child, apologetically. "Suzy s 
 mammy have gone along o my granny and mammy to 
 Pat Doolan s wake, and so Suzy s being off to-night, 
 and I having of the nuts, I thought " 
 
 "As how you might have a little lark here all by yer 
 two selves, and no harm done? All right! Madge 
 needn t know nothink about it, and then she can t make 
 no fuss, can she?" 
 
 "No!" laughed the child, delighted at an imaginary 
 victory. 
 
 "And so, if you don t tell, I won t, and she ll never 
 know. And, Suzy, listen here! Don t you tell Madge 
 about our little party here this evening, nor who you 
 saw, nor nothink about it, you hear?" said Tony, turn 
 ing to the little girl. 
 
 "No! I never tell on nobody! I could tell heaps and 
 heaps if I d a mind to! But I d die fust before I d be 
 
146 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 so mean as to tell !" answered the little creature, indig 
 nant that her fidelity should be questioned. 
 
 "All right! You shall have some weak rum punch 
 for that," said Tony. And he put some water in the 
 kettle and set it over the fire to boil. 
 
 And so the children received a lesson in deception 
 and promise of reward. 
 
 "You mustn t let the women know everything, you 
 know, my lad," said Tony. 
 
 "No," replied Benny. 
 
 " Cause women is fools anyhow, you know." 
 
 "Yes," agreed Benny. 
 
 "All on em." 
 
 "Not Suzy," objected the child, with a sudden reac 
 tion of loyalty to his little friend. 
 
 "Oh, Suzy s not a woman, you know!" 
 
 "No; so she isn t. She s a infant prodigal," replied 
 little Benny, with some confusion of ideas between the 
 infant prodigy and the prodigal son. 
 
 At this moment there was a cautious rap at the door. 
 
 "Come in !" said Tony. 
 
 The door was opened, and Fanny Flowers entered the 
 room. On seeing the children she would have retreated, 
 Imt Tony exclaimed: 
 
 "It s all right, my lass! All friends here, ain t we, 
 kids? I found em here, and couldn t turn em out. 
 But they re true as steel, and it s all right, I tell yer. 
 So come in." 
 
 Perhaps Fanny Flowers would not have ventured in, 
 but there was neither fire nor food in her own wretched 
 abode. Her feet were wet; she was cold and hungry 
 and sorrowful and she was longing for something to 
 eat and drink, and for some one to comfort her. 
 
 "Don t be feared, Fanny ! I won t tell !" said Benny, 
 coming up on one side of her. 
 
 "No more will I," added Suzy. 
 
 Fanny sat down by the fire and put her wet feet on 
 the edge of the old wire fender and shuddered, partly 
 with cold and partly with fear ; or was it with presenti 
 ment of evil? 
 
THE LOST HEIR 147 
 
 Tony made the punch very strong and very hot, and 
 gave one glass to Fanny and took one himself. 
 
 Then he weakened some of it with hot water and 
 sweetened with much sugar and gave it the children, 
 who, after drinking it, began to nod, and finally went 
 to sleep on the floor. 
 
 "Look a here! I must get out o this before Madge 
 comes home," said Fanny, as she drained the glass. 
 
 "Not till you ve had another un, lass ! Lor bless yer ! 
 Why, it s only eight o clock yet, and she won t be home 
 afore one or two o clock in the morning. You ve got 
 hours afore you yet," said Tony, filling her glass from 
 the jug of punch that he kept hot on the hob. 
 
 "I m afeared to drink any more, Tony. And you 
 oughtn t to. That s a fact. The more one drinks the 
 more one wants, and the more one loses of one s head. 
 No ; I d better not take any more. But I tell you what, 
 Tony; save some in the bottom of the jug for poor 
 Granny; she s asleep now; but when I go in, I will 
 wake her up and give it to her. It will warm her, same 
 as it does me." 
 
 "All right. I ll save some for the old girl on condi 
 tion that you ll take another un yerself; and on no 
 other conditions whatsomever." 
 
 Thus persuaded, Fanny began to sip the punch with 
 which Tony had filled her glass, and the punch began to 
 get in her head, and to make her feel sentimental, and, 
 strangely enough, penitent. 
 
 "Tony," she said, "I ve often been thinking as it was 
 wrong for me to be running after you, and taking you 
 off to go back ards and for ards with me to the Thes 
 pian, unbeknownst to Madge ; and worse still, for me to 
 be a spending of your wages, and letting of you spend 
 em on me for treats, when I knowed Madge was a 
 wanting of bread!" 
 
 "All right, lass ! all right," remarked Tony, who was 
 very far gone in drink, and had not the slightest idea 
 of what the girl was talking about. 
 
 "And I did make up my mind as I never would do so 
 no more. But only to-night, Tony, I was so cold and 
 so hungry, for I gave granny the last of the bread for 
 
148 THE LOST HEIK 
 
 her supper; and I felt so lonesome and comfortless 
 when I met you, Tony, and you so much like a good old 
 brother to me, Tony, that I couldn t help of it." 
 
 "All right, old fellow ! Old old fellow !" blundered 
 Mr. Brice. 
 
 "But, Tony, this must be the very last time. You 
 must never ask me to come and take a drink with you 
 again never. Folks think worse o me nor I am, as 
 you know worse o me nor I ever could be! I couldn t 
 be like Rose, Tony, and you know I couldn t. But these 
 treats an t right, and I mustn t have no more of em 
 no, not even if I famish and freeze to death." 
 
 "Jus jus so, old fellow. Give us yer hand," stam 
 mered Tony, all unconscious of what was meant, and 
 trying to rise to his feet. But he fell back again into 
 his seat, quite stupid and helpless. 
 
 At that moment, in the dead stillness of the house, a 
 stealthy step was heard to approach the room, and a 
 stealthy hand to fumble around in the darkness over the 
 door, as if in search of the handle of the lock. 
 
 "That s Madge! She ll kill me!" breathlessly ex 
 claimed the girl, and in the frenzy of her terror she 
 flew to the door and slipped the bolt, thus putting a bar 
 rier between her and the fury she feared so much. Of 
 course this was the worst thing she could possibly have 
 done, and she seemed in a moment to realize that it was 
 so. She turned and threw her eyes wildly around the 
 room, as if in search of a way of escape, up the chim 
 ney, out of the window anywhere ! 
 
 We must now go back a little, to see how Madge hap 
 pened to come home so suddenly. 
 
 Some time before this, Madge had found out all about 
 what she called "the goings on of Tony and Fanny" 
 the walks to and from the Thespian, the cakes and the 
 gin treats, and so on. And she hated the girl with 
 the hate of jealousy, and assailed her whenever and 
 wherever she found her, and she talked about her to her 
 fellow-lodgers, and set them all against her. And she 
 watched her opportunity of getting a still stronger case 
 against her detested rival. 
 
 But for a long time she had watched in vain. 
 
THE LOST HEIR 149 
 
 Fanny Flowers, shocked by the flight of her sister 
 and the death of her grandfather, was stunned into 
 something like steadiness. Then the loss of her engage 
 ment at the theatre took a great deal of temptation out 
 of her way. Finally her terror of Madge completed the 
 reformation of her manners, if not of her morals. So 
 Madge found no cause against her, or rather no new- 
 cause, until this bitter winter night, when Fanny met 
 Tony in the street, and being cold, hungry, friendless 
 and comfortless, suffered herself to be tempted to eat, 
 drink and be warmed by Tony s fire, in Madge s absence. 
 
 Meanwhile Madge was at Pat Doolan s wake, drink 
 ing more whiskey in honor of the dead man than was 
 good for her. 
 
 Madge was now the same tall, dark, gaunt woman, 
 with the same strong features, great fierce black eyes, 
 and long, wild black hair that we knew first six years 
 ago. She had the same deep hectic spots in her dark, 
 hollow cheeks, the same wild fierce light in her black 
 eyes, and the same chronic cough, of which she never 
 seemed to get better or worse. 
 
 She was at the wake, sitting in a closely crowded, 
 stifling room, and holding a tin cup of very bad whisky 
 in her hands, when Jerry Juniper, who had come in 
 some half hour before, found himself near her, and be 
 ing, like all the others, much the worse for drink, jogged 
 her elbow so that she spilled her whisky, and then he 
 said: 
 
 " When the cat s away, the mice will play. " 
 "What does the fool mean?" inquired Madge, resent 
 fully. 
 
 "Lady Bug! Lady Bug! fly away home! Your 
 house is on fire ! Your children " 
 
 "Look here, Jerry Juniper; if as how you re intoxi 
 cated, just keep away from me, for I hate sich !" 
 
 "Look here, Mrs. Brice, if you go away home right 
 now, when you an t looked for, you ll happen to find 
 something you don t look for." 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "Oh, nothing! I met Tony a taking of Fanny Flow- 
 
150 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 ers home long of him, to take something hot, he said, 
 and have a good time !" 
 
 Jerry Juniper, when he saw the face of Madge, was 
 frightened at what he had done. She turned ashy pale, 
 except the two crimson spots on her hollow cheeks, that 
 burned in their deep holes like baleful smouldering 
 fires. Her eyes were fearful to look upon. If honest 
 Jerry had ever heard of the Medusa s head, he would 
 have thought of it now. 
 
 Madge dropped the cup from her hands, and without 
 a word, left the house. 
 
 With her brain all on fire, she hurried breathless 
 down Low street, whirled around the corner into Ship 
 alley, and down that and around the next corner into 
 Junk lane, and so into her own miserable home. There 
 she suddenly stopped and took breath. 
 
 "I must be quietlike now," she said, to herself. "I 
 mustn t let em hear me ; I want to surprise em. And 
 
 then ! " She worked her fingers in and out like the 
 
 claws of a tigress "And then then then then 
 oh!" 
 
 She went cautiously upstairs, and along the passages 
 until she reached the third floor, where her own room 
 was situated. The house was dark, silent and deserted. 
 At this hour nearly all the inmates who were not ab 
 sent were in bed. 
 
 She crept along the side of the passage, feeling her 
 way for the door until she had found it; then, in the 
 same way, she felt over the door for the handle of the 
 lock; but, just as she got hold of the handle, she felt 
 the bolt on the inner side shoved into its place, and she 
 knew that she was bolted out of her own room. 
 
 This raised her rage to frenzy, and give her the 
 strength of frenzy. 
 
 She knew the bolt was frail. She drew back for a 
 run, and hurled herself against the door with all her 
 force and burst it open! 
 
 There was a faint scream from Fanny, who stood in 
 the middle of the floor, paralyzed with terror. 
 
 With the spring of a tigress, Madge, her black hair 
 flying, her hollow cheeks burning, her fierce eyes blaz- 
 
THE LOST HEIK 151 
 
 ing, hurled herself upon the girl, threw her down on 
 the ground, and with her knees upon her chest, and her 
 long talonlike fingers clasped around her throat, 
 pressed with all her maniac strength, keeping her eves 
 fixed upon the darkening face and starting eyes of the 
 feebly-struggling victim, and hissing between her 
 clinched teeth: 
 
 "Die die die! I ll never leave go my hold till 
 you re dead dead dead !" 
 
 Except for these low tones of baleful hatred, the 
 struggle was as silent as the grave. It did not wake 
 the sleeping children. It did not rouse the drunken 
 man. It continued in deadly silence until the sound of 
 footsteps was heard approaching the room, and Jerry 
 Juniper, who, alarmed at what might be the conse 
 quences of his words to Madge, had followed her to the 
 house, now entered. 
 
 Seeing the position of affairs, he ran to Madge, seized 
 her, and tore her away from her victim, calling loudly, 
 in the mean time, to Tony for help. But Tony was be 
 yond helping any one. 
 
 Madge, however, now exhausted with the violence of 
 her emotions and exertions, made no resistance, but suf 
 fered herself to be torn away from her victim. 
 
 Jerry Juniper immediately stooped to raise the fallen 
 girl. He was too late. She was quite dead. 
 
 "And I did it with these hands," said Madge, holding 
 up her terrible talonlike fingers in triumph. 
 
 It was not long before several policemen, attracted by 
 the excitement, arrived on the scene. Poor Madge was 
 promptly handcuffed and carried off in custody. 
 
 At ten o clock a coroner s inquest was held over the 
 body of Fanny Flowers. 
 
 Jerry Juniper and the policemen were the principal 
 witnesses. The case was so very clear that, after a 
 brief investigation, the jury made up their verdict that 
 "the deceased had come to her death by strangulation at 
 the hands of Magdalene Brice." 
 
 And the same morning the accused was duly com 
 mitted to Newgate to wait her trial. 
 
 Tony Brice was heart-stricken with remorse, grief 
 
152 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 and fear. He had been discharged from custody by the 
 same magistrate who had committed Madge to jail. And 
 he had followed her when she was taken to Newgate, 
 and had parted with her there, he weeping, she defiant. 
 
 After that he wandered about the streets in a deliri 
 ous manner, drinking rum as long as his money lasted ; 
 but failing in his efforts to drown his trouble in drunk 
 enness. His mental excitement was so great that the 
 liquor for once failed of its usual effect. 
 
 Then he wandered home home no longer for him. 
 He wished to lie down in his own room and rest for 
 ever, if he might. He opened the door, and saw the 
 dead body of poor Fanny laid out neatly upon his bed, 
 and two women watching by it. 
 
 He stopped where he stood and gazed at it. 
 
 "Mr. Brice," said Mrs. Juniper, who was one of the 
 watchers, "we had to lay her out here, because old Mrs. 
 Flowers room wasn t fitting. But if you object to it, 
 in course we must move her there, fitting or no fitting." 
 
 "I don t object to nothink !" answered the miserable 
 man ; "but I wish as some on you would make up a bun 
 dle o poor Madge s clothes and give em to me to carry 
 to her this arternoon afore the prisin is shet ag in 
 friends." 
 
 Mary Kempton, who was the other watcher, promised 
 to do this. 
 
 Then Tony cast his eyes around the room in search 
 of something he could pawn for money to buy more 
 rum, and catching sight of Madge s Sunday bonnet, he 
 snatched it from its hook, muttering, "She ll never need 
 this no more, anyhow," he left the room. 
 
 That night he succeeded in getting himself again into 
 the watchhouse. The next morning he was sent to 
 prison for sixty days. 
 
 Poor Fanny Flowers, after having been murdered by 
 a jealous rival, was buried by the parish. And such 
 was the end of one of these poor, pretty silly sisters. 
 Of the other we shall hear presently. 
 
THE LOST HEIR 153 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 MADGE IN NEWGATE. 
 
 The women of the house carried Madge some clothes. 
 They also went frequently to see her in her prison, but 
 the} 7 always found her so wild and mad and intractable 
 that these visits were very unsatisfactory. 
 
 Rachel Wood and Mary Kempton got leave, through 
 the prison chaplain, to visit her daily in her cell. And 
 they tried hard to bring her into a more Christian 
 frame of mind ; but they tried in vain. 
 
 Old Ruth almost lived under the shadow of the old 
 prison walls. 
 
 She had taken possession of Tony Brice s vacant 
 room ; and she and Benny slept there at night. But in 
 the morning, as soon as she had cooked and they had 
 eaten their bit of breakfast, she would lock up the room 
 and go out with Benny and walk to Newgate, and seat 
 herself on the flagstones under the prison walls, and 
 wait there until the hour came when she could be admit 
 ted into the prison yard with other friends of the pris 
 oners. .While waiting she would make capital of her 
 troubles, whenever she dared, by appealing to the pass 
 ers-by, in behalf of "this poor, pretty boy, my lady, 
 whose mother is in jail here, for strangling of a bad 
 girl, as took away his father from her, my lady which 
 how could she help it? I puts it to you, my lady! But 
 look at him !" she would add, pointing to the fair child, 
 whose pure, sweet, blue eyes were a stronger appeal 
 than the strongest prayer of Ruth. 
 
 She made a good living out of this, picking up from 
 half a crown to five shillings a day. 
 
 Meanwhile, Rachel Wood was studying how she 
 could possibly help the wretched woman, Madge, in this 
 time of her terrible need. 
 
 She had heard it rumored that Madge would speedily 
 be brought to trial. Also that she was not able to en 
 gage counsel, and so would have none to defend her but 
 such as the court should please to appoint, and who 
 
154 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 would probably be some briefless and incompetent 
 young lawyer, whose service would be a mere form, and 
 who would do her case no good. 
 
 Rachel Wood believed Madge to have been insane and 
 irresponsible when she did that dreadful deed. And 
 she further believed that a learned and skillful lawyer 
 would be able to make the jury think so, and thus save 
 the wretched woman s life, though perhaps only at the 
 expense of her perpetual imprisonment as a criminal 
 lunatic. 
 
 After thinking over the matter for a few days, Rachel 
 Wood determined to write and tell her only "guide, 
 philosopher and friend," Mrs. Melliss, all about it, and 
 then ask her advice. 
 
 "It will be just the same as hinting for her to fee a 
 lawyer to defend Madge; but I cannot help it; I must 
 do it. I cannot let that poor, wretched woman I have 
 known so long come to this dreadful end, if I can pre 
 vent it." 
 
 So she wrote a full account of the whole affair to 
 Mrs. Melliss, who was still staying at Kemptown, 
 Brighton. 
 
 Two days after the letter was answered by Mrs. Mel 
 liss in person. She came in a close cab to Junk lane, 
 and, leaving it waiting, went upstairs and rapped at 
 Rachel Wood s door. To the girl s mild invitation to 
 come in, she entered. 
 
 Rachel was sitting at her work-table making a shirt, 
 as usual. 
 
 On seeing her benefactress, she started up with sur 
 prise and pleasure, and went to meet her. 
 
 "I got your letter, Rachel," said the lady, as soon as 
 they had shaken hands and were seated together. "I 
 got it on yesterday morning. And, as I had already 
 arranged to come up to London for a few days on 
 business, I thought I would come here and answer it 
 in person." 
 
 "Oh, how good you are to come! and how glad I 
 am to see you ! This is a dreadful, dreadful misfortune, 
 Mrs. Melliss! I ought not to have troubled you with 
 it! But, indeed, I could not help it! You were my 
 
THE LOST HEIR 155 
 
 last hope for that poor creature," said Rachel, with 
 much emotion. 
 
 "I thank you very much for telling me. Happy peo 
 ple should do all they can for the unhappy. I pity 
 criminals just as much as I do any other class of mis 
 erable people. My dear husband says it is a very great 
 weakness; but I cannot help it. The wretched woman 
 shall have an advocate, Rachel, and a powerful one, 
 too!" said Mrs. Melliss. 
 
 "Oh, thank you! thank you!" said Rachel, seizing and 
 kissing the lady s hand. 
 
 "The counsel I speak of is my stepson, Mr. Percy 
 Melliss, of the Temple. He is a most learned and 
 eloquent barrister. But he is young yet, and has but 
 few briefs. He is also a large-hearted, clear-visioned 
 man, full of philanthropy and benevolence. I feel sure 
 that he will take up the case with as much zeal, and 
 defend it with as much power, as if he were to receive 
 a thousand pounds for his services." 
 
 "Heaven bless him, and you !" fervently breathed the 
 seamstress. 
 
 "I have a close cab waiting at the door, and I will 
 take you to see him at his chambers this morning. But 
 before that, I wish you to take me to Newgate, to 
 see that unhappy woman." 
 
 "Oh, dear Mrs. Melliss ! I m afraid that the sight of 
 her on her prison bed will be too much for your 
 nerves." 
 
 "My nerves! I haven t got any; I never had any. I 
 should be ashamed to have them in such a case as this, 
 Rachel. I mean to go and see that woman in prison. 
 I have seen almost every form of human misery except 
 that of prison life. I mean to see that to-day. So put 
 on your shawl and bonnet, dear girl, and let us go." 
 
 Rachel said no more in opposition to the plan, but 
 made herself ready and attended the lady to the cab. 
 
 They drove rapidly to Newgate. 
 
 It was really the hour for Rachel s usual visit to the 
 prisoner, and the lady and herself were at once ad 
 mitted to the interior of the prison, and conducted to 
 tie cell. 
 
156 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 And now, my reader, the scene I am about to de 
 scribe is not an imaginary, but a real one. 
 
 They entered a small stone cell, where, on a very 
 narrow bed, lay the long, gaunt form of Madge Brice. 
 Her long, black hair was wandering over the pillow 
 and coverlet in snaky locks. Her fierce black eyes, 
 deep sunken in their sockets, were gleaming like sparks 
 of fire. Her cheeks were sunken into two deep hol 
 lows, where two dark crimson spots burned like coals. 
 Her long, dark, bony arms, bare nearly to the shoul 
 ders, were lifted up before her face, while she opened 
 and shut her dark, bony hands, gazing at them wist 
 fully. 
 
 "How are vou, Madge, dear?" inquired Rachel, 
 kindly. 
 
 "Same," answered the woman, curtly, without re 
 moving her gaze from the working fingers. 
 
 "Madge, dear, I have brought a lady here to see you, 
 and do you good if she can. And she is going to get 
 a lawyer for you, Madge, a first-rate lawyer, to defend 
 you on your trial. Look around at the lady, Madge. 
 She is Mrs. Melliss." 
 
 Thus persuaded, Madge turned her gaunt, dark face 
 and fiery eyes upon the visitor with a look that went 
 to the lady s heart. 
 
 "What do she care for the likes of a poor wretch 
 sich as me?" muttered Madge. 
 
 "But I do care a great deal for you, my poor woman. 
 I am grieved to see you in this situation," murmured 
 Angela, in that low, sweet, loving tone that ever 
 touched the sympathies of all who heard it. And she 
 laid her cool hand on the woman s dark, corrugated 
 brow. 
 
 Something in the look, the tone and the touch reached 
 and melted the hardness of that woman s heart. She 
 burst into a passion of wild sobs and tears, the first 
 that she had shed since her arrest; and amid it all she 
 began, in an eager, vehement, incoherent manner, to 
 pour out the story of her wrongs and crimes. 
 
 "I could not help it, my lady! She took my own 
 dear man away from me ! My Tony was as good a man 
 
THE LOST HEIK 157 
 
 as ever broke bread till that gal come over him and 
 witched him. She was young and pretty and gay, my 
 lady ; and I were getting old and sickly and mopy. And 
 so she heaved a spell over my Tony, and took his love 
 away from me. And that night! that night! while I 
 was I was at a neighbor s wake, he took his sweetheart 
 into my room, my lady, into mine! And a friend o 
 mine come and told me. And I flew back home like a 
 flame of fire. And they locked the door of the room 
 ag in me, to keep me out out of my own room, and 
 away from my own husband ! Then I felt as strong as 
 ten men. I throwed myself ag in the door, and busted 
 of it open. And I throwed myself upon her and 
 throwed her down like a felled ox. And I got my knees 
 on her breast and my fingers around her throat, 
 and " 
 
 Oh, hush ! hush ! poor woman, hush ! This is too, 
 too horrible!" murmured Angela, shuddering and cov 
 ering her face; but Madge could not stop herself. 
 
 "I strangled her with these hands, my lady! I used 
 no knife nor club, nor pisen. nor pistil; I did it with 
 these hands!" she wildly cried, rearing up her long, 
 bony arms, and opening and shutting her dark, horny 
 fingers. 
 
 "Oh, stop! stop! You must not talk of this now. 
 You are sorry for doing it now, you know." 
 
 "Sorry! I would do it again! I know they ll hang 
 me for it out here in front of Newgate, in sight of all 
 the people; but I don t care. I d do it again, if I was 
 sure they d hang me again!" 
 
 "Oh, horrible! horrible! She is mad indeed!" mut 
 tered Mrs. Melliss, almost regretting that she had made 
 this visit. 
 
 But she spoke a few kind, soothing words to the 
 woman, and arose to leave the cell. 
 
 "You ll come and see me again, my lady? Your face 
 is the sweetest face but one as ever smiled on me. You ll 
 not keep away from the poor creature who can t get 
 out of this, and who can t repent of what she s done, 
 and who must so soon die on the gallows, and go to 
 burning " 
 
158 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 "Hush ! you must not say such dreadful words ! We 
 are all going to try to save you, and we hope to suc 
 ceed. Yes, I will come again. I will come every day 
 while I stay in town. To-morrow I will bring my son 
 to see you, and he will be your counsel," said Angela. 
 
 "Your son, my lady? my young, pretty little lady, 
 your son?" 
 
 "My stepson," explained Angela. 
 
 "Oh! that indeed! I shall be glad to see him, my 
 lady. I thank you." 
 
 "And he will be glad to do you good, I feel sure. 
 Now good-by," said Mrs. Melliss, pressing the woman s 
 hand and turning to leave the cell. 
 
 Rachel also took leave of Madge, and followed Mrs. 
 Melliss. A turnkey showed them out. 
 
 They were soon in the cab again, and on their way 
 to the Temple. They drove on in silence. Mrs. Melliss 
 was too deeply affected by all that she had seen to talk 
 about it, and Rachel Wood forebore to speak. 
 
 When they reached the chambers occupied by Mr. 
 Percy Melliss, barrister-at-law, Mrs. Melliss sent up 
 her name, and was at once admitted to the presence of 
 her stepson. 
 
 He wes a very handsome young man, tall and very 
 dark like his father, slight and graceful, and gifted 
 with a pair of dark, earnest, eloquent eyes and a deep, 
 full, clear voice, both powerful allies in his profession. 
 
 He arose and embraced his youthful stepmother, who 
 then presented her companion, and finally sat down 
 and opened her case. 
 
 "I have heard and read of that affair a very singu 
 lar one, indeed. And you really think the woman mad?" 
 inqured the young barrister. 
 
 "I really do." 
 
 "And she has no counsel, you say?" 
 
 "None. She is not able to retain any." 
 
 "But, of course, you know the court will assign he* 
 counsel." 
 
 "Yes, some stick!" 
 
 "Most likely. Well, I think I shall have to take this 
 case. I have very little to do now. Since you prom- 
 
THE LOST HEIR 159 
 
 ised to take me, I will go with you to see this woman. 
 What hour shall we go?" 
 
 "At ten. I will call for you here in a cab." 
 
 "Thanks. That will do quite well," said the young 
 lawyer. 
 
 And then he escorted his youthful stepmother and 
 her companion downstairs and put them in their cab. 
 
 "Where shall I tell the man to drive to?" inquired 
 the young lawyer, holding the cab door in his hand 
 while he waited for directions. 
 
 "Oh, of course back to Junk lane." 
 
 "To I beg your pardon," said Percy Melliss, who 
 had never heard of the place in his life "where did 
 you say?" 
 
 "Oh, then, to the Brunswick Hotel, Berners street," 
 answered Mrs. Melliss, altering her instructions. 
 
 The young barrister repeated the directions, bowed 
 and closed the carriage, and the cab started. 
 
 "Our house in Charles street is shut up while we 
 stay at Brighton, and there is no one in care of it 
 except a charwoman in the basement. So I am at the 
 Brunswick, in Berners street, with only my maid. It is 
 a pleasant, quiet house. And I would like to have 
 you stop and take luncheon with me there, before you 
 return to Junk lane," said Mrs. Melliss to her com 
 panion, as they drove along. 
 
 Eachel thanked her benefactress, but declined the 
 invitation, pleading work waiting for her at home that 
 must be finished by a certain time. 
 
 So, when the cab reached Berners street, Mrs. Melliss 
 took leave of Rachel, paid the driver in advance, and 
 ordered him to drive the young woman back to Junk 
 lane. 
 
 The next day, according to arrangement, Mrs. Mel 
 liss drove to the Temple and took up her stepson, and 
 thence to Newgate, and introduced him to his client. 
 
 Madge told her horrible story over again to a very 
 attentive listener, who took notes of her talk. 
 
 But she still harped upon two things. 
 
 First, that she "did it with these hands, and would 
 do it again." 
 
160 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 Second, that "she knew they would hang her, and 
 she didn t care if they did." 
 
 The young advocate was very much interested in his 
 strange client, and, after quite a long interview with 
 her, he retired to work up his case. 
 
 "She is undoubtedly mad. We shall be able to save 
 her life, but not her liberty," was the opinion he ex 
 pressed to his stepmother, on taking leave of that 
 lady at the Temple, 
 
 That day Mrs. Melliss, having completed the shop 
 ping business that had brought her to London, went 
 back by the late afternoon train to Brighton. 
 
 The next day Mr. Percy Melliss took an eminent 
 physician to Newgate to examine the mental condition 
 of his client. 
 
 And the third day he engaged the attendance of the 
 physician in charge of the Hanwell Lunatic Asylum. 
 And in due time he received the opinions of both these 
 gentlemen, who found the prisoner suffering under 
 mental derangement. 
 
 The young advocate worked hard at this case; saw 
 his client almost every day, and sat up nearly all night 
 every night, reading up the subject and taking notes 
 upon it. For there was very little time to spare. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 MADGE S T*IIAL. 
 
 Madge Brice was speedily brought to trial at the Old 
 Bailey, charged with the willful murder of Frances 
 Flowers. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Melliss came up to town on this occa 
 sion, because Mrs. Melliss felt very much interested in 
 the fate of the accused, and Mr. Melliss wished to hear 
 his son plead in a case where it was supposed that he 
 would distinguish himself. 
 
 Mary Kempton was also in court, and sat as near to 
 the prisoner in the dock as she was permitted to do. 
 
THE LOST HEIR 161 
 
 Old Ruth Drug was there, of course. Tony Brice was 
 not there, being still in prison. Many of the men and 
 women from Junk lane were present, crowding into the 
 lower end of the hall. 
 
 I shall give but a brief report of this trial, for it 
 was very short and soon over. 
 
 When the prisoner was arraigned at the bar, and 
 asked whether she were guilty or not guilty of the 
 felony laid to her charge, she answered vehemently 
 before any one could stop her torrent of words, and 
 answered by harping upon her two strings: 
 
 "Guilty, my lord, if you please to call it so, which I 
 don t; for I did it with these hands, and would do it 
 again. Which I know you will hang me, and I don t 
 care if you do." 
 
 The prisoner was ordered to sit down. And, not 
 withstanding her astounding confession, the trial 
 proceeded. 
 
 The counsel for the crown opened the case with a 
 few preliminary remarks, and called witnesses to tes 
 tify to the murder. These were the Junipers, and the 
 policemen who were first upon the scene of the trag 
 edy. The fact that Madge Brice murdered Fanny 
 Flowers was clearly proved. And the queen s counsel 
 expressed a hope that the jury would do their duty 
 in the premises, notwithstanding the plea of insanity 
 which he understood the learned counsel for the ac 
 cused meant to set up for her acquittal. The case on 
 the part of the crown was then closed. 
 
 Mr. Percy Melliss arose for the defense. He could 
 not have been more in earnest if his client had been 
 a duchess, his retaining fee had been a thousand 
 pounds, and the scene of the trial had been in the 
 House of Lords instead of at the Old Bailey. In a 
 few earnest, eloquent words, he recounted the wrongs 
 that had been heaped upon the prisoner wrongs, he 
 said, that would have broken the heart of the most 
 patient wife, but that had driven this wild, impassioned 
 woman, with her ill-balanced brain and ill-regulated 
 heart, perfectly frantic with jealousy; so that in a 
 moment of intolerable provocation, and in a paroxysm 
 
162 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 of furious frenzy, she had committed the crime _or 
 which she stood arraigned, but for which no judge 
 or jury could hold her responsible. 
 
 Then he produced his witnesses. 
 
 First, in succession, came the women who had lived 
 in the house with Madge, and who testified to the 
 provocations "aggrawations" they called them that 
 the prisoner had received from the deceased. After 
 them came the physicians who had examined the pris 
 oner in her cell, and who now testified to her mental 
 derangement and moral irresponsibility. 
 
 The case for the defence was closed by the young 
 advocate in a most powerful address to the jury on 
 behalf of the prisoner. 
 
 The judge summed up the evidence in a very impar 
 tial manner, and then gave the case to the jury. 
 
 And it was assuredly due to the learning and logic, 
 earnestness and eloquence of the young counsel for the 
 defence that the jury brought in their modified verdict 
 of: 
 
 "Guilty, with a strong recommendation to the mercy 
 of the crown." 
 
 The prisoner was immediately remanded to Newgate 
 to await the pleasure of her majesty. 
 
 Another case was called. And the friends of poor 
 Madge Brice, breathing more freely, arose and with 
 drew from the court. 
 
 Mrs. Melliss looked around in the crowd for Kachel 
 Wood, and, catching sight of the poor seamstress, beck 
 oned her to approach. 
 
 "I saw you looking ready to faint, my poor girl, while 
 you were sitting in the courtroom. And so you must 
 take a seat in the cab with me, and I will take you 
 home before I go back to the Brunswick," said the lady, 
 as the seamstress came up x to her. 
 
 "But will it not be too much trouble?" 
 
 "No; I want a long ride, after sitting still so long." 
 
 "But shall I not inconvenience Mr. Melliss and Mr. 
 Percy?" 
 
 "Oh! they are not going with me. They have gone 
 
THE LOST HEIR 163 
 
 off together to write up the petition which is to accom 
 pany the recommendation for mercy." 
 
 "Will poor Madge be pardoned, do you think?" 
 
 "Hardly! She will probably be dealt with as a crim 
 inal lunatic, and imprisoned in the asylum for such 
 persons, during the pleasure of her majesty." 
 
 "And that means for life?" 
 
 "I think, in such cases as this, that it does." 
 
 "Well, madam, at least that poor creature owes her 
 life to your stepson." 
 
 "I think certainly she does." 
 
 And then they talked of the eloquence of the young 
 barrister, and of other matters connected with the 
 trial, until they reached a certain point, where Mrs. 
 Melliss ordered the coachman to stop. 
 
 He drew up before an intelligence office. 
 
 "I must go in here, Eachel. My maid is about to 
 leave me. She is going with her parents to Australia. 
 And I have to look up another one. A great nuisance, 
 Rachel! It is all a lottery, in which the prizes are 
 as one in a hundred among the blanks. I don t like 
 ladies maids as a class. I do wish I could find a tidy, 
 respectable young person who had never been in service 
 before, and would be willing to come to me," saiJ the 
 lady, as she was lifting the front of her dress to step 
 out of the carriage. 
 
 "Stop, dear Mrs. Melliss, please!" said Rachel, sud 
 denly. "I know just the girl to suit you !" 
 
 Mrs. Melliss sat down in her carriage again, and 
 Rachel continued: 
 
 "She is Mary Kempton. She is a pious, intelligent, 
 clean girl ; very pleasant looking also. I should not 
 venture to recommend her to you, if I were not sure 
 that you would find her a real treasure. And oh! it 
 would be such a real blessing to her to take service 
 with you." 
 
 "How zealous you are! Where is this paragon?" 
 
 "She lives with her parents in the lower part of the 
 house where I live. They keep the old-clothes shop 
 that you saw there. She has never been in service; 
 
164 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 and all I beg of you, madam, is that you will see her 
 and judge for yourself, before you engage any one 
 else." 
 
 "I shall not get out here. Drive to Junk lane," said 
 the lady to the cabman, who was still standing at the 
 door, waiting orders. "I will see her at once," she 
 explained, turning to Rachel, as the man closed the 
 door, remounted to his box, and started his horses. 
 They reached the house in Junk lane. Rachel Wood 
 took Mrs. Melliss up to her own room, and then went 
 downstairs and brought Mary Kempton up for exam 
 ination. 
 
 The lady and the girl were favorably impressed with 
 each other at first sight. And a frank conversation 
 of half an hour s duration confirmed these first im 
 pressions. 
 
 In brief, Mary Kempton was engaged as lady s maid 
 to Mrs. Melliss at wages of thirty pounds a year; and 
 she was to enter upon her new situation upon the first 
 of the ensuing January. And it was hard to tell who 
 was the most pleased with the new arrangement, Mrs. 
 Melliss, Mary Kempton, or poor Rachel Wood. 
 
 A few days after this, Madge Brice s fate was decid 
 ed. It was to be imprisonment in the Asylum for 
 Criminal Lunatics during her majesty s pleasure. 
 
 This asylum was known to be conducted on the most 
 humane and enlightened principles. And this decision 
 gave much satisfaction to all the well-wishers of poop 
 Madge, evcept her old mother, Ruth Drug, who, instead 
 of being grateful, was furious. 
 
 "They might as well a hanged her at once and put 
 her out of her misery," she grumbled to any one who 
 would listen. And then to little Benny she said: 
 
 "Come, lad. I m sick and tired of this here place 
 ever since what happened. All the nobs have left this 
 here foggy, smoky, nasty town, and have gone away 
 down to the South Coast, where they say it be mostly 
 clear and mild. Why not we, too? We ll folly the 
 nobs, lad! Well take advantage of this fine weather 
 and tramp do\vn to Brighting. We ll do it afore Tony 
 
THE LOST HEIR 165 
 
 gets out o gaol to stop you. It will be jolly fun for 
 the likes o you, lad, to go on the tramp," she added. 
 
 But Benny did not seem to see it. He was grieving 
 himself almost to death about his "mammy." She had 
 been a very capricious mammy to him scolding, shak 
 ing and beating him much often than petting or caress 
 ing him; but still she was the only mammy he ever 
 knew, and he wept over her fate as if his heart would 
 break. 
 
 Old Ruth Drug having decided to set out with Benny 
 early the next morning on a begging tramp to Brighton, 
 went into her own room, drank all the rum that was 
 left in the bottle, and laid down to go to sleep. 
 
 Little Benny was left to do as he pleased, and he 
 pleased to play about the passages and stairs with his 
 dear little friend Suzy. 
 
 On this same day came Mrs. Melliss to give some 
 final instructions to her newly-engaged maid, and also 
 to leave some work with Rachel, and to bid her good-by 
 before returning to Brighton. 
 
 She went up immediately to Rachel s room, and re 
 quested the seamstress to send for Mary Kempton. 
 
 Rachel Wood opened the door and called little Benny 
 from the passage, and sent him on the errand. 
 
 Mary Kempton soon obeyed the summons, and pre 
 sented herself before her new mistress. 
 
 Mrs. Melliss gave her some few directions as to how 
 and when she should come down to her at Brighton, 
 and then kindly dismissed her. 
 
 When Mary had curtseyed and left the room, Mrs. 
 Melliss turned to Rachel and said: 
 
 "I am going back to Brighton by the ten a. m. train 
 to-morrow ; but before I go I wish to do something for 
 the poor people. One cannot pretend to help all the 
 poor of London ; but one should do something for such 
 as come immediately under one s own observation, you 
 know, Rachel," she added apologetically, and blushing 
 for her own zeal. 
 
 Rachel did not reply. She thought of little Benny 
 and Suzy, and the scores of children she knew, who 
 
166 THE LOST HEIE 
 
 were growing up in ignorance, squalor and vice. But 
 she also knew that it would be utterly useless to at 
 tempt to save them, unless they could be taken by force 
 from the influence of their unworthy parents. 
 
 "Tell me now, Kachel, who are most in want in this 
 house?" inquired Mrs. Melliss. 
 
 "There is no one here suffering from any cause but 
 idleness and drunkenness, unless they be old Ruth 
 Drug, the mother of Madge Brice, and old Mrs. Flow 
 ers, the grandmother of Fanny. Both these poor old 
 women have lost their last daughter by that sad trag 
 edy, and they are almost entirely destitute." 
 
 "Here, then, Rachel, here is a ten-pound note. I 
 leave it in your hands for their benefit. Give it to them 
 in such instalments as you deem prudent. And write 
 to me when you require more," said Mrs. Melliss, as 
 she arose to take leave. 
 
 Rachel also arose to attend her downstairs. 
 
 When they went into the passage a curious thing 
 happened. They found little Benny playing there 
 alone. Little Suzy was gone. She had been carried 
 off by her father to act her part in the matinee at the 
 Thespian. Mrs. Melliss glanced at the boy as he sat 
 playing marbles by himself in the passage, and then 
 she stopped short and looked at him. To be sure, his 
 poor little clothes were both ragged and dirty, his 
 shapely little feet were bare, and his milk-white knees 
 showed through the holes in his trousers. But his 
 complexion was so fair and clear, his features were so 
 regular and delicate, his hair was so fine and golden- 
 hued, his expression was so refined, and more than all, 
 his eyes, as he lifted them to the lady s face, were so 
 clear and frank, and yes! where had she seen these 
 eyes before? these sweet, serious, steady, intense eyes? 
 She could not remove hers from the boy. A rare gem 
 shining in a gutter! A fair flower blooming on a 
 dunghill! Such seemed this beautiful child, living 
 in this wretched tenement house. 
 
 Was it his beauty alone that fascinated her gaze? 
 Scarcely, for suddenly she started and inquired : 
 
 "Whose child is this?" 
 
THE LOST HEIR 167 
 
 "He was Madge Brice s. He is Ruth Drug s now." 
 
 "It is amazing!" 
 
 "What is?" 
 
 "The likeness between this boy and the little Earl 
 of Wellrose, the Duke of Cheviot s son and heir." 
 
 "We do see strange likenesses in this world," re 
 marked Rachel. 
 
 "But this is more than a likeness ; this child is the 
 very counterpart, the fac simile, the double of the Earl 
 of Wellrose ! How very, very strange ! Who is he, did 
 you say?" 
 
 "I said he was Madge Brice s child ; that is, I mean 
 her foster-child. He was a love-child, left in her charge 
 and then deserted. No one here, not even Madge, 
 knows anything else about him." 
 
 "Merciful Heaven!" muttered Mrs. Melliss, in a low 
 voice. "If it should be so! But it cannot be! The 
 duke, even as a young man, bore an excellent character. 
 But it is most strange ! Here, Rachel, take this guinea 
 and buy the poor boy a suit of clothes. And here, my 
 pretty boy, take this shilling and spend as you like," 
 she added, as she stooped and kissed the child. 
 
 She then shook hands with Rachel and went away. 
 
 The next morning, old Ruth, happy in the possession 
 of two sovereigns given her out of the little fund left 
 in Rachel s hands, and Benny, delighted with his new 
 suit of clothes, set out on their tramp to Brighton. 
 Will Benny meet his gracious mother, who is spending 
 the winter there? We shall see. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 WANDERING BENNY. 
 
 The Duke and Duchess of Cheviot were at their 
 house on Brunswick terrace, Brighton, for the winter, 
 or until the meeting of Parliament in February should 
 recall them to London. 
 
 They had now been married more than seven years, 
 
168 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 and their marriage had been very prolific. There were 
 now five children in the Cheviot nursery. Besides the 
 little Lord Wellrose, aged about six years, who stood 
 in our poor little outcast Benny s rightful place, there 
 were four little ladies Lady Jessie, aged five; Clem- 
 ence, three; Hester, two, and Eva, who was still in the 
 cradle. 
 
 Never lived there, in any rank of life, a more con 
 scientious and devoted mother than was the young 
 Duchess of Cheviot. She had a very learned and ac 
 complished governess for her children, but she herself 
 was their principal educator. Especially she cultivated 
 in their hearts the love of God and of their fellow- 
 beings. She taught them that "love is the fulfilling of 
 the law." And she brought all good and beautiful in 
 fluences of religion, poetry, art and observation to 
 cause them to feel as well as to know this central truth 
 of our lives. 
 
 The little Earl of Wellrose and the little Lady Jessie 
 Douglas received all these lessons with reverence and 
 affection. The other children were yet too young to 
 understand much about the matter. 
 
 If the duchess hoped more from one of her children 
 than from all the others, it was from the little Lord 
 Wellrose perhaps because he was the Earl of Well- 
 rose, the eldest son and heir, and the only one, as far 
 as she knew. At all events she hoped much from the 
 future of the little earl. She saw in him not the future 
 head of the renowned old house of Douglas-Cheviot, not 
 the future statesman, or minister; oh, no! her vision 
 was higher! for she saw in him the future humanita 
 rian, the philanthropist, the lover of his fellow man, 
 in whose life thousands of other lives should be re 
 deemed and blessed. 
 
 Lady Jessie was very like her brother, but she was 
 more impulsive and less intellectual. 
 
 And not only by cultivating in her children the love 
 of humanity, but by many schemes of benevolence, did 
 the young duchess seek to serve humanity. 
 
 On every one of her large estates she established 
 industrial schools. And even in London, in several 
 
\ 
 
 THE LOST HEIR 169 
 
 poor neighborhoods, she had opened day schools for 
 the poorest children. And if she had only known any 
 thing about that house in Junk lane, she would have 
 hired the largest room in it for an infant school, and 
 engaged Rachel as its teacher. Let us hope that some 
 day her intimate friend, Mrs. Melliss, may chance to 
 drop some words that may call her attention to it. 
 What a happy thing that would be for the poor seam 
 stress, for the neglected children she loves so well, and 
 possibly for little Benny also ! 
 
 By the way, there was this slight difference between 
 the benevolent instincts of these two ladies : 
 
 The duchess, who had never entered the courts of 
 poverty, where she might have seen for herself the 
 utter destitution of that class, but who found in the 
 newspapers much about juvenile depravity, felt a 
 deeper pity for the children, because in their docile 
 infancy they were being formed into criminals, as she 
 read daily in the public prints, than because they were 
 suffering from famine, squalor and disease, of which 
 she knew practically nothing. 
 
 Angela Melliss, on the contrary, who was a frequent 
 visitor in their wretched abodes, and who saw with 
 her own eyes, heard with her own ears, and "smelt with 
 her own nose" this hideous state of famine, squalor and 
 disease, even while she deplored the want of moral 
 training that was leading them to perdition, felt a 
 quicker sympathy for their present and more pressing 
 needs, and was more interested that they should be 
 washed, clothed and fed than that they should be 
 schooled. 
 
 It would have been well for the objects of their char 
 ity could these ladies have combined in efforts for their 
 relief. But, as yet, the Duchess of Cheviot and Mrs. 
 Melliss, each working so zealously in the same holy 
 cause, and meeting so frequently in social circles, had 
 never chanced to meet in their work, or to act in 
 unison. 
 
 The young Duchess of Cheviot was enjoying a very 
 delightful season this winter at Brighton, for her 
 
170 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 pleasant house was filled with all her best beloved 
 friends. 
 
 There was the Earl of Ornoch, who had long been 
 quite reconciled to his cousin, the duchess; and with 
 him his lovely young countess, once Miss Chimboza, 
 and their son and heir, the little Viscount Moray, who 
 was about the same age as the small Lady Jessie 
 Douglas, with whom he was great friends. 
 
 And there was Mr. and Lady Margaret Elphinstone, 
 whom we first knew as Captain Francis Harry and 
 Lady Margaret Douglas. Some three years after the 
 marriage of Captain Harry and Lady Margaret, he 
 inherited the estates of his granduncle, and assumed 
 the name and arms of Elphinstone of Harewood hav 
 ing sold out his commission in the army. Therefore, to 
 avoid confusion, please to bear in mind that our old 
 friends, Captain Harry and Lady Margaret, are now 
 Mr. and Lady Margaret Elphinstone. With them were 
 their two fine children, Victoria, aged five, and Albert, 
 aged four. 
 
 A very pleasant party, which none enjoyed more 
 than the children. There were eight of them, you will 
 observe four boys and four girls. 
 
 They had spent Christmas holidays charmingly, and 
 they were now about to wind them up with a Twelfth- 
 day party for the little ones. 
 
 Before Brunswick Terrace, as every one knows, is a 
 beautiful verdant square, green even in the dead of the 
 winter. A large reception-room fronting this square 
 was selected and decorated with flowers, for the chil 
 dren s Twelfth-day party. A splendid Twelfth-day 
 cake had been ordered at Mouton s, and had been sent 
 home that morning. 
 
 At an early hour of the evening, or rather at a late 
 hour of the afternoon, the children, gayly dressed, as 
 sembled in this room, where they engaged in many en 
 livening games. Later on they were joined by their 
 parents and friends. And as the crowning event of the 
 feast, the Twelfth-day cake was to be cut, and he or she 
 who was so lucky as to get the slice with the ring in it 
 was to be crowned with a holly or a Christmas-rose 
 
THE LOST HEIR 171 
 
 wreath, king or queen of Twelfth Day, and was to 
 select his or her consort. 
 
 There was no butler or footman needed here to wait. 
 The Twelfth-day cake stood upon its stand on a round 
 table in the center of the room, and the Duke of Chev 
 iot chose himself to cut it, and the duchess to dis 
 tribute the slices to the eager and expectant children. 
 The duke and duchess, now that they had been mar 
 ried seven years, and had a family of five children 
 around them, were in no may else changed since we 
 knew them first. The duke was the same "Bonnie Wil 
 lie Douglas," the duchess the "Glad-eyed Eglantine." 
 
 Amid the skipping and dancing, chattering and 
 laughing of the irrepressible young ones, the great cake 
 was cut and the slices distributed. And now all was 
 anxiety to know who should be the favorite of fortune, 
 and find the ring in his or her slice. 
 
 "Mamma, dear," said the little Lady Jessie Douglas, 
 holding her own slice daintily in her hand, so as not to 
 break the snowy frosting, or to drop a crumb, "please, 
 may I do what I like with my slice?" 
 
 "Certainly, my love," replied the duchess, in some 
 curiosity, as her "glad eyes" questioned her little 
 daughter. 
 
 "Then, if you please, mamma, dear, I should so like 
 to give it to a poor little boy I saw out on the pave 
 ment. I saw him through the window. There he is 
 now," said the little lady, holding her cake carefully in 
 one hand while she parted the crimson curtains with 
 the other. 
 
 "Very well, love, you shall send it to him. Thomas !" 
 this to the hall footman. 
 
 "Oh, mamma! please, please, T want to give it to him 
 myself. I want to see his face when he get it. I would 
 rather see his face when he gets it than eat the cake 
 myself. Please, please, mamma, dear, let me give it to 
 him myself, and see how he looks! Won t he be lad?" 
 How could the young mother, consistently with her 
 principles of humanity, check the benevolent impulses 
 of her little daughter, even when they seemed, as in 
 this case, slightly absurd? 
 
172 THE LOST HEIK 
 
 "Thomas," she said, to the same footman, "go and 
 bring in the little boy that Lady Jessie points out." 
 
 The tall footman touched his forehead in respectful 
 silence and turned to obey. 
 
 "Here, Thomas; it is that little pale boy, standing 
 by that old, old woman. Do you see him?" inquired 
 the child. 
 
 "Yes, my lady," answered the man, again touching 
 his forehead, as he went out to follow the directions 
 given him. 
 
 My acute reader has already surmised that "the little 
 pale boy and the old, old woman" on the pavement out 
 side were no others than little Benny and his granny. 
 
 They had tramped and begged their way from Lon 
 don to Brighton, stopping at the tramps lodging- 
 houses in the villages on their road each night, and re 
 suming their journey in the morning. They had occu 
 pied a week in their journey, and had, as old Kuth said, 
 "made a good thing of it." Almost any one who had 
 anything to spare was willing to give a penny, a crust 
 or a bone to the fair boy or to the poor old woman, and 
 some were both able and willing to give more. 
 
 They had reached Brighton three days before the 
 Twelfth Day, and they had taken lodgings in a miser 
 able tramps lodging-house in one of the back slums of 
 the town. 
 
 The old woman tied a green shade over her eyes and 
 permitted Benny to lead her through the streets as 
 though she were blind. 
 
 They formed a pair that would have deceived even a 
 metropolitan policeman that fair, beautiful boy, with 
 his clear, pure blue eyes and his pathetic voice, and the 
 seemingly aged and blind grandmother whom he led. 
 
 That night when they returned to their miserable 
 lodgings, and old Kuth counted their gains, she found 
 that they had bagged three shillings and nine pence, 
 in silver and copper coins. 
 
 "Pretty well for one day, Benny." 
 
 "Yes, granny." 
 
 "You ve been a good boy to-day, Benny, a very good 
 boy, indeed. Come, kiss me now!" 
 
THE LOST HEIE 173 
 
 And little Benny put his arms around the old crone s 
 neck and kissed her with much affection. And he hon 
 estly believed that he had been a "very good boy" that 
 day, and he felt quite happy that night. 
 
 The next day being another fine one, they went forth 
 again. On this occasion they went down to the beach. 
 And Benny led about his "poor, old, blind granny," and 
 begged for her in the same manner and with the same 
 success as on the preceding day. 
 
 In the course of their walk, they came upon a very 
 interesting group a nursery governess with her young 
 charge not an unusual sight on the Brighton sands in 
 the height of the season, only this group was so un 
 usually beautiful. 
 
 It was Miss Neville, the pretty nursery governess 
 from Brunswick terrace, with the Duchess of Cheviot s 
 lovely children. 
 
 Attracted by her smiling face, little Benny imme 
 diately addressed her: 
 
 "Please, ma am, only one penny, for my poor, old, 
 blind granny." 
 
 "You poor child!" murmured the gentle girl, gazing 
 with compassion on the fair, refined face of the beggar 
 boy, and mentally contrasting it with his coarse cloth 
 ing and bare feet, as she drew a sixpence from her 
 pocket and dropped it in his hand. 
 
 While he was very sweetly thanking her, the little 
 Cheviot girls crowded around him. Here was an 
 especial object of charity! Such a beautiful little beg 
 gar boy! And oh! so much like their own brother 
 Wellrose! thought the little ladies, as they searched 
 their pockets for small silver coins. 
 
 But before they could offer him any money, little 
 Lord Wellrose, who had been playing at a short dis 
 tance, came up, and came through the group to see the 
 little beggar. 
 
 And the two brothers the earl and the outcast- 
 stood face to face. How much alike they looked! 
 Both had inherited the delicate features, the fair com 
 plexion, golden hair and the clear blue eyes, the sweet, 
 
174 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 serious, steadfast, penetrating eyes of their father, 
 "Bonnie Willie Douglas." 
 
 They gazed at each other with a strange mutual 
 fascination. 
 
 "Why why do you go barefooted, boy?" at length 
 inquired the little earl. 
 
 "Please, sir, because I ha n t got no shoes," answered 
 Benny, quite truly. 
 
 "But you have very good clothes on. It is unusual 
 to see a boy with such good clothes and bare feet at 
 this season," said the boy earl. 
 
 "Please, sir, a lady guv Miss Eachel Wood money to 
 get me these clothes, and she got em and put em on to 
 me." 
 
 "I wonder why she didn t get you shoes at the same 
 time." 
 
 "Lord Wellrose, my dear," said Miss Neville, gently, 
 "you should not cross-question the poor boy. Be con 
 siderate, my love." 
 
 "I am so, Miss Neville, dear. But I wish to know all 
 about this class, for when I grow up and have the 
 power, I mean to do something," answered the little 
 earl, precisely in the same hopeful spirit in which his 
 poor brother, the little outcast, so often talked of what 
 he should do when he should "git a big man." Then, 
 turning toward the beggar boy, he inquired : 
 
 "Why didn t the lady give you shoes as well as 
 clothes?" 
 
 "Please, my lord, I had a pair o shoes, which they 
 weren t so old then ; but I wored em out on the tramp, 
 
 did, your lordship," said the child, upon whom the 
 little earl s title spoken by Miss Neville had not been 
 lost. 
 
 "Jessie!" said little Lord Wellrose, "how much 
 money have you?" 
 
 "Oh, Alick, I m so sorry! I spent all my money buy 
 ing shells on the pier. And I didn t care for them 
 either, for I gave them away the next minute," an 
 swered little Lady Jessie. 
 
 "Have you any, Clem?" 
 
THE LOST HEIR 1 75 
 
 r "} h ve ane shmn S, Alick, dear," replied the small 
 Lady C emence. "And you may give it to the bov 
 , :i ., A ? _* d ? t a sis P en ?> 4 1!t - An >ou may div it to 
 
 >mi h t K v o de 
 
 Belter S Z W1Z Said little tw -year-old Lady 
 
 "Hetty, you are a duck! Hand over the sixpence. 
 So are you, Clem! Produce your shilling. Eighteen 
 pence between you! Jessie, I m ashamed of you 
 Where do you expect to go when you die? To the rich 
 
 ufiw Srk?, W 6 . 1 And y u kn ^ where that 
 JS, said the httle lord, significantly, as he searched his 
 own pockets and drew forth a few small silver coins! 
 which he proceeded to count. "Three and six here, and 
 eighteen pence between you two; five shillings in all 
 31188 Neville, dear, is this enough to buy this bov a pair 
 of^shoes?" he inquired, turning toward his governess. 
 
 es, love, and a pair of socks also," answered the 
 governess who, acting under the direction of the 
 duchess, always encouraged the children in acts of 
 self-denial and benevolence. 
 
 Here, then, little boy, take this and go and bur 
 yourself a pair of shoes and stockings," said little Lord 
 
 Irose, offering his money. 
 
 had S hP?hlT i th 67 e el interrupted; "I think vou 
 had better take the footman and go with this bov to 
 
 "- er S ^ P n the Ki "S s *d ^d have 
 
 hi fi Hp-H , the Ki "S s *d, ^d have 
 
 him fitted with a pair of shoes, and then pav for them. 
 And afterward take him to a haberdasher s shop and 
 give him two pair of socks. Here is another sixpence 
 love, to buy the second pair of socks " 
 
 Pm S much 
 
 tn tl cann t , le ve , granny," objected little Bennv, loval 
 to the wretched old imposter, though sorelv tempted to 
 
 brotTer ^ ^ f We lr Se his "^ unkno^ 
 
 m - v s!sters wi " see to "PI-, un- 
 
176 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 "blind" beggar until the return of her guide. 
 
 Then the little lord and the little beggar, attended by 
 the footman, went up the cliff together on their way to 
 the King s road. 
 
 As soon as they were gone, Miss Neville who, as the 
 daughter of a clergyman, knew much more of the char 
 acter and habits of tramps and beggars than do other 
 young persons, and knew that they frequently took out 
 their children barefooted and half naked in the bitter 
 est cold weather, not from necessity, but for the pur 
 pose of exciting pity and gaining alms Miss Neville, 
 I say, turned to the so-called blind woman, and said : 
 
 "We shall probably see you and your little leader 
 quite often, in our walks upon the beach." 
 
 "Yes, ma am, it s like as you ll see us often. I wish 
 I could see you as well," whined the old impostor. 
 
 "Let that pass," said the governess, who had her sus 
 picions about the reality of the blindness. "What I 
 wish to impress upon you is this: that, as we shall see 
 you often, I shall always look to see whether the poor 
 child who accompanies you wears the shoes that will 
 be given to him. If he does not, if he comes out bare 
 footed again, I shall feel obliged to recommend you 
 both to the attention of the proper 
 
 "Oh, ma am, dear!" interrupted the old deceiver, 
 "you d never go for to mistrust me of selling or pawn 
 ing my own dear, darling Benny s boots, would yer?" 
 
 "I was not suspecting you of any such design. But 
 only a few days ago little Lady Jessie Douglas here 
 gave an old woman a good, warm shawl, and the next 
 freezing day we found the same old woman on the 
 beach without her shawl. When questioned about it, 
 she told us a falsehood; she said her shawl had been 
 stolen from her. But upon investigation we discov 
 ered that she still possessed the shawl, but would not 
 wear it even in the coldest weather, because it spoiled 
 her trade. 7 Ladies and gentlemen seeing her comfort 
 ably clothed would not give her so much alms. And 
 such was the cupidity of that old woman that she would 
 risk her life for more alms/ " 
 
THE LOST HEIR 177 
 
 "Oh, my pretty lady ! do yer go for to think as I am 
 one o them sort o cattle?" whined the crone. 
 
 U I hope not." 
 
 "No, indeed, my pretty, I ain t that sort." 
 
 "Now, what I wish you to understand is this: That 
 your little leader must wear the shoes and stockings 
 that are given him, even though his doing so should in 
 jure trade, for we will not have his health suffer." 
 
 "Surely not, ma am, not on no account," said the old 
 hypocrite, with a show of great feeling. 
 
 Presently the little earl and the little outcast, attended 
 by the footman, came down the cliff together, Benny 
 delighted in his new shoes, and Lord Wellrose pleased 
 with the pleasure he had given. 
 
 When Benny had again thanked his small benefac 
 tors, and they had sufficiently admired him, the gov 
 erness gathered her flock together and took them home 
 to their fold on Brunswick terrace. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 THE CHILDREN S PARTY. 
 
 It was the next evening after this, just as the lamps 
 were lighted, that little Benny and his grandmother, in 
 the course of their rambles, found themselves on Bruns 
 wick terrace, on the upper walk, between the houses and 
 the green square facing the sea. The weather was very 
 cold, and the ground was covered with a thing coating 
 of snow and a slight glazing of ice. But Benny wore 
 his new shoes and stockings, and never felt so comfort 
 able before in all his little life. 
 
 They were passing on, when the sudden lighting up of 
 one of the houses attracted Benny s attention, and he 
 stopped to look at it. 
 
 He saw the brilliant lights from within, glowing 
 through rich crimson curtains, and shining redly on the 
 snow without. The shutters were not closed, "nor did 
 the middle edges of the two sides of the curtains meet, 
 
178 THE LOST HEIK 
 
 so it happened that little Benny caught a glimpse of the 
 interior of the room a room glowing with lamplight 
 and firelight over its rich red furniture, and decorated 
 with exotic flowers, and half-filled with little children 
 gayly dressed and holding festival. 
 
 "Oh, granny," exliaimed the child, in delight, "that s 
 like heaven !" 
 
 "What s like heaven, little fool?" 
 
 "That in there!" said Benny, pointing to the glow 
 ing crimson windows, through which the scene within 
 was visible, and going as near the house as he could, 
 and gazing at the life within. "Oh, yes, that must be 
 like heaven!" 
 
 "Yes, dearies, that s like heaven, and that is heaven, 
 the only sort of heaven, and none but the rich folks can 
 enjoy it. It ain t for the likes o you and me, boy," 
 snarled old Kuth. 
 
 "Lors, no, granny! Why, I don t think as how if I 
 was to hook and crib fur you all day and all night, and 
 git you as much as five bobs a day, as ever that would 
 make I good enough to go to that sort of heaven !" 
 
 "No, Benny, that it wouldn t ; cause you couldn t hook 
 and crib enough, after all. But that s the way them 
 and sich as them got their heaven by hooking and 
 cribbing ; ay, and by lying and murdering as well ! And 
 yer couldn t do that, yer know, Benny, and so yer 
 couldn t enj y their heaven." 
 
 "No, granny ; but when I git a big man I can." 
 
 "Aye, aye ! Come along, boy ; we must be going 
 home," said the old creature, rising from her seat on 
 the curbstone. 
 
 But just at that moment the boy suddenly caught 
 sight of a face at the window, and exclaimed: 
 
 "Oh, granny! I do believe as how them is the little 
 swells as guv us money on the beach yes day! Please, 
 granny, stop ! I want to watch em !" 
 
 "I want to be getting on home. I want my toddy 
 and to go to bed," said the old woman. 
 
 "Jest one minit, granny !" pleaded the boy. 
 
 "No, I keep on a telling of you! Come along!" 
 growled the old woman, crossly. 
 
THE LOST HEIK 179 
 
 The boy sighed, and was about to turn from this 
 beautiful glimpse of a happier life than he had ever 
 imagined, to go and crouch in his miserable dark, un 
 holy den of a home, among thieves and drunkards, and 
 worse, of both men and women, when the hall door of 
 that happy home opened, and a tall footman came out 
 and passed through the iron gate, and came directly up 
 to little Benny. 
 
 "Please, sir, I wasn t a doing of no harm, sir; only a 
 looking on, sir," said little Benny, who naturally sup 
 posed that this liveried servant had come to order him 
 away. "Please, sir, I am just a going to move on, sir!" 
 
 "No, you re not! not if I know it! You ve got to 
 come right in to her grace." 
 
 "Please, sir, don t take me! Please, sir, I ain t been 
 up to nothink! I ain t, indeed, sir!" pleaded little 
 Benny, holding back and preparing for a run. 
 
 "Who says you have, little pig s head? What are 
 you afraid on? Nobody s a going to hurt you. Her 
 grace will have you in there, that s all. The children 
 are a having of a Twelfth-night frolic, with a Twelfth- 
 day cake and that. And her ladyship, little Lady Jes 
 sie, has a fancy to have you in and to give you her slice 
 of cake. There, now you ve got the whole on t. So 
 come along!" said the footman, taking hold of his hand. 
 
 Benny still hesitated, until old Ruth stooped and 
 whispered to him : 
 
 "It s all right, dearies! You go. It s one of them 
 fine ladies whims. They has their whims, dearie. And, 
 to do em justice, they s mostly willing to pay for em ! 
 Now come along here with me a minit," she added, 
 drawing the boy away to a safe distance, and then 
 whispering: "And when yer get inside o that fine 
 house, keep yer eyes open and look sharp like a good 
 boy, and see what you can hook for yer poor, old 
 granny a silver spoon, dearie, or a fork, or a napkin 
 ring, or somethink. Do you mind, dearie?" 
 
 Little Benny smiled and nodded intelligently. And 
 the old temptress led him back to the footman. 
 
 "There, my man, there s my precious lad. Take him 
 in to the gentlefolks. I ll wait here for him till you 
 
180 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 bring him back. And, oh ! if you d please to remember 
 the poor old grandmother waiting out here alone in the 
 cold, and would bring her out summat to warm her poor 
 old insides, it would be a blessing on yer, young man," 
 she whined. 
 
 "I ll ask the housekeeper. And maybe, as the boy is 
 going into the hall, I may get leave to come and fetch 
 you into the kitchen, and give you something comfort 
 able by the fire/ said the good-natured young fellow, as 
 he led Benny away. 
 
 "Blessings on yer handsome face for that, young 
 man!" sighed the old hypocrite, as he left her. 
 
 Thomas, the footman, led little Benny into the house 
 through the servants door and then discreetly took him 
 first to his own room, where he made him wash his face 
 and hands, and comb his hair, and brush his clothes, 
 and clean his shoes, before going among the little ladies 
 and gentlemen. 
 
 Then he took him upstairs and opened the door of 
 the room where the children were holding their festival, 
 and, seeing Lady Jessie nearest, he announced the new 
 arrival as : 
 
 "The boy from the sidewalk, please your ladyship." 
 
 "Why, he is the same boy we met yesterday on the 
 beach," said the little Earl of Wellrose, coming up to 
 welcome the little outcast Benny. 
 
 "Of course, he is the same boy. I saw him standing 
 looking over the iron railings, and I knew him in a mo 
 ment, and that is the reason I wanted to have him in," 
 said Lady Jessie. 
 
 "And I divved him sispens to buy his sooz," put in 
 two-year-old Lady Hester. 
 
 "Oh, Hetty, Hetty, you mustn t talk of what you give. 
 That is not pretty. You must never let your right 
 hand you know," said little Lady Clemence, gravely 
 shaking her fair curls. 
 
 Meanwhile Benny stood dazzled and dumfounded, un 
 til the fair young duchess floated toward him, and said, 
 very sweetly: 
 
 "My boy, don t be frightened. My daughter wishes 
 
THE LOST HEIR 181 
 
 to give you a piece of the Twelfth-day cake, that is all. 
 Take it, child, and sit down and eat it if you like." 
 
 And Lady Jessie put the cake in his hands, and told 
 him where to sit. 
 
 / Now, little Benny, beggar and thief as he was being- 
 trained by old Ruth to become, was, nevertheless, in his 
 heart and soul, by nature and inheritance, a very per 
 fect little gentleman. He thanked the duchess and 
 thanked Lady Jessie, and sat down where he was told 
 to sit. 
 
 "No, break your cake, little boy. You must know 
 that there is a gold ring in some one of these slices, and 
 it has not been found yet. It may be in yours. But 
 whoever is so lucky as to find the ring becomes king of 
 the Twelfth-day if he is a boy, and then he must choose 
 his queen. But, if a girl should find a ring, she is queen 
 of the Twelfth-day, and must choose the king. There, 
 now, break your slice and see," said Lady Jessie. 
 
 Fair, kind faces, sweet, soft voices all around him, 
 soon set little Benny at his ease. He smiled and broke 
 his cake in two, and lo ! the ring dropped out. 
 
 The children all clapped their hands and laughed 
 with glee to think that the little beggar boy from the 
 sidewalk had drawn the prize that was to make him 
 king of the Twelfth-day. 
 
 But, as for Benny, he looked aghast, as if a little ser 
 pent, instead of a ring, had dropped from his cake. And 
 the sight of his face made the children laugh the more. 
 "What is the jest?" inquired the young Duke of Chev 
 iot, bonnie Willie Douglas, bonnier than ever now, as 
 he re-entered the room and joined the merry little 
 group. 
 
 The laughing children explained the matter in a few 
 words. 
 
 "And now, what is to be done, papa?" inquired Lady 
 Jessie, the little contriver of all the mischief. 
 
 "Why, the play must be played out, of course. By 
 every rule of right this little fellow is king of the 
 Twelfth-day, and must be crowned accordingly," said 
 the duke, laying his delicate hand on the golden-haired 
 head of the boy, and looking kindly down upon the fair, 
 
182 THE LOST HEIK 
 
 refined face that was turned up to his, and that was- 
 oh ! so like his own, though he did not think it. 
 
 "But he will not know what to do," objected Lady 
 Jessie. 
 
 "A not unusual dilemma of kings !" laughed the duke. 
 "He must be instructed by his ministers. Here, Well- 
 rose, my son, tell this young king what he ought to do." 
 
 The little earl came forward with two wreathes, one 
 of holly and one of Christmas roses, and he said : 
 
 "First, I must put this holly crown upon your head. 
 That is to make you king." 
 
 "Oh, certainly. The crown makes the king! Noth 
 ing else on earth is required to do so," laughed the duke, 
 good-humoredly. 
 
 The little Earl of Wellrose then set the holly wreath 
 upon little Benny s head, and the scarlet berries glowed 
 brightly among their shining deep-green leaves amid 
 Benny s golden curls. All the children laughed with 
 delight, and Benny laughed in sympathy, and was 
 pleased because he could please them. 
 
 "Oh, is he not beautiful ?" exclaimed some of the chil 
 dren. 
 
 "And, oh! isn t he like Wellrose?" inquired the oth 
 ers. 
 
 "Now, then, king, you will take this crown of Christ 
 mas roses and look around over the ladies present and 
 select one of them as your queen. And you must take this 
 crown and drop on one knee at her feet and make any 
 pretty speech that comes into your head, and offer it to 
 her. And, if she is so good as to accept it, you must 
 then rise and set it on her head. There, that is as much 
 as you will be able to remember at one time. After you 
 have done that, I will tell you what next to do." 
 
 Benny, obedient, anxious to please, took the crown of 
 roses, and looked around in a great bewilderment; he 
 seemed unable to make a selection amid such a bevy of 
 little beauties. 
 
 "You don t know whom to select. I must help you 
 again. Suppose you take Jessie? She gave you the 
 slice of cake in which you found your ring that made 
 
THE LOST HEIE 183 
 
 you king. I think you ought to take Jessie," said little 
 Lord Well rose. 
 
 "No," said Benny, very gently; "no; I m loking for 
 that lady. 
 
 "What lady, boy?" 
 
 "That lady. There she is ! I see her now." 
 And, without another word, he walked across the 
 room to the sofa where the duchess sat, and he dropped 
 on one knee before her, laid the rose crown at her feet, 
 and looked up into her face in silence. He could not 
 make the pretty speech that had been suggested to him. 
 "Is this for ine, my boy?" inquired the duchess. 
 He looked at her in dumb distress. Tears filled his 
 eyes. He had been borne in her bosom. He was her 
 first-born child. She was his mother. He did not know 
 this. She did not know this. Yet the bond of bonds 
 was mysteriously felt by both. 
 
 "Am I to be your queen, little king?" she inquired, 
 good-humoredly, taking up the wreath he had laid at 
 her feet. 
 
 The boy attempted to answer, but burst into tears, 
 and covered his face with his hands. 
 
 "Why do you weep, my child?" 
 
 X^~"I don t don t don t know. It s you, ma am; and 
 \ some some somethink here !" sobbed the boy, putting 
 \his hands to his throat and chest, and breaking into 
 ) hysterical sobs. 
 
 The duchess was scarcely less distressed, especially as 
 * soon as she saw and recognized the wonderful likeness 
 between this little beggar boy and her own noble son, 
 the heir of a dukedom. But the likeness taught her noth 
 ing. She only thought that it was strange, and felt 
 that it was distressing. It reminded her of a poor, pale 
 baby she had once seen, who, poor and pale as it was, 
 bore a marvelous resemblance to iier own infant son. 
 But she never thought of identifying that baby with 
 this boy. 
 
 "What troubles you, my poor child? I wish you 
 could tell me," she sweetly said to the weeping boy. 
 But for every kind word she uttered, Benny wept the 
 
184 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 harder, while the little ladies and gentlemen gathered 
 around and gazed on him in surprise and dismay. 
 
 "Oh, this will never do," said the duke, coming up. 
 "This has been too much for the poor boy. Eglantine, 
 love, we allow our little ones too much liberty. This 
 child from the streets should never have been brought in 
 here for their amusement. It may be sport for them, 
 but it is death to him, according to the fable. It is all 
 very well to bedeck dogs and donkeys with wreaths and 
 ribbons to make fun for children ; but human creatures, 
 even of the lowest degrees, are not to be treated so." 
 
 Thus spoke the young duke, like many another well- 
 meaning young man, of any rank in society, talking 
 with authority of what he knew nothing about. 
 
 "I do not think it was done for sport. I think it was 
 done in kindness, dear Willie," said the duchess. 
 
 "At any rate, you see that the boy is distressed by 
 his position. Here, Thomas," he called to the hall foot 
 man, "take this little fellow out to his friends." 
 
 Thomas, the discreet footman, took little Benny by 
 the hand to lead him away. But Benny caught up a 
 fold of his mother s sapphire-velvet dress, and pressed 
 it to his lips before he left her presence. 
 
 Thomas took the child down to the servants hall, 
 where old Ruth as a great condescension on the part 
 of the servants, who, in this instance, imitated their 
 masters, was permitted to sit by their fire, and was even 
 solaced with beer and cold meat and bread. 
 
 "Tawe me home, granny. I want to go to sleep," said 
 little Benny, wearily, and misunderstanding his weari 
 ness. 
 
 "Come along, then, my precious," said the old woman, 
 who had her own reasons for escaping. 
 
 The kindly footman let them out through the serv 
 ants door. 
 
 When they had walked a long distance between 
 Brunswick terrace and the wretched alley wherein the 
 house stood which they called their home, old Ruth pro 
 duced from her pocket, a salt-cellar, and said : 
 
 "Look here, dearie! Here s a silver salt-cellar as I 
 hooked. It s wuth at least two pun ten." 
 
THE LOST HEIR 185 
 
 The article she produced was but a poor plated thing 
 belonging to the servants dinner service, and worth at 
 most eighteen pence, but she thought was of solid 
 silver, and so it was the same to her, so far as influenc 
 ing her movements went. 
 
 "Oh, oh! That was a great haul, wasn t it?" ex 
 claimed little Benny, in admiration. 
 
 "Wasn t it, though? Now, what did you hook?" 
 
 "Nothink," said the boy, feeling very compunctious. 
 
 Well, in course, yer couldn t a had the chance But 
 now, Benny, dearie, seeing as I have made sich a great 
 haul, we mustn t stay here no longer. We must go on 
 the tramp this werry night, or the bobbies will be after 
 us all along o the silver salt-cellar!" 
 
 Benny accepted every word his granny spoke, as hav 
 ing the highest authority he knew anything about. And 
 so he followed her into the house, and helped her to tie 
 up their two bundles, and then followed her out. 
 
 They took the old turnpike road, and started on their 
 tramp to London. 
 
 The next day the salt-cellar was missed. But it was 
 such a mere trifle that nothing was said about it The 
 servants clubbed and bought another one. If it had been 
 of solid silver, as the old thief supposed, there would 
 have been more stir. 
 
 The next day also the duchess, who could not get over 
 the strange interest she felt in the boy, caused inquiries 
 to be made for him. In vain. The boy and his grand 
 mother had disappeared. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 MISERY. 
 
 It was on a dark, cold rainy night that a miserable 
 old beggar woman sat crouching in a corner, near one 
 end of London Bridge. 
 
 She drew her tattered red shawl closely over her 
 head and shoulders, and cramped herself all up in a 
 
186 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 heap, to keep out of the way of passengers, and escape 
 being ordered off by the policeman on duty there. 
 
 And so she sat and watched through the deep dark 
 ness and the driving rain. 
 
 And so she had sat through many a night and 
 watched for one who never came, for one whom she 
 longed yet dreaded to see. 
 
 The weather was so dismal, the passengers so few, 
 that there seemed but little chance for the fulfillment 
 of her hope that night. But still she sat in the deep 
 darkness, under the driving rain, and moaned and 
 watched. 
 
 Several forms, men, women and children, passed her, 
 singly or in pairs, or in groups, at longer or shorter in 
 tervals. She saw them, but took no further notice. 
 
 At length a girl, wrapped from head to foot in a tat 
 tered cloak, staggered past. 
 
 The old woman tottered to her feet and clutched the 
 cloak, exclaiming: 
 
 "Oh, Rosy, have I found you at last? Don t go for to 
 do what yer a thinking on, Rosy, but come home long o 
 me." 
 
 "What do yer mean by stopping me, yer drunken old 
 tramp? Let me go !" exclaimed the stranger, as, with a 
 volley of blasphemy and obscenity, she twitched herself 
 out of the old woman s grasp and went on. 
 
 "Mistook me oman ag n," sighed the watcher, as she 
 sunk back into her corner. "Well, and she means to 
 throw herself over, let her do it. Happen it will be the 
 best think she can do for herself. Eh ! there s my girl 
 now !" she added, as she rose again to her feet and con 
 fronted a young girl who was walking slowly toward 
 her. 
 
 "Rosy! my Rosy, is that you? Come along o me 
 home, Rosy, and don t do what yer a thinking on!" 
 
 "I m not your Rosy, poor woman," replied the girl, 
 in a sweet, sad tone, and she threw back the hood of 
 her rusty tweed cloak and revealed a very pale, worn 
 but still fair young face. 
 
 "Not my Rosy? No; but yer somebody else s gal. 
 And yer in trouble fit to break yer heart. Now, don t 
 
THE LOST HEIK 187 
 
 go for to do what yer a planning on, dearie. Come 
 home long o me. Maybe, if I saves you this night, 
 the good Lord will save my Eosy. Come home long o 
 me, and leave off thinking o that." 
 
 "You mean the river? Well, I ll not deny it s a 
 temptation to the likes o me; but I m not thinking o 
 that. I m afraid of what comes after. I don t want 
 to lose my soul. I want to repent and save it, in the 
 little time I have left." 
 
 "Er, then come along wi me," pleaded the beggar. 
 
 "Nay," said the young tramp. "I am going to my 
 mother. She will take me home, an I were ten times 
 as bad as I am. And she will let me lie down and die 
 on her bed." 
 
 "It mayn t come to that, dearie. But yer right to go 
 to yer mother. But not such a night as this, gal. 
 What possessed yer to start for a tramp sich a night as 
 this?" 
 
 "I was turned out of my room. I was homeless." 
 
 "Then come home long o me for the night, dearie; 
 and start fair by daylight, in the morning. I am going 
 along home presently, but not just now. I must watch 
 for Eosy a little longer. There, don t cry, dearie. Set 
 down alongside o me and tell me all about it." 
 
 The weeping girl sobbed forth her thanks and sat 
 down under the shadow of the old beggar s crouching 
 form. 
 
 "Now tell me all about it, dearie, and maybe it may 
 make me forget my Eosy for a minute. Where did 
 you come from, dearie?" 
 
 "You know Patcham?" 
 
 "No, I know nothink but Lunnon." 
 
 "Patcham is down in Sussex. My mother is a labor 
 er s widow there. She has a house full of small chil 
 dren. She goes out to work by the day, but has a hard 
 time of it to find bread for so many little mouths. 
 That s why I come to London to get into service. I got 
 into a place to nurse children. One day when I took 
 the children into the park, I met the Devil. And he 
 spoke to me. And I liked his looks and his speech. 
 And after that I met him very often. At last I left 
 
188 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 my good place and took service along of him the 
 Devil. Now what s the use o my telling you any 
 more? You know. Your Rosy s case, you see. You 
 haven t told me, but I know she met the Devil as much 
 as if you had." 
 
 "Aye, aye, that she did! And my old man died of 
 shame and grief. And I cursed her, I did; from the 
 bottom of my heart, I did! But now I hear she s a 
 houseless wanderer in the streets, afeard to corne home. 
 And I know how that ends. And my heart cries out to 
 her, for she was my daughter s daughter. And I sit 
 myself here, night after night, to fend her from herself 
 if she comes this way. Oh, gal, gal! trust the mother 
 that bore you, or her mother, but don t take to the 
 dreadful river!" whimpered the old woman, rocking 
 herself to and fro. 
 
 "I do trust my mother, and will never try the river. 
 I trust my mother, and trust One my guilty lips must 
 not name ; but He knows my sin has broken my heart, 
 and He will have mercy. I am going home to die. 
 Mother will let me lie down on her bed, and she will 
 send for the good curate who taught me in the Sunday- 
 school years ago. And he will help me to crawl back 
 to the foot of the cross, where is forgiveness and salva 
 tion even for me. Then there will be a new grave in 
 the old churchyard. And mother will tell Lucy that s 
 my next sister how sin leads to death ! But mother s 
 heart will be at rest, like mine !" 
 
 There was a tone of sorrow, humility and resigna 
 tion in the girl s manner that was very touching. 
 
 "I wish yer wouldn t talk so, dearie. Yer werry 
 young to die," moaned the old woman. 
 
 "But, oh ! it is so sweet to think of going home and 
 lying down on mother s bed to die, to rest after all the 
 black trouble. It is so much better than I deserve. 
 But He is good." 
 
 "Aye, aye, dearie! So Rachel Wood says. I knows 
 nothink about it. I never saw a Sunday-schooler; no, 
 nor likewise a churchgoer. I wasn t Who s them?" 
 
 This last question related to two figures seen ap- 
 
THE LOST HEIR 189 
 
 preaching. When they drew nearer, the strange girl, 
 peering through the darkness, answered: 
 
 "It is an old woman and a little boy." 
 
 And at this moment the travelers, for such they 
 seemed, drew very near; and the boy, full of pity for 
 those whom he considered homeless beggars, left the 
 woman s side and went up to them and asked- 
 
 "What s the matter?" 
 
 "Little Benny," exclaimed the woman, raising her 
 head, and recognizing the child s voice. 
 
 "Why, it s Missus Flowers, granny !" he cried to his 
 companion "it s Missus Flowers and Rosy!" 
 
 "No, it an t Rosy, little Benny. I wish it was!" 
 sighed the old woman. 
 
 "An t it, though? How s Suzy, then, Missus Flow 
 ers?" 
 
 "I don t know, Benny. I don t live there now. I 
 couldn t pay the rent for that big room ; so I ve got a 
 front room on the ground floor, down in Wellesley 
 Court. Is that your granny with you, Benny?" 
 
 "Yes, Missus Flowers." 
 
 "Come here, Ruth Drug, and sit down alongside o> 
 me to rest We quarreled when we parted, so we did, 
 Ruth ; but don t you bear no malice. I don t bear none 
 to you, for my heart s broke with losing my old man 
 and my gals and being all alone in the world. Come, 
 neighbor, and sit down and rest." 
 
 "I don t care if I do. I don t bear no ill will, I thank 
 my goodness," graciously replied old Ruth, who cer 
 tainly never had the slightest just cause of offense 
 against her poor old neighbor. 
 
 "That s good. Now, I ve got a thimbleful o gin in 
 my bottle, and would yer like it to warm yer, this dis 
 mal night?" kindly inquired the old woman. 
 
 "Aye, for I m just stiff and sore and tired, and . 
 
 Thanky," said old Ruth, as she took the offered bottle 
 and put it to her lips. 
 
 "I thought yer went to Brighting, Ruth?" 
 
 "So I did; but the sea air didn t agree wi us, dear 
 so we just tramped back." 
 
 "And got in to-night?" 
 
190 THE LO*T HEIR 
 
 Just. We walked from Croyden to-day, and I m 
 dead beat. Has Tony Brice, my son-in-law, got out o 
 prison ; - 
 
 "Yes : and he come home and sold all the furniture in 
 his room, and yours, too: and he paid the rent and 
 vent away. I don t know wheiv 
 
 at what did you say? What did he do?" in 
 quired old Ruth, aghast. 
 
 Granny Flowers repeated her story. 
 
 "And so there an t nothink. not even a bed left in 
 ;;er of the roon 
 
 . nor nothink. Which the rooms theirselves is 
 let out to other parties : like mine is, too, for I couldn t 
 pay the rent, and I had to leave." 
 
 "Sold all my gal s furnitur. and run away with the 
 
 money! the " Here old Ruth discharged a volley 
 
 of profanity utterly unreportable. 
 
 "He didn t run away with the money .Ruth. He paid 
 the rent, and I reckon there wasn t much left. And he 
 went away. I don t know wheres. But don t fret, 
 Ruth Drug. Come along home with me by and bye. 
 I ve a room in Wel s ly Court. I used to have two 
 bed*, yer fao 
 
 -sus Flowers. I can pay for my lodging. I thank 
 rer kindly.* replied the tramp, confident in the imagi 
 nary possession of a heavy salt-cellar, as well as in a 
 matter of twenty-three or four shillings in money. 
 4 *But I ll come to yer house all the same, thank yer; 
 and well have summat hot for supper." 
 
 "Aye, that ll be good!* chuckled Granny Flowers, 
 smacking her lips, for in all her troubles, she had not 
 lost her keen relish for "something good to eat/ 
 
 "Well, then, now I m rested, what are we waiting 
 for?" demanded old Ruth. 
 
 r my poor, lost gal! Eh! I cursed her bitter 
 that black day she went wrong and broke the poor old 
 man s heart! But I heerd lately as she were wander 
 ing about the street homeless, because she is afeard to 
 come. And I m afeard of her coming to the river. 
 And here I come o nights to watch for her." 
 
THE LOST HEIK 191 
 
 "m5 d how many ni S hts n ave you been doing this?" 
 This one makes seven." 
 
 And how many more do you mean to watch?" 
 Lord knows I don t; till I find her. That s all I 
 
 can say. Eosy! 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 DESPAIR. 
 
 , mistake this time - The Prophecy of 
 
 old mother s soul was fulfilled. While they had 
 
 & * SHght female form had stole/ past 
 brf * apkn * and climl >ed to the parapet of the 
 bridge. Just as she was preparing for the fatal plunge, 
 the old woman caught a glimpse of her form. Reco- 
 2ft?* ?* ther than by sight, she sprang 
 and caught her skirts and called aloud her name 
 
 fdl back 
 
 But several hands extended broke her fall, and bore 
 her fainting form to the sheltered corner of the bridge 
 where the strange girl supported it in her arms while 
 
 as 
 
 lY h ,T the miserable wanderer opened her eves and 
 ooked around and saw who was about her, she burst 
 into hystencal sobs and tears, and cried out- 
 
 deHy r ^ F , who, ten- 
 
 "Because I loved yer, dearie " 
 
 sti11 more trOTb le on you." 
 
 as Tr deat wo 1H D r ue on me 
 
 "nift f i Would be Ros y m y "ttle Rosy!" 
 
 waited fourth th W -1 Ch I arn] What a w *^ I a!" 
 ~ ^ S COYermg her face with h ^ hands. 
 are my own poor, pretty little Kosy! Yer all 
 
192 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 I ve got left in this world. And an t I all you ve got, 
 too? Tell me that." 
 
 "Yes, you are! you are! and I don t deserve to have 
 you !" sobbed the girl, stealing her arm around the old 
 woman s neck. 
 
 "Well, never mind, dearie. You and me ll let by 
 gones all be bygones now. And we ll go home and live 
 together, and be happy," said Granny Flowers, sooth 
 ingly. 
 
 "I heard about poor old grandfather s death, and all 
 the dreadful things that happened after I had gone. 
 Oh, it was so horrible! It helped to drive me to that 
 deed you prevented !" sobbed the girl. 
 
 "Don t talk about that now, dearie. It can t be 
 helped now. And talking about it won t do no good, 
 but will only make you worse. Come home, along o 
 me. And you and me ll live together, and be happy 
 again." 
 
 "Ah ! how can we ever be happy again, after all that 
 has passed?" 
 
 "I mean peaceful, honey, peaceful. I didn t just 
 mean quite happy. I suppose we can t be quite happy 
 no more, but we can love one another and be peaceful." 
 
 "And I ll hook tea and sugar for you, Rosy! Don t 
 cry!" whispered little Benny, putting his small hand 
 on her forehead. 
 
 "Come, now; try to stand up and walk, and we will 
 help you home," said Granny Flowers, trying to assist 
 Rose to her feet. 
 
 "Is the young woman drunk?" inquired a policeman, 
 coming up. 
 
 "No," exclaimed Ruth Drug. "Can t you see for yer- 
 self as she s only sick and weak, ver purblind, pig 
 headed " 
 
 What further Ruth said need not be set down here. 
 
 "I can walk well enough," said Rose, stumbling up. 
 
 "And now who s this other young oman?" inquired 
 Ruth Drug, referring to the strange girl, who now 
 joined their party as if she belonged to it. 
 
 "Oh! a friend of mine, as is comin home to stay all 
 night with me," answered Granny Flowers. 
 
THE LOST HEIR 193 
 
 "My name is Mary Field," put in the girl. 
 
 "Be yer a-goin to set up a lodging-house?" sarcasti 
 cally inquired old Ruth. 
 
 "Happen I may," coolly replied Granny Flowers, as 
 she led the way to her humble home. 
 
 Her home was in a poor courtyard by the waterside. 
 Her room contained two small beds, a rickety table, 
 three crippled chairs, a rusty little stove, and a tiny 
 corner cupboard half filled with some cracked crockery 
 ware, a very few cooking utensils, and about a couple 
 of handfuls of coals and chips. 
 
 Old Ruth Drug went out to the nearest cookshop to 
 buy the materials for the promised hot supper. 
 
 While she was gone, Granny Flowers lit a candle and 
 kindled a fire. 
 
 When firelight and candlelight fell upon the forms of 
 the two girls, even old Granny Flowers, used as she 
 was to the sight of misery, shuddered to see what 
 wrecks they had become. 
 
 "Wretches," they had called themselves, in their bit 
 ter self-accusation. Wrecks they were. The words r 
 in their cases at least, were synonyms. 
 
 Rosy s one beautiful red and white complexion war 
 now dark and sallow; her lustrous black hair was rusty 
 and tangled; her laughing bright eyes were dimmed 
 and sunken. 
 
 "And she so young!" moaned the old grandmother to 
 herself, as she gazed upon this ruin of her child. 
 
 The other "wreck" was scarcely less forlorn in as 
 pect. Once evidently a fresh and blooming country 
 girl, fair-haired, blue-eyed and bright complexioned, 
 she was now scarcely more than skin and bone, a 
 walking skeleton, with a deathly white face. 
 
 "She told the truth, poor dearie! She is going home 
 to die, if she be even so lucky as to hold out to get 
 there," sighed old Mrs. Flowers, as she looked at her. 
 
 Then she made the two girls come and sit close to the 
 fire, while she put the kettle on to make tea for them. 
 
 Presently old Ruth came back, bringing a basket, 
 from which she produced, first a plate full of fried liver 
 and bac^ which she covered up and set upon the hob 
 
194 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 to be kept hot, next a paper full of rolls, a pat of butter 
 and a bottle of rum, all of which she placed upon the 
 rickety old table. 
 
 She" was followed by little Benny, his fair face beam 
 ing with benevolence and satisfaction nay, tri 
 umph, as he went to Rosy and put two oranges in her 
 lap, whispering: 
 
 "Here, Kosy ; don t cry no more. I hooked these ere 
 for you and t other poor gal. I did it sharp, I tell you, 
 while granny was a-buying of the rum." 
 
 Now, this girl knew perfectly well that this child had 
 done wrong, and done so in total ignorance of the 
 wrong. Yet she did not set him right. She thought 
 his act a trifle. Her feverish palate thirsted for the 
 forbidden fruit, and she took it and smiled. And then 
 she put her arms around the boy and drew him to her 
 bosom, and kissed him fondly, and said he was "a good 
 boy such a dear, kind, good boy!" and she "loved" 
 him. 
 
 "Is it good, Rosy? Do you like it? Is it good and 
 sweet?" he inquired. 
 
 "Yes, darling ; but not so good and sweet as you are," 
 said Rose, squeezing him affectionately. 
 
 "Now, mind, I ll hook you another one to-morrow. 
 Bless you, I an t afraid," said the delighted child. 
 
 Before Rose could reply Granny Flowers called them 
 to their supper, which was now steaming on the table. 
 
 The two old women, the two girls and the boy gath 
 ered around the humble board. 
 
 The two old women did full justice to the meal. 
 
 Rose was more thirsty than hungry, so she drank a 
 great deal of tea, and ate but little. 
 
 Mary Field, on the contrary, with the ravenous appe 
 tite that distinguished some types of consumption, fed 
 very heartily. 
 
 And after supper, when old Ruth pointed out to her 
 the bed on which she was to rest, she was the first to lie 
 down and go to sleep. 
 
 The others sat up until they had finished the bottle 
 of rum, and t^n they, too, followed her example. 
 
 In the morning old Ruth Drug received and accepted 
 
THE LOST HEIR 195 
 
 a proposition from Granny Flowers to the effect that 
 the two should join housekeeping and live together in 
 that little room, Ruth and Benny occupying one bed, 
 while Granny Flowers and Rosy used the other. They 
 were to divide expenses ; and little Benny, pleased with 
 the arrangement, was to beg and steal for them both. 
 
 That same morning, after breakfast, Mary Fields 
 prepared for her foot journey to Patcham. 
 
 The old women helped her from their slender store. 
 They made her up a little bundle of provisions. 
 
 Old Granny Flowers had a great deal of pity in her 
 nature, as may have been seen. 
 
 And even old Ruth Drug, abominable old wretch that 
 she was, had, away down in some recess of her dried- 
 up bosom, some little drop of the milk of human kind 
 ness left. So even she gave the gal a shilling, out of 
 the one and twenty she had left. 
 
 And so the traveler departed. 
 
 And now, if you care to hear any more about this 
 poor girl, type of one class as she also was, I have only 
 to tell you that she lived to reach her home, but not 
 much longer. 
 
 There the previsions of her soul were realized. She 
 died peacefully in her mother s arms, and was buried in 
 the old churchyard. 
 
 And now I have another death to record before I 
 close this chapter a death that no one will regret. 
 
 One morning, about a week after the old women had 
 joined housekeeping, old Ruth Drug took from her wal 
 let that electro-plated salt-cellar which she had stolen 
 from the table of the servants hall, in the Duke of 
 Cheviot s house, on Brunswick terrace, Brighton. 
 
 Still fondly believing it to be of solid silver, and 
 worth two guineas at the very least, she concealed it in 
 her bosom and sallied forth to the den of a friend of 
 hers. 
 
 He was a gentleman of the Jewish persuasion, and 
 also a receiver of goods and melter of metals. He 
 bought whatever of plate or jewels that was offered 
 him, asking no questions stipulating only that they 
 
196 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 should take for their articles whatever he offered in re 
 turn. 
 
 When old Ruth offered her stolen salt-cellar for sale 
 he informed her that it was not silver, but electro 
 plate, worth at second-hand about sixpence. 
 
 Whereupon old Ruth, in her disappointment, went 
 borne, drank a quart of gin, went to sleep, and the next 
 morning was found dead in her bed. 
 
 The parish doctor, called in haste, pronounced the 
 death to have ensued from apoplexy, and sent a notice 
 to the parish authorities. And the third day there 
 after old Ruth Drug was buried at the parish s cost. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 Little Benny mourned for the horrible old witch who 
 had misused and misled him mourned for her as if she 
 had been the best, wisest and most affectionate of 
 mothers, and for a long time he refused to be com 
 forted. 
 
 But Rose caressed and petted him more than he had 
 ever been petted and caressed in his life. 
 
 And Rose and her old grandmother were poorer and 
 more destitute than ever; and Rose was ill, as every 
 one could see, and her granny, was rapidly failing with 
 old age. They could neither of them earn anything for 
 themselves. They were often cold and hungry, with 
 out the means of procuring food or fuel. 
 
 So at length little Benny aroused himself from his 
 selfish indulgence in sorrow, and went forth to beg and 
 steal for them, as he had done for old Ruth Drug. 
 
 He enjoyed more liberty now than he had ever had in 
 his little life before. 
 
 And the first use he made of it was to visit the house 
 in Junk lane and inquire after his little playmate, Suzy 
 Juniper. 
 
 He found no one that he knew left in the house ex- 
 
THE LOST HEIK 197 
 
 cept Moses, the pawnbroker, and Mrs. Kempton, the 
 old-clothes vender, whose shops were on the ground 
 floor front. 
 
 He inquired of Mrs. Kempton, whom he found sitting 
 behind her counter in a perfect grove of dangling 
 clothes, of the friends he had left behind him when he 
 tramped with his granny to Brighton. 
 
 And he was told that his stepfather, Tony Brice, had 
 sold out and gone to parts unknown ; that the Junipers 
 had moved away to a house near the theatre, where lit- 
 tile Suzy was now earning a living for the whole fam 
 ily; that her daughter, Mary Kempton, was at service 
 with a lady at Brighton, but that they were all to come 
 up to town early in February, when all the other fine 
 folks came. 
 
 "And please, where is Miss Kachel Wood?" inquired 
 little Benny, feeling very much desolated by this exo 
 dus of his old friends, and hoping that this one at least 
 might be left. 
 
 "Oh, Miss Eachel has her home there still, but she is 
 now engaged by the week making up linen for a young 
 couple as is going to housekeeping; and so she only 
 comes home Saturday nights," said Mrs. Kempton. 
 
 "And this is Monday, and I can t see her for most a 
 week !" said the child, in a disappointed tone. 
 
 "But where s your granny, Benny?" at length in 
 quired Mrs. Kempton. 
 
 "Lor ! don t you know? Poor granny s dead! She s 
 been dead these five days !" cried the child, bursting in 
 to tears and weeping as if his heart would break. 
 
 "There, don t cry so hard, poor little fellow. Come in 
 and sit down, and tell me all about it," said the kind- 
 hearted creature, leading the boy into the shabby back 
 parlor, all hung ar<5und, like a shop, with dangling 
 dresses. 
 
 She gave him a seat and a glass of beer, and then re 
 peated her request to hear "all about it." 
 
 And Benny told her of their return from Brighton* 
 and their arrival in London on that rainy night, and 
 their meeting with Granny Flowers and Rosy and the 
 other girl on the bridge, and their joining housekeep- 
 
198 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 ing with old Mrs. Flowers and Rosy in Wellesley Court ; 
 and finally, of his granny being found dead in her bed, 
 and being buried by the parish. 
 
 "Well, there, then, don t cry no more. Your poor 
 old granny is better off!" said Mrs. Kempton, who 
 doubted her own assertion very much, but considered 
 it the proper formula, and went through it. 
 
 And Benny cried all the more, after the manner of 
 mourners, because he was desired not to do so. 
 
 At length he looked up and inquired : 
 
 Please, Mrs. Kempton, have you heard anything 
 about my poor mammy?" 
 
 "Not a word, Benny. But you know the gentlefolks 
 did say, when she was sent there, as they treated the 
 patients very well." 
 
 Benny sighed. 
 
 "And now I tell you what, my boy, if you ha n t got 
 no other place to go to, just you stop here long o me. I 
 shan t begrudge you a mouthful o wittels, and a shake 
 down among my own children, till I can get a place for 
 you; which the dear knows as they may be orphints 
 some of these days. So hang up your hat, my poor lit 
 tle man, and make yourself at home," said the tender 
 hearted mother. 
 
 "Thanky, ma am, I would like to, but I mustn t," said 
 the little fellow, regretfully. 
 
 "Mustn t, Benny? Why? You re not afraid of 
 father?" she said, referring to her husband. 
 
 "Father s the softest-hearted man as ever you see. 
 He wouldn t turn a dog out, much less a orphint boy." 
 
 "Oh, no, ma am, I ain t afraid o Mr. Kempton. I m 
 too fond o he for that. But it s jes this way, ma am. 
 Granny Flowers and Rosy. Granny, she s so old, she s 
 hardly able to stir now. She seems like she give out all 
 of a suddint, soon s ever she found Rosy, and fotch her 
 home. And she can t do nothink for herself. And Rosy, 
 she s awful sick, and can t do nothink for herself 
 neither. And they hasn t nobody to look out for em 
 now but me. And I must stay by em, and look out 
 for em," Benny explained. 
 
THE LOST HEIR 199 
 
 "You, poor child! What can you do?" inquired the 
 woman. 
 
 "Oh, lots! I keeps em in things! And when I get 
 a big man, big enough to crack a crib, I ll perwide for 
 em handsome," said Benny, taking up his little hat to 
 go away. 
 
 "Well, my little fellow, when you want a home or a 
 friend, come to me," said Mrs. Kempton. 
 
 Little Benny pulled his forelock and thanked her, and 
 then went away to the Temple of Thespis to try to find 
 his playmate Suzy. 
 
 This fair-faced, sweet-voiced boy seldom got himself 
 snubbed, even by irritable officials. And so, when he 
 civilly inquired of the box-keeper where little Miss Ju 
 niper, the "Infant Wonder," was, he was told that she 
 had just been taken home from rehearsal. And when 
 he further ventured to inquire where she lived, please, 
 sir, he received full directions to her abode, which was 
 very near at hand. 
 
 He found Suzy s family they were Suzy s family 
 now, for she supported them all established in two 
 comfortable rooms in a house in the large court at the 
 back of the Thespian Temple. 
 
 He found little Suzy up to her eyes in business, and 
 half wild with excitement. 
 
 The play of the evening was to be the "Midsummer 
 Night s Dream." 
 
 Suzy was to play the part of "Titania, Queen of the 
 Fairies." 
 
 And she was to wear a dress of silver gauze spangled 
 with silver stars, and a crown of silver spangled with 
 crystals, and silver slippers, and to carry a silver scep 
 tre in her hand. And her splendid dress was quite 
 ready, and her part was perfectly committed to mem 
 ory. 
 
 She had been studying it for a week and rehearsing 
 it every forenoon, and she felt perfectly confident of 
 her success. 
 
 "And, oh, Benny, if you could only play King Obe- 
 ron to my Queen Titania, I should be perfectly happy! 
 And I don t see why you can t go on the stage and be a 
 
00 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 boy Infant Wonder/ same as I m a girl, for you re a 
 heap clever n I am/ Suzy exclaimed with enthusiasm. 
 
 "No, I an t, Suzy. I an t clever. But when I git a 
 big man I ll do something for you to make a fortin, so 
 you needn t go on no stage no more." 
 
 "Oh, but I like it!" broke in Suzy with animation; 
 "it s just splendid! And mammy says when I git a 
 big lady, I shall make heaps and heaps of money, and 
 may marry any lord I like ! But I don t want no lords, 
 Benny." 
 
 "No more do I, "Suzy." 
 
 "I only want you, Benny !" frankly confessed the lit 
 tle girl. 
 
 "And so do I you, Suzy," as frankly responded 
 Benny. 
 
 "And when I get a big lady, and makes heaps of 
 money, I will buy a theatre of my own, Benny, and you 
 shall be manager and shall play just what parts you 
 like; and won t that be nice?" 
 
 "Slap up!" said Benny. 
 
 And he could have staid all the afternoon talking 
 with Suzy, but that he remembered poor old Granny 
 Flowers and Rosy, cold and hungry, in their miserable 
 court, waiting for him to bring them the means of get 
 ting something to eat. 
 
 And so he got up to go away. 
 
 "You and Suzy have been letting of your tongues run 
 so fast, Benny, as I haven t had no chance to ask after 
 your granny. How is the old oman, Benny?" inquired 
 Mrs. Juniper. 
 
 "Oh! don t you know? Nobody don t know, seems 
 to me, till I tell em," said Benny, sitting down again 
 and bursting into tears. 
 
 And then he told his story, and had his cry all over 
 -again. 
 
 And when he was cross-questioned he told all about 
 Granny Flowers and Rosy s illness and destitution, and 
 how he meant to stay with them and take care of them. 
 
 "Dear me! And you are all they have got to look 
 to?" sympathetically inquired Mrs. Juniper. 
 
THE LOST HEIK 201 
 
 "Yes ; and I ll take care on em, too," replied Benny, 
 valiantly. 
 
 And if you were an Infant Wonder, you could do 
 it! And I don t see why you can t be an Infant Won 
 der as well as me, and play Oberon to my Titania," 
 said Suzy. 
 
 "I ha n t the gift, Suzy. I wish I had!" humbly re 
 sponded Benny. 
 
 "Dear me! And they re both sick, and an t got no 
 tea, nor sugar, nor bread, no nothink in the house !" re 
 peated Mrs. Juniper. 
 
 No, they ha n t. But don t fret about that, ma am! 
 I ll be sure to get something for em afore I go home. I 
 allus does somehow. I an t never failed em yet. And 
 never will. You ll see!" said the boy, rising and tak 
 ing up his hat. 
 
 Once more he paused and turned his hat round and 
 round, and then hesitatingly inquired : 
 
 You ha nt hearn no news of my poor mammy, have 
 frou. Miss Juniper?" 
 
 / "Yes, Benny, I m happy to say, I have. Juniper and 
 
 / me went out to see her on the regular visiting day 
 
 / which once a month it is, Benny. And I ll take you 
 
 / there next month myself. And she s as comfortable as 
 
 / she can be, Benny. She s a deal more comfortabler nor 
 
 / ever she was in her born days before. Why, it s a hea- 
 
 vingly place is Hanwell, Benny! with fruit trees and 
 
 forty-piannies, and pictures on the walls, and plenty 
 
 to eat and dri.nk, and dancing every week, and good 
 
 clothes to wear, and heverythink as you could mention, 
 
 \ and a chappil to go to church in, and a bathroom and 
 
 \ heverythink!" 
 
 ^ "Is mammy happy?" plaintively inquired Benny. 
 
 "If she an t, it s her own fault. There s heverythink 
 to make her so." 
 
 41 1 wish she hadn t a done it, though," murmured 
 Benny, turning pale at the memory of the murder. 
 
 She wasn t herself when she done it, or she wouldn t 
 a done it. Everybody knows that. Because if they 
 had a thought she d a been herself when she done it, 
 they never would a sent her to sich a heavingly place as 
 
202 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 Hanwell, where they have peach-trees and piany-fortes 
 and geese and lectur rooms and heverythink as yer 
 heart could desire. I ll take you there next wisiting 
 day, and you shall see for yourself, Benny." 
 
 "Thanky, ma am. But did mammy send me any 
 word, please?" 
 
 "N-no, Benny; but then, you see, we had told her as 
 you and the old oman was gone upon a tramp to 
 Brighting. And so I s pose she didn t think as we d 
 see you so soon. But never mind, Benny; next wisiting 
 day I ll be sure to take you there to see her, you know." 
 
 "Thanky, ma am," answered the child, setting his lit 
 tle hat upon his head. 
 
 "Stop a bit, my boy. You needn t go yet. I must 
 make up a little parcel for poor old Mrs. Flowers. I 
 allus did like the poor old body. And, lor ! why, I can 
 afford to help a friend in need now! Suzy s getting 
 two guineas a week at the Thespian, besides what the 
 other children can earn when they go on as supes once 
 in a while." 
 
 As Mrs. Juniper spoke, she busied herself with mak 
 ing up a small parcel of tea, one ditto of sugar, one of 
 sliced bacon, and one of rolls. She tied them all up in 
 an old handkerchief and gave them to the child, say 
 ing: 
 
 "Now, Benny, that handkerchief an t worth much ; but 
 you can give it to Granny Flowers, with all the rest 
 what s in it. And give my love to her, and tell her as 
 I m sorry to hear she s ill. And likewise tell Rosy as 
 I m glad to hear she s come back home. Which I hope 
 now she ll mend her ways. Now, don t forget to tell 
 her that, Benny ; as I hope she ll mend her ways." 
 
 "No, ma am, I ll not forget. Thanky, ma am," said 
 little Benny, as he took up his bundle and went out. 
 
 And for that day at least the child was saved from 
 the sin of stealing and the shame of begging. 
 
 But for the days that followed, in that bitter cold 
 winter weather! 
 
THE LOST HEIR 203 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 EACH EL WOOD IS STARTLED. 
 
 Parliament met as usual, early in February. The 
 beaumonde returned to town. The Court Journal, 
 Morning Post and other papers chronicled, among oth 
 ers, the following arrivals: 
 
 The Duke and Duchess of Cheviot, at Cheviot House, Picca 
 dilly. 
 
 The Marquis and Marchioness of Shetland, at Park Lane. 
 
 The Earl and Countess of Ornoch, at Westburne Terrace. 
 
 The Countess Dowager of Ornoch and Lady Katherine 
 Moray, of South Audley street. 
 
 Mr. and Lady Margaret Elphinstone, in Brooke street. 
 
 The General and Mrs. Chimboza, in Hill street. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Melliss, Charles street. 
 
 Others came to town, whose arrivals were nowhere 
 chronicled. Among the latter was Rachel Wood, the 
 poor seamstress. 
 
 She had been engaged to sew by the week with a fam 
 ily down in Sussex, whose married daughter was going 
 to housekeeping. 
 
 She had bargained to be allowed to return home 
 every Saturday night, for the sake of attending her own 
 church on Sunday. 
 
 But it happened that the weather became so very 
 severe, and the family she served was so kind, that she 
 did not once avail herself of her privilege of returning 
 to town once a week. On the contrary, she considered 
 it a privilege to remain with her friends in the country 
 until her engagement with them was completed. 
 
 Then she returned home, "for good." 
 
 Rachel Wood had scarcely rekindled her fire in the 
 cold grate of her room, in the house at Junk lane, than 
 Mrs. Kempton called to see her, full of news that she 
 was eager to tell. 
 
 And over the cup of tea and plate of toasted muffins, 
 that Rachel soon prepared, Mrs. Kempton told her how 
 the place had changed since she had left. 
 
 How the Junipers had left the house and had taken 
 
204 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 rooms near the Thespian Temple, where little Suzy was 
 engaged at two guineas a week, and how they were all 
 prospering. 
 
 How Tony Brice, overcome with the shame of all that 
 had happened to break up his family, had immediately 
 after coming out of prison, sold all his bits of furniture, 
 given up his rooms, paid his rent and departed, no one 
 knew whither. 
 
 How old Granny Flowers had held on to her own 
 apartments, selling or pawning her goods piece by 
 piece, for money to buy food or fuel, until, failing 
 to pay her rent, she had been turned out by the land 
 lord, and had found lodgings in a wretched, tumble 
 down tenement-house in Wellesley, or, as she called it, 
 Wesley Court. How she had roamed the streets by 
 day and watched the bridges by night, searching for 
 her Rosy, until at length, some few weeks since, she 
 had found the girl and taken her home; and how much 
 trouble there might be ahead for them both. 
 
 "And, now, Rachel, give me another cup of that tea, 
 for I m hoarse through so much talking," said Mrs. 
 Kempton. 
 
 "But you haven t told me anything about little 
 Benny and his granny. Are they still on the tramp?" 
 inquired Rachel, as she served her visitor with another 
 cup of the beverage "that cheers." 
 
 "Oh, Lor bless you, no ! They come back the same 
 night as Granny Flowers found Rosy. They all hap 
 pened to meet on Lunnun Bridge. And old Ruth, hav 
 ing no place to go to, along of Tony selling of the furni- 
 tur and giving up the rooms, old Ruth, she sets up and 
 goes and jines housekeeping, she and Benny, along of 
 Granny Flowers and Rosy, which she hadn t a-been 
 living there more n a week when she died." 
 
 "Died !" 
 
 "Yes; found dead in her bed. Parish doctor said 
 apoplexy. I reckon rum!" 
 
 "And so old Ruth Drug is dead !" 
 
 "Yes, and buried by the parish." 
 
 "And poor little Benny?" 
 
 "Why he was the werry one as come and telled me 
 
THE LOST HEIK 205 
 
 all this as I ve felled YOU about him and his granny and 
 the Flowerses. He was here a Monday two weeks ago. 
 He promised to come back a Saturday to see you, as I 
 expected how you d come home according to promise, 
 and telled the child so, which you didn t." 
 
 "The weather was too severe, and my kind employer 
 insisted that I should stay. But I feel sorry the child 
 should have been disappointed." 
 
 "Oh, it was all one to him, for he didn t come him 
 self." 
 
 "Oh, he didn t!" 
 
 "Not a bit of it. It was a horful snowstorm, you 
 know." 
 
 "I don t think a snowstorm would have stopped little 
 Benny. It must have been something else. When did 
 you see the child last?" 
 
 "Not since that time he first came a Monday two 
 weeks gone. Two Saturdays have passed since then. 
 This here is the third Saturday. Mayhap he may come 
 to-night to see if you have returned, Kachel. If any 
 thing can fetch him, it will be the hope o seeing you." 
 
 "I feel anxious about the child. What can have kept 
 him away? Can he have been sick all this while?" in 
 quired Rachel Wood, thoughtfully. 
 
 "I don t know. How should I? He looked orful 
 thin and pale like when he was here; but, then, he allus 
 was that, more or less, you know. However, maybe 
 he ll come to-night, seeing it s Saturday, and then you ll 
 see for yourself." 
 
 Rachel Wood shivered, and stirred the fire into a 
 blaze, and then went to the window and looked out. 
 Finally she returned to her seat and sat down, still 
 shivering. 
 
 "I hope not," she said. "I hope that poor child will 
 not come out to-night, if he has got any sort of a roof 
 over his head. It is bitter cold, and growing colder 
 every hour. It is going to be an awful night, Mrs. 
 Kempton." 
 
 "Aye, is it? And Mary ll not be coming home to 
 night, either, I m thinking," said the old-clothes wo 
 man. 
 
206 THE LOST HEIK 
 
 "Mary! Is she back?" 
 
 "Oh, yes. Mr. and Mrs. Melliss have been in town 
 these two weeks. And Mrs. Melliss do be so good as to 
 let Mary come home every Saturday night to see me. 
 And every time she comes she do be asking after you, 
 and saying as her missus has lots of work for you as 
 soon as you gets home." 
 
 "I shall be very glad to have it. I do think, if it had 
 not been for Mrs. Melliss, I should have been one more 
 to fill the ranks of starving needlewomen." 
 
 As they spoke, there came the sound of hurried 
 steps upon the stairs and along the passages, followed 
 b> the unceremonious entrance of Mary Kempton. 
 
 "Why, it s Mary !" exclaimed the mother, jumping up 
 and kissing her daughter. 
 
 "I m so glad to see you, Mary!" added Rachel Wood, 
 rising to welcome her visitor. 
 
 "So am I to see you, Rachel. They told me mother 
 was up here, and so I took the liberty of coming right 
 up," said the girl. 
 
 "Quite right, Mary dear! I am glad you did. And 
 now take off your bonnet and cloak, and draw up to the 
 fire. This is dreadful weather, isn t it? Your mother 
 thought you wouldn t venture out in it," said Rachel, as 
 she helped her friend off with cloak and bonnet, and 
 hung them up to dry. 
 
 "Oh, it wasn t near so bad when I started ; but, good 
 ness! it s snowing, hailing and raining all at once, I 
 really do think! And freezing as it falls. And the 
 wind blowing great guns, and the sleet cutting one s 
 face like needles ! Yet, the worst night I ever did see in 
 all my life, I really do believe!" 
 
 "Never mind, dear ! Snuggle up close to the fire, and 
 put your feet up on the fender, while I make a fresh 
 cup of tea that will warm you. And mother will toast 
 you a muffin, I know," said Rachel, kindly, as she re 
 placed the kettle over the fire. 
 
 "Aye, that I will," said Mrs. Kempton, splitting a 
 muffin and putting one-half of it on a toasting-fork. 
 
 "Whew! how it blows!" shuddered Mary Kempton, 
 cuddling to the fire. 
 
THE LOST HEIR 207 
 
 "Your misses will not go for to expect you to come 
 back through such weather as this, Mary, will she, my 
 girl !" anxiously inquired Mrs. Kempton. 
 
 "Oh, no, mother ! She told me she thought we were 
 going to have a very bad night, and if so, as I needn t 
 come back to-night. And as how Joanna, the upper 
 housemaid, would dress her and sit up to wait on her 
 when she comes home from the party to-night." 
 
 "Oh! Mrs. Melliss is going to some grand party to 
 night!" responded Mrs. Kempton, with all a woman s 
 love of gossip and eagerness to hear more, as she but 
 tered the toasted muffin and put it between two hot 
 plates and set it on the hob to keep it hot until the tea 
 should be ready. 
 
 "Grand party! I believe you," said Mary, signifi 
 cantly. 
 
 "Then she is not afraid to turn out in this weather," 
 observed Rachel Wood. 
 
 "Who, she? Not much not with her warm shawls 
 and ermines and wrappers of all sorts from head to foot, 
 and her close-cushioned brougham, and all that why 
 should she fear the weather?" laughed Mary Kempton. 
 
 "Why, indeed ! But, Molly, dear, where is this grand 
 party to be?" inquired Mrs. Kempton. 
 
 "Oh, at the Duchess of Cheviot s! Such a splendid 
 ball! a sort of opening of the season, you know," said 
 Mary, enthusiastically. 
 
 "And do tell, Molly, my girl, what will Mrs. Melliss 
 wear?" inquired Mary s mother. 
 
 "Oh, such a heavenly dress! White tulle over white 
 satin, like piles of drifted fog on snow, you know ; the 
 tulle looped up with snowdrops. And diamond jewelry, 
 you know. I laid it all out for her before I came away. 
 And Joanna will dress her. I almost envy Joanna!" 
 
 "Come, now, dear, turn to the table. Here is your 
 tea and toasted muffins; enjoy them while they are 
 hot," Rachel Wood advised, as she sat the teapot on 
 the table. 
 
 Mary Kempton turned her chair to the board, and 
 addressed herself to the comforts before her. 
 
 Rachel Wood and Mrs. Kempton also reseated them- 
 
208 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 t 
 
 selves at the small table and took each an extra cup of 
 tea for company. 
 
 And then they all really enjoyed their tea and toast 
 and warm coal fire all the more, listening to the roaring 
 winter storm without. 
 
 Suddenly they were startled by a rap at the door. 
 
 "Come in," said Rachel, in a tone of surprise, as 
 wondering who could want her on such a night; but 
 thinking also that perhaps it might be some messen 
 ger from Mr. Kempton for his wife or daughter. 
 
 The next moment there entered the room a poor, 
 ragged, wet and shivering figure, that the three women 
 immediately recognized as Judy Malony, a daughter of 
 that Pat Malony of Wellesley Court, at whose wake 
 nearly all the denizens of the house in Junk lane had 
 assembled on that fatal night of the ballet girl s mur 
 der. 
 
 This miserable, half-frozen and half-famished crea 
 ture looked down on the comfortable tea-table and the 
 cozy fire and the three women who were seated there 
 looked down on them with eyes askance, through the 
 envy, hatred and malice that is too often born of bitter 
 poverty; and then, before any one could speak to ask 
 her what she wanted, she broke out, in a biting tone : 
 
 "Yes; you can all sit here, eating and drinking and 
 feasting! And there is poor Rosy Flowers starving to 
 death on her bed, without a mouthful of food between 
 her lips these five days ! You can sit here roasting and 
 toasting yourselves before this hot fire, and poor Rosy 
 Flowers a freezing on her bed, without a blanket to 
 cover her, or a stick of wood or handful of coals in the 
 house! You can sit here talking and joking and laugh 
 ing, and that poor girl and her new-born baby weep 
 ing their lives away in cold and hunger and grief. And 
 you call this being Christians! Shame on you!" 
 
 Judy had raved off the whole of her speech before the 
 three women recovered from the panic into which her 
 words had thrown them sufficiently to reply. 
 
 Rachel Wood was the first to speak. 
 
 "For mercy s sake ! I hope this is not so bad as you 
 
THE LOST HEIR 
 
 say, Judith Malony! Rose Flowers starving, freezing, 
 dying! I hope it is not so bad as that!" 
 
 "Come and see!" replied the girl, savagely. "You ve 
 got a warm shawl and thick shoes. You needn t be 
 afeard of the storm." 
 
 "I will come this moment," said Rachel, rising at 
 once. 
 
 "And I will go with you," added Mary Kempton. 
 
 "Girls, girls, think of what you are about ! You will 
 both catch your deaths!" urged Mrs. Kempton. 
 
 "Mother, mother, we do think! We are doing our 
 Master s work! No harm can come to us," said Mary 
 Kempton, as she took down her cloak and bonnet to put 
 them on. 
 
 "Sit down to the table there, Judy, in the seat near 
 est the fire. Eat and drink and warm yourself, while 
 I fill some baskets to take with us," said Rachel. "Mrs. 
 Kempton, will you please give Judy some tea and muf 
 fins?" 
 
 The poor, famishing and freezing creature accepted 
 the hospitality offered her, and Mrs. Kempton attended 
 to her wants, while Rachel Wood busied herself with 
 filling two baskets. 
 
 Into one basket she put tea and sugar, and bread and 
 butter, and a little bottle of milk. And this basket she 
 gave to Mary Kempton to carry. 
 
 Into the other and larger basket she packed coals 
 and kindling wood. And this she meant to carry. 
 
 Finally she took a warm blanket off her own bed, 
 and rolled it up and tied it, and laid it down, intending, 
 to ask Judy to carry that. 
 
 And by this time the half-frozen and half -famished 
 girl having been warmed and fed, they all prepared to 
 set out and brave the storm. 
 
 "And where is the child that was living with them?" 
 inquired Rachel Wood, who, ever since the entrance of 
 Judy Maloney with her message of woe, had been 
 thinking more of little Benny than of any one else. 
 
 "The child? What, the child as stayed to take care, 
 of em when kind friends, Mrs. Kempton herself there 
 to the fore, would a perwided for him comfortable, if 
 
210 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 only he would a-left em, which he wouldn t? The 
 child has begged and lied and stole for em, to keep em 
 from starving and freezing and dying? Why, do you 
 think as if the child had been living they d a-been 
 brought to this?" bitterly inquired Judy. 
 
 " If the child had been living, did you say? Did 
 you say that? Oh, poor little Benny! Dead! Well, 
 it is best ! Yes, indeed, it is best ! I thank Heaven, lit 
 tle Benny is dead dead in his ignorant, irresponsible 
 childhood! I thank Heaven!" exclaimed Rachel Wood, 
 earnestly. 
 
 "Who said he was dead? He is not dead: that is, 
 not quite. But he might s well be; he might s well be. 
 He s down with pleurisy and flamatory rheumatism 
 and what not ! If he hadn t been down, them as he per- 
 tected and perwided for would never a-been fetched to 
 this ere pass!" said the girl, bitterly. 
 
 They were now leaving the room. Rachel Wood 
 turned to Mary s mother, and said: 
 
 "It looks rude in me to go off, and leave a visitor, 
 Mrs. Kempton; but, under these circumstances, you ll 
 forgive me, I know." 
 
 "Why, in course I will in course I will, my child. 
 Oh, Rachel, don t say a word more! My only consarn 
 is, whether you and Mary won t catch your death o 
 cold, a-going out in sich orful weather as this." 
 
 "No one ever came to harm through doing their duty, 
 although it sometimes seems as if they did," murmured 
 Rachel. 
 
 "Well, child, I ll stop here a minute and wash up the 
 tea things, and tidy up your room a bit, and make the 
 fire safe; and then I ll lock the door, and take the key 
 with me, and you can call for it when you come back, 
 Rachel. And you needn t be afeared of disturbing me, 
 Rachel. So you can rap at my room door, and get your 
 key at any time you come back and want it, if it s in 
 the middle of the night, or near morning or any time. 
 And, besides, you know, I shall be anxious to know 
 about that there gal and her child," said Mrs. Kempton, 
 following the three girls to the door. 
 
 "Thank you kindly, neighbor. If we can do any good 
 
THE LOST HEIR 211 
 
 by staying there, we sha n t come home till morning. 
 So don t sit up or lie awake for us. Good-night," said 
 Kachel Wood. 
 
 "Good-night, and Heaven have a care of you, girls I" 
 prayed Mary s mother, as she shut the door behind 
 them. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 THE BEGGAR S DEATHBED. 
 
 The three girls, with their bundle and baskets, 
 passed out into the black darkness of the night, and at 
 once faced a furious storm of wind, snow and sleet. 
 
 Huddling their wraps around them as well as they 
 could, and tucking their faces down upon their chests, 
 to save them from the cutting, stinging sleet, they hur 
 ried on in single file down Junk lane, and out into 
 Ship alley, and down the alley to Low street, where, 
 at the corner, a solitary gas lamp shed a little, per 
 plexing light on their dismal way. 
 
 At the upper end of the street they saw the gas lamps 
 of the Strand shining redly and dimly through the 
 storm. 
 
 They turned their backs on these lights, and hurried 
 down the street toward the river, until they came to a 
 narrow, dilapidated gateway, where one miserable light 
 was flickering. 
 
 They passed this gateway, and entered the wretched 
 yard known as "Wellesley Court." Famine Court, 
 Filth Court, Fever Court, had been more appropriate 
 names. 
 
 Fortunately it was night, and the eye was 
 spared the sight of turbid gutters, festering rags, de 
 caying vegetables, garbage, offal, and all the fever- 
 breeding horrors of the place, as well as of the sin- 
 ruined famine and fever-stricken wrecks of humanity 
 that in the daytime crowd the yard, but in the night 
 time go forth like foul nightbirds seeking their prey, 
 or else creep into these dens to sleep and forget. 
 
212 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 Judy Malony led her companions across the yard, 
 which was but very dimly lighted by the gas jet over 
 the gateway, and a few household tapers shining here 
 and there from dilapidated windows; and she took 
 them to a house opposite the gateway, and pushed open 
 a door that at once admitted them to a room more 
 utterly wretched in its destitution and squalor than 
 anything even they had yet seen. 
 
 But at first they could not see it well. 
 
 The room was obscurely lighted by a poor substitute 
 for a taper a piece of rag burning in a saucer of very 
 dirty and offensive grease, that filled the place with a 
 stifling vapor. 
 
 Besides this there was no light and there was no 
 fire. All was nearly dark and intensely cold. And all 
 was silent as well, except for a very weak and piteous 
 wail that seemed to come from the corner of the room, 
 and an occasional moan from the dimly visible bed. 
 
 "I am glad you reminded me to bring a candle and 
 matches, Judy," said Eachel Wood, as she took from 
 her basket a "penny dip" and lighted it, and set it on a 
 tin candlestick that she had also provided. 
 
 Then she looked around. 
 
 Oh, then so much misery met her sight at once that 
 she became perplexed and confounded, not knowing 
 where first to turn, where first to offer help. 
 
 On a wretched cot in one corner lay Eosy Flowers, 
 covered over with the remains of a tattered old patch 
 work quilt. Her form was emaciated till it seemed a 
 mere skeleton with the skin stretched tightly over it. 
 Her eyes, deeply sunken and bright with the fever of 
 famine, were turned eagerly toward her visitors. Her 
 lips, parched with thirst, opened as if to speak, but 
 her voice died away in husky murmurs. 
 
 On a fragment of ragged and dirty carpeting in an 
 opposite corner of the room, lay little Benny his form 
 wasted to skin and bone, his face flushed, his hair 
 tangled, his head rolling in the restless delirium of 
 low fever. 
 
 On a stool before the fireless hearth sat old Granny 
 Flowers, croning to herself in the imbelicity of dotage, 
 
THE LOST HEIE 213 
 
 and holding her withered hands over a few scraps of 
 old shoe leather, flannel rags, strings, etc., which were 
 smoking, and which she fondly persuaded herself 
 were going to burn. 
 
 But in an old lidless hair trunk, on a pile of rags, in 
 which it was half buried, lay the most pitiable sight of 
 all a babe of a few days old, unwashed, untended, 
 festering in dirt and perishing of hunger. Reader, I 
 saw all this with my own eyes, and "not another s." 
 
 Rachel Wood clapped her hands to her head in utter 
 bewilderment for a moment, but rallied herself in 
 stantly, and after telling Mary Kempton to make up 
 the fire from the fuel she had bought, and to hang on 
 the kettle of water, she went up to the side of the dying 
 girl, and, speaking very gently, she said: 
 
 "Dear Rose, I am sorry to find you in this way." 
 
 The girl s feverish eyes brightened still more, as she 
 huskily answered: 
 
 "Oh, I am so glad to see you ! I thank you so much 
 for coming! It was so good in you to come to see 
 poor me." 
 
 "Rose, I would have come before, if I had known 
 you were sick and in need. I came as soon as I found 
 it out, Rose." 
 
 "Yes, I know. Thank thank thank you, Rachel." 
 
 "You speak with difficulty, poor Rose. Do not try to 
 talk." 
 
 "I haven t tasted food these five long days," 
 faltered the faint voice of the girl, while her feverish 
 eyes were fixed with a hungry glare upon the face of 
 Rachel. 
 
 "Oh, Rosy! what a sin and a shame in a Christian 
 city! But you shall have some tea and some toast in 
 five minutes, dear," said Rachel, hurrying to the fire 
 place, where Mary Kempton had already kindled a fire 
 and set over it a tin cup of water to boil, for in that 
 miserable abode there was no tea-kettle. 
 
 The old woman had moved her stool into a corner, 
 w r here she sat muttering to herself in an utterly child 
 ish and imbecile manner. 
 
214 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 Rachel went zealously to work to help to prepare 
 food and drink for the starving girl. 
 
 She hunted up a small pitcher without a handle, 
 which she made to do duty as a teapot. 
 
 Then, upon further search, she found a cracked cup 
 and saucer, and the half of a large dish. 
 
 "We must make these do for to-night, Mary. To 
 morrow morning I will step over home and bring what 
 it most wanted/ said Eachel. 
 
 And the two girls soon got ready a very good cup of 
 tea and a delicate round of milk toast, which they car 
 ried to the sufferer. 
 
 Mary Kempton got up on the bed behind Rose, and 
 lifted and supported her in a sitting position, while 
 Rachel Wood set the tea and toast on the bed before 
 her, and began to feed the invalid. 
 
 But, oh! the poor girl could scarcely swallow the 
 tea, given her even as it was, in small teaspoonfuls at a 
 time. 
 
 And when, with the eagerness of famine, she 
 snatched and tried to swallow a morsel of the soft milk 
 toast, she choked, grew sick and motioned for them 
 to take it all away and to lay her down again. 
 
 "It is too late," she panted, faintly "too late!- 
 thought I could eat and drink so much but I 
 can t. I can t can t swallow ; and, if I could, it would 
 sicken me too late!" 
 
 "Oh, if we only had a little brandy or wine! But all 
 the places are shut up now!" said Rachel, as she re 
 moved the almost untouched tea and toast. 
 
 "Give it to me, then. I can eat it. I m hungry, I tell 
 you. But none of you don t care nothing about me. 
 No, when one s old, nobody cares for em!" grumbled 
 Granny Flowers, holding out her withered hands for 
 the food. 
 
 Rachel gave it to her, and the old creature returned 
 to her stool and sat down, and began to eat and drink 
 ravenously. 
 
 At this moment the miserable babe in the box awoke 
 and began to cry with hunger or pain, or both. 
 
THE LOST HEIR 215 
 
 "Oh, take it, Rachel! Oh, feed it! I have nothing 
 for it!" moaned Rose, from the bed. 
 
 And Rachel moved to do her bidding, but Mary 
 Kempton interrupted her, saying: 
 
 "Let me do this, Rachel. The miserable little crea 
 ture wants washing and dressing as well as feeding, 
 and I, who have helped to nurse so many little baby 
 brothers and sisters, know a deal more about it than 
 you do. You go and look at Benny. He is very ill, 
 too. Listen to him!" 
 
 Rachel Wood very willingly turned her attention to 
 Benny, who just at this moment had begun to roll his 
 head again and to mutter. 
 
 "Never you mind, Rosy Get well soon, and go out 
 for you again Bless you, I m not ill When I get a 
 big man crack a big crib The crown? Yes, sir 
 That lady there that love-er-ly, love-er-ly lady there 
 " murmured the child, in his delirious dream. 
 
 Rachel went to him and felt his head. It was like 
 burning coals. She took her own handkerchief from 
 her pocket and wet it in cold water, and laid it on his 
 forehead. 
 
 Then he opened his eyes, and looked at her. 
 
 "Do you know me, Benny?" she kindly inquired. 
 
 "Yes; what s them you ve got on your head?" he 
 asked, looking wistfully at her. 
 
 "I have nothing on my head, child," she answered, 
 putting her hands up to feel and make sure "noth 
 ing at all on my head, Benny." 
 
 "Oh, yes, you have! I see now. It s my wreath of 
 roses. It ain t for you. It s for it s for that love- 
 er-ly lady " 
 
 Rachel saw that he was still delirious. She shifted 
 him into a somewhat easier position on his poor, rag 
 ged rug, and then wet the handkerchief on his head 
 again, and sat by him until he fell into a disturbed 
 sleep. 
 
 Meanwhile Mary Kempton, with the help of Judith 
 Malony, had washed the baby and fed it. 
 
 Then the dying girl beckoned Rachel Wood to come 
 to her. And when Rachel had seated herself at the 
 
216 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 bedside, Rose, with feeble and failing fingers, un- 
 loosened from her own neck a narrow black ribbon, to 
 which was attached a very slender gold ring. 
 
 "There, Rachel," she panted, faintly, "I have kept 
 that through all when I was starving when I was 
 freezing I have kept it through all; I wouldn t sell 
 it, or even pawn it, Rachel. I have kept it through all." 
 
 "But what about it, Rose?" inquired Rachel, looking 
 curiously at the ring, which was but a poor little 
 thread-like circle of gold, worth at most half a crown. 
 
 "Why, don t you see what it is? My treasure, my 
 jewel, my honor, Rachel Wood! My wedding ring!" 
 
 She had spoken with great excitement and false 
 strength, and now she fell back panting on her pillow. 
 
 "Oh, Rose, I am so glad you have a wedding ring, my 
 child. So very glad and thankful! All the rest is as 
 nothing now!" exclaimed Rachel, as the tears of joy 
 filled her eyes. 
 
 The dying girl smiled on her, and with an effort said : 
 
 "You are so glad. I was not as bad as you 
 thought." 
 
 "So glad, for your sake. So glad for your child s," 
 answered Rachel. And then she added: 
 
 "Now, Rose, you must tell me who gave you this 
 wedding ring." 
 
 "No, I must not tell you that. It is a dead dead 
 secret. I promised him never, never to tell without his 
 consent. And I cannot break a promise on my 
 deathbed you know," panted the dying girl. 
 
 "Where is he? He would surely release you from 
 your promise, Rose?" 
 
 "I don t know where he is. I wish I did. I have 
 
 not seen nor heard of him in many " answered 
 
 the girl, panting so hard that Rachel saw at once that 
 this conversation was shaking out the few remaining 
 sands in her glass of life. 
 
 "You must not talk any more now, Rose. Lie still 
 and try to go to sleep. To-morrow morning, as soon 
 as the shops are open, I will get you some brandy," said 
 Rachel. 
 
THE LOST HEIR 217 
 
 And Rose obeyed her by lying still, but whether she 
 really slept, or only rested, no one could tell. 
 
 Rachel went over to Judy, and questioned her. 
 
 Have the parish done anything at all for the old 
 woman, or the girl, or the child ?" 
 
 "No, cause the old oman wouldn t go inter the 
 Union. No more would Rosy. As for Benny, they 
 claimed him, did Rosy and the old un, for their own. 
 And they wouldn t part with him nuther. And I m not 
 a-blaming of em. Anythink better n the Union. Ask 
 anybody as has been there," bitterly answered the girl. 
 
 "Hush! Our talk disturbs the poor boy," said 
 Rachel. And indeed little Benny was now rolling his 
 head and raving in high delirium. 
 
 Rachel went to him and wet his head, and tried to 
 soothe him, but without success. He continued to toss 
 and rave. His ravings disturbed poor Rose, who 
 groaned, and began to breathe in that distressing man 
 ner peculiar to some dying persons. 
 
 Meanwhile the old woman was crying and rocking 
 her body to and fro. 
 
 And in the midst of all this, the wretched babe awoke 
 and set up a piteous wail. 
 
 Judy took it in her arms, and walked it up and down 
 the squalid floor, but could not quiet it. 
 
 And so, with the delirious tossing and raving of little 
 Benny, the hard breathing of the dying girl, the wail 
 ing of the suffering infant, the imbecile murmuring of 
 the old woman within, and the howling of the wind 
 and the rattling of the sleet without, the hideous night 
 went on. 
 
 "Oh, what a woeful hour! Oh, that it were morn 
 ing!" signed Rachel Wood, fervently. 
 
 "And, oh, what a lesson to us all!" answered Mary 
 Kempton. "Only this evening my head was all but 
 turned with the sight of my mistress ball dress and 
 jewels, and the thought of the grand ball at the 
 Duchess of Cheviot s, so that I talked and rattled away 
 about those vanities as if there was not a pain or a 
 duty left in life. And now look here Rachel, what 
 o clock is it, do you think?" 
 
218 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 "I heard St. Giles strike nine a little while ago." 
 
 "Nine o clock, and Mrs. Melliss is now dressing for 
 the ball at the Duchess of Cheviot s. Think of that, 
 and think of this, good angels in heaven!" 
 
 Rachel Wood sat down beside little Benny with a 
 cup of water in her hand, to bathe his head. 
 
 And now behold the contrast! 
 
 It is nine o clock in this wretched, squalid, fever- 
 stricken tenement in Wellesley Court; and little Ben 
 ny, the eldest, the unowned, unknown son of the Duke 
 and Duchess of Cheviot, is lying ill of a fever brought 
 on by starvation and exposure. He is half clothed in 
 dirty rags, and tossing about on the almost bare floor, 
 scantily covered with a piece of old, filthy carpeting. 
 
 It was nine o clock in Cheviot House, in Piccadilly. 
 The select dinner party that was to precede the ball of 
 the evening is just over. The dessert is placed upon 
 the table; and the children, as is the custom in that 
 house of close domestic love and union, are brought 
 in for a few moments to partake moderately of the 
 fruits and ices, and to be caressed and admired before 
 being dismissed to their beds. There is the little Earl 
 of Wellrose, and with him the little ladies Jessie, 
 Clemence, Hester, and Eva Douglas. And they are all 
 petted and praised by the guests, and all their little 
 sayings and doings are duly approved and applauded. 
 
 Suddenly little Lady Jessie Douglas speaks out: 
 
 "Mamma, dear, do you remember that pretty little 
 beggar boy, that we called in and gave the cake to, on 
 Twelfth-night?" 
 
 "Yes, love. What puts him in your head now?" in 
 quired the duchess. 
 
 "I do not know, mamma, dear, unless it is this piece 
 of cake. But, oh, was he not the very image of my 
 brother Wellrose?" 
 
 This childish chat of the little Lady Jessie necessi 
 tates an explanation of her "Twelfth-night freak," as it 
 was always called in the family. 
 
 And to the great amusement of the dinner guests, the 
 story of her little ladyship s whim of having the beg 
 gar boy brought in from the street, that she might give 
 
THE LOST HEIR 219 
 
 him her slice of the Twelfth-day cake, and of his good 
 fortune in finding the ring, and the absurdity of his 
 being crowned king, and the strangeness of his conduct 
 in passing over his little benefactress, Lady Jessie, and 
 all the other little ladies, and choosing the Duchess of 
 Cheviot for his queen, and finally of his ignominiously 
 breaking down and crying and having to be sent away. 
 
 When the guests have sufficiently enjoyed this story, 
 and rallied the little beauty on her caprices, the chil 
 dren are all kissed and dismissed. 
 
 At this very moment, little Benny, tossing in fever 
 and delirium on his miserable pallet in the squalid 
 tenement-house in Wellesley Court, raves out : 
 
 "No ; not for you not for you, little girl, if you did 
 give me the slice of cake ! It is for that love-er-ly lady ! 
 Don t cry, Rosy. I ain t hungry! deed I ain t not 
 much you take and eat it, Rosy! When I get a big 
 
 man crack a crib, you know. And and No, not 
 
 cold deed I an t, granny! You take the carpet 
 poor granny! When I get a big man " 
 
 And so he maundered on in his frenzy, until he grad 
 ually sank into stupor. 
 
 This most miserable night passed at last 
 
 With the earliest dawn of day Rachel Wood, leaving 
 the sufferers as I have described them, took a basket 
 and went out. 
 
 She found that the storm had passed away with the 
 night. Of this she felt so glad, that she even hoped 
 much of the hideous misery she had witnessed might 
 also melt away before the night of the coming day. 
 She repeated to herself: 
 
 " Sorrow lasteth but a night, and joy cometh with 
 the morning. " 
 
 She went forth from that filthy courtyard and 
 walked on up Low street until she reached the Strand. 
 And there she entered the first wine store she found 
 open, and bought a small bottle of brandy. 
 
 She then retraced her steps and went down Low 
 street, up Ship alley and into Junk lane. 
 
 The sun was just rising and breaking through the 
 
220 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 low clouds along the eastern horizon, as she reached 
 the old tenement-house where she lived. 
 
 The denizens of the house were but just stirring. 
 
 She passed the pawnbroker s shop, and opened the 
 door of the old-clothes store. 
 
 Mrs. Kemp ton was already there, arranging her un 
 savory wares. 
 
 "Come for your key, Rachel? Here it is. And how 
 is the poor girl?" inquired Mrs. Kempton. 
 
 Rachel described the condition of Rose Flowers and 
 of the other wretched inmates of the shed in Wellesley 
 Court and then added: 
 
 "You must not think an ill thought of poor Rose any 
 more, Mrs. Kempton. She was married." 
 
 "Now you don t say so! Who married of her?" in 
 quired the poor woman. 
 
 "I don t know. Some unprincipled man, I suppose, 
 of a higher rank than herself, who was ashamed to 
 own her, and has now deserted her. But, womanlike, 
 she is so loyal to him that she will not give up his 
 name." 
 
 "Well, I do think girls is sich fools !" observed Mrs. 
 Kempton. 
 
 "Well, now, I ll take my key, if you please, and go up 
 to my room. I wish to procure some necessaries to 
 take to Rose, and then I shall stay with her until all 
 is over." 
 
 "Then you really think as she ll die?" 
 
 "She has been dying all night. She may be dead 
 when I get back," answered Rachel, gravely. 
 
 "Well, here, take your key, Rachel. You re a good 
 girl. I ll say it, and stand to it." 
 
 "I don t know about that, Mrs. Kempton." 
 
 "I do, then. But, Rachel, tell my Mary as I d be 
 willing enough to let her stay long o that poor girl to 
 day if it was left to me; but she must think of her 
 missus, and keeping of her place, and she must go 
 right straight back to Charles street early this morn 
 ing to wait on her missus at her t ilet." 
 
 "She is going back as soon as I return to take her 
 place in that house of death, Mrs. Kempton. And you 
 
THE LOST HEIR 221 
 
 need not be anxious. Mrs. Melliss is a kind mistress, 
 and, besides, she will sleep late this morning after the 
 ball ; so that she will not ring for her maid before Mary 
 gets back." 
 
 And, saying these words, Rachel Wood took up her 
 basket and her key and went up to her room. 
 
 Here, from her own slender stores, she filled her 
 basket with all she thought most needed in that house, 
 where all the necessaries of life were lacking. 
 
 Among the rest, she put in a complete change of 
 clean clothes for Rose Flowers, and also an old sheet 
 and a flannel skirt, with which she meant to make 
 something to dress the baby. 
 
 Then, well laden, she left her house and hurried back 
 to the shed in Wellesley Court. 
 
 She found all there very much as she had left them. 
 
 "Little Benny has been sleeping heavily ever since 
 you left. The babe has been quiet, too, ever since I fed 
 it and put it to sleep. But as for Rosy, I think she is 
 sinking fast," was the report made by Mary Kempton 
 on the return of Rachel Wood. 
 
 Rachel went to the bedside of the girl, and found 
 the words of her friend true. 
 
 The ashen shades of death were creeping over the 
 still, pale, young face that lay before her. As Rachel 
 gazed upon her, Rose opened her eyes and smiled faint 
 ly, but did not speak. 
 
 Rachel poured out a little brandy into a cup and 
 gave her a teaspoonful of it. 
 
 Rose seemed temporarily revived. 
 
 And then Rachel asked her how she felt. 
 
 "I am going fast, dear friend. Stoop down I want 
 to ask you something," said the poor creature, in a 
 faint voice. 
 
 Rachel put her ear down to the feeble lips, when 
 Rose murmured: 
 
 "The old woman will not last many days. Then 
 they ll send my baby to the workhouse. Will you go 
 there sometimes to see him?" 
 
 "Rose," said Rachel, sweetly and solemnly, "have no 
 anxiety about your baby. I will adopt him, and bring 
 
222 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 him up as my own son. I shall never marry. Sickly 
 people never should. But I want something to love, 
 And I will take your child, if you will leave him to 
 me." 
 
 "If I will! Oh, Rachel, Rachel! Bless you! bless 
 you !" exclaimed the poor girl, starting up to catch and 
 kiss the hands of the seamstress. 
 
 But her false strength failed and she fell back, faint 
 ing. 
 
 Greatly shocked, Rachel administered another tea- 
 spoonful of brandy, and then ordered and enforced per 
 fect quiet for the sufferer. 
 
 Mary Kempton next took leave of Rachel softly, and 
 without disturbing Rose, and with a promise to return 
 and sit up that night, if her mistress would permit her, 
 she left the house. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 THE BALLET GIRL^S FATE. 
 
 Rachel Wood and Judy Malony were thus left to 
 watch the four equally helpless creatures the dying 
 girl, the delirious child, the new-born babe and the im 
 becile old woman. 
 
 The dying girl lay sleeping heavily, and sometimes 
 waking and breathing hard, or rather making that in 
 describable and most distressing sound peculiar to 
 some persons in a long-protracted death struggle. 
 
 All that Rachel could do for her was to give her oc 
 casionally a teaspoonful of beef tea, or a few drops of 
 brandy, so as to sustain life a little longer. 
 
 The child Benny lay in a stupor, broken at intervals 
 by spasmodic starts, moans and delirium. 
 
 The only relief Rachel could give him was to apply 
 cloths wet with ice water to his burning head. 
 
 The babe slept as new-born babes usually do, waking 
 only to cry and be fed, and to fall asleep again. 
 
 The old woman sat in the chimney corner grumbling 
 
THE LOST HEIE 223 
 
 and crooning to herself, half conscious of the trouble 
 around her, and wholly unable to assist in its relief. 
 
 Rachel Wood, in the intervals of her attendance 
 upon the ill and the dying, found time to cut up the old 
 linen sheet and the old flannel skirt that she had 
 brought, and to shape them into baby clothes, which 
 she and Judy began to sew. 
 
 Quite early in the forenoon the parish doctor made 
 his appearance. 
 
 He looked at poor Rose, and said that she was sink 
 ing fast, but that the struggle was not painful. He 
 then wrote a prescription for a sedative to soothe her 
 mortal agony. 
 
 Next he examined the sick boy, said that he was very 
 ill, and must be sent to the Middlesex Hospital. But 
 meanwhile he wrote a prescription for a febrifuge to 
 cool and lower his fever. 
 
 He gave Rachel Wood an order to procure these 
 medicines from the free dispensary attached to the Mid 
 dlesex Hospital. 
 
 And then he promised to look in again at night, and 
 took his leave. 
 
 Rachel Wood sent Judy Malony with the order and 
 the two prescriptions to get the medicines from the dis 
 pensary, and then sat down to sew while watching her 
 patients. 
 
 As she sat and sewed she was a little startled by 
 hearing the voice of Rose, speaking clearer than she 
 had heard it yet, and saying: 
 
 "Rachel, dear, are you quite alone?" 
 
 "No, dear," answered Rachel, rising quickly and 
 going to the bedside. "Besides you and the baby, there 
 is granny in the chimney corner." 
 
 "Granny and the baby are equally harmless. Is there 
 no one else?" 
 
 "No one else, dear," answered Rachel, wondering at 
 the sudden strength that had come to the dying girl, 
 but drawing no hopeful augury from it. 
 
 "Come here, then, Rachel. I must speak to you alone 
 while I can." 
 
 Rachel drew nearer still. 
 
224 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 Rachel you will keep my poor child ?" inquired Rose. 
 
 "Yes, dear. I told you so. I will keep him, and, 
 Heaven sparing me and him, I will bring him up to be 
 a good and useful man." 
 
 "Bless you, bless you, bless you, dear Rachel!" slowly 
 and fervently repeated Rosy. "You have got my wed 
 ding ring, Rachel?" she then inquired. 
 
 "Yes, dear. Here it is. Do you want it?" 
 
 "No. Keep it to show my boy, so he may know his 
 mother was married, though he may never know who 
 his father was. But stop. Let me take it in my hand 
 once more, Rachel." 
 
 Rachel Wood drew a small paper parcel from her 
 pocket, unrolled it and took out the slender gold ring, 
 still attached to the narrow black ribbon. She put it in 
 Rosy s hand. 
 
 The poor girl, without untying it from its ribbon, 
 slipped it on her wasted finger, looked at it fondly, 
 smiled on it, kissed it, and then drew it off again, and 
 handed it back to her friend, saying: 
 
 "Take it, dear. Keep it safely. Show it to my boy 
 when he is old enough to understand, so he may know 
 his mother was honest, though his father may be lost." 
 
 "Rosy, oh, my poor Rosy," said Rachel, as she took 
 the ring and wrapped it up and replaced it in her 
 pocket "my dear girl, though you are bound by your 
 promise not to give up the name of that man 
 
 "I do not believe I really know his true name. I 
 have every reason to believe that he courted me and 
 married me under a false name. But even that false 
 name I must not divulge," said the poor girl. 
 
 "Well, though you must not do that, yet are you not 
 free to tell me enough to afford me some clew by which, 
 at some time, I may be able to trace this man for his 
 child s sake?" pleaded Rachel. 
 
 "I don t know. But this much I think I can tell 
 you " 
 
 "Take a cup of beef tea and a teaspoonful of brandy 
 first, dear, and that will give you strength to go on," 
 said Rachel. 
 
THE LOST HEIR 225 
 
 And she administered both restoratives and then sat 
 down again by the bedside. 
 
 "It was at the theatre it all began. He saw me dance. 
 He asked the manager to take him behind the scenes 
 and introduce him to me. The manager of the Thes 
 pian never cared a pinch of snuff for the morals of us 
 poor ballet girls. So he brought this gentleman to the 
 
 green-room and introduced him to me as a Mr. , 
 
 a very common name, that I seemed to know at once 
 did not belong to that aristocratic-looking man." 
 
 "And yet it might/ said Rachel, smiling sadly at the 
 romantic fancy of the poor girl, who had seen, in some 
 Smith or Jones, a Howard or a Cavendish. 
 
 "He followed me up from that night. He made me 
 presents and gave me treats. He used to take me, and 
 any favorite companions I might like to select, to little 
 dinners and suppers at Richmond and other places." 
 
 Rosy paused for breath. Rachel sighed. It was the 
 old, old beaten road to ruin ! Rosy resumed : 
 
 "One night, after the performance was over, he called 
 for me in a carriage at the stage door, and invited me 
 to go with him to a little supper. Somehow, though I 
 had grown to love him, I never liked to go anywhere 
 with him alone. So I told him I would like to go if 
 he would let me ask Flora May, one of my companions, 
 to go with me, which he did. He took us to a lovely 
 little villa in St. John s Wood. It was a moonlight 
 night, so we could see the outside of the villa and the 
 grounds. And oh ! it was beautiful !" 
 
 "A white sepulcher!" sadly observed Rachel. 
 
 "Ah! but it was lovely outside and inside both! 
 When we went in we found a splendid little drawing- 
 room and dining room ; connected by sliding doors, on 
 one side of the hall, and a pretty bedchamber and dress 
 ing-room also communicating, on the other side of the 
 hall ; and there was a conservatory, and an aviary, and 
 a flower garden." 
 
 "Dante clothed the gate of hell with terrors. He 
 should rather have wreathed it with flowers! It would 
 have been truer to truth," put in Rachel, while Rosy 
 paused to rest. At length the dying girl resumed. 
 
226 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 "We took off our hats in the pretty bedroom, and 
 then we went into the splendid little drawing-room, 
 and were scarcely seated when the sliding doors were 
 withdrawn, and we were invited into the elegant little 
 dining-room, where a delicious little supper was spread. 
 Oh, dear, we ate of the most delicious food and drank 
 of the richest wines. Ah, dear, I have hungered and 
 thirsted, starved and froze enough since to make up 
 for all that luxury and splendor!" 
 
 "Poor child! Rest a while, and then go on," said 
 Rachel, compassionately, as she passed her hand over 
 the jetty locks of the girl. 
 
 "The wine got into my head," she resumed, "and I 
 talked and laughed a great deal. I was perfectly 
 charmed and carried away with the beauty and splen 
 dor of the miniature villa, and said so. So, after sup 
 per he took me into the conservatory to show me the 
 flowers. Flora May stayed behind, on purpose, as I 
 really do believe. And there, having me all alone to 
 himself, he told me how he loved me, and told me that 
 this elegant villa might be my own if I would come 
 and live in it." 
 
 "Ay, ay," said Rachel, bitterly; "the old temptation 
 of the devil: All these things will I give thee, if thou 
 wilt fall down and worship me. But go on, dear." 
 
 "The wine had not got so much into my head as to 
 make me forget my resolution. I told him no, and no, 
 and no, and I broke away from him and ran back into 
 the drawing-room, where Flora May was sitting, look 
 ing over a book of The Beauties of Charles the Sec 
 ond s Court/ And then we went and put on our bon 
 nets to go home." 
 
 "And afterward?" inquired Rachel. 
 
 "Of course, I ought afterward to have cut his ac 
 quaintance, but I didn t. I liked suppers and dinners, 
 and treats and presents too well for that. But I would 
 not leave my grandparents poor, miserable home and 
 go and live in his beautiful villa, until he married me, 
 which at length he did." 
 
 The fast-failing girl paused for a few minutes, and 
 then resumed: 
 
THE LOST HEIE 227 
 
 "I do believe he was madly in love with me just 
 about that time, else he never would have done what 
 he did. But you know, Kachel, I was said to be pretty 
 then." 
 
 "Very pretty, my poor Kose." 
 
 "Ah, yes! but the beauty that might have been my 
 blessing has proved my curse. Ah, well, he was madly 
 in love with this poor beauty, as I said," sighed Rosy. 
 And then she relapsed into a silence so long that Ra 
 chel, who had good reasons for wishing to know the 
 whole truth of this mourful affair, ventured to recall 
 her attention by inquiring: 
 
 "And about the marriage, Rosy?" 
 "Oh, yes!" she said, rousing herself. "It was at 
 Greenwich, after a white bait dinner. We kept it up 
 all night. Instead of going home and going to bed in 
 the morning, he stayed up and sent for a special license 
 and a parson, and married me there in the presence of 
 two friends as witnesses. And then he took me to the 
 elegant villa. And I lived in splendor, pleasure and 
 luxury, a fool s paradise, for four months." 
 "A fool s paradise, indeed!" sighed Rachel. 
 Then one day he was missing. And days passed and 
 he did not come back. And I was first uneasy, and 
 then anxious, and then desperate. Tradesmen s bills 
 came in, and I had no money to meet them. Two quar 
 ters rent was due, and I had no funds to pay. The 
 house had been rented furnished. So not only did that 
 make the rent double, but it also left no property to 
 satisfy the landlord s claims except niy personal effects, 
 which were all seized. And so one day I found my 
 self in the street homeless and penniless." 
 
 "Poor child ! If you had only had the courage of the 
 prodigal son, to come home!" 
 
 "If I had ! But I hadn t ! I was afraid of facing my 
 grandfather. I heard afterward how my elopement had 
 killed him. But then I did not know it, for I should 
 not have been afraid to face my poor old grandmother. 
 Well, Rachel, you may guess* what followed. I was 
 driven from one wretched lodging house to another, 
 while I had a rag of clothes left to sell to pay my 
 
228 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 lodging. And then at last, came that awful night when 
 I was turned out of my last miserable shelter, with 
 only clothing enough to cover my body !" 
 
 "That was terrible!" 
 
 "Yes. Some one has written of just such poor, lost 
 creatures as I : 
 
 "The Street said, Sin to live ; 
 And the River said, Sin to die. " 
 
 It is true, Rachel! If I had minded what the street 
 said, I might still have lived in sinful luxury and lost 
 my soul. For, you see, there were some of his old com 
 pany keepers met me sometimes. I would not follow 
 the counsel of the street. I thought I was less wicked 
 to yield to the river. And so, that desperate night, I 
 was about to throw myself into it, when I was pre 
 vented by my old grandmother, bless her!" 
 
 "Oh! how I thank Heaven that you were saved from 
 such a fearful, fatal deed, Rosy !" said Rachel, shudder 
 ing. 
 
 "So do I. For, Rachel, since I returned home here, I 
 have thought over my past sins and follies ; and I have 
 bitterly, profoundly repented them. But, oh! Rachel, 
 of all the sins I ever committed, my sins against that 
 poor boy there trouble me the most !" 
 
 "Against Benny?" 
 
 "Ay, against him the little angel soul !" 
 
 "Why, I can hardly believe you. What have you 
 done to Benny?" 
 
 "I let him beg for me. That was not so bad, perhaps. 
 But I let him steal for me! And when he brought me 
 a loaf of bread he had hooked from a baker, or a par 
 cel of tea he had stolen from a grocer s counter, or an 
 orange or a cucumber from the market, I hugged and 
 kissed him, and praised and petted him, and made be 
 lieve he was such a good boy, and had done so well! 
 And, oh! to think that he is now down with the fever, 
 and out of his head, and I cannot say to him, Benny, 
 I was a hungry, thirsty, wicked woman ! I was a long 
 ing, selfish woman, and I told you what wasn t true! 
 
THE LOST HEIE 229 
 
 Oh, Rachel, the worst sting of sin is the thought that 
 we cannot undo the wrong we have done!" 
 
 "But Christ can undo it," said Rachel, reverently. 
 
 "Yes, He! He can do all things. He who pardoned 
 the Magdalen at His feet He who pardoned the thief 
 on the cross, He can cleanse my soul of its sins, and 
 undo all my wrongdoings. Beloved and blessed be His 
 name forever," said Rose, in a meek and fervent tone. 
 
 Then she lay some time, as if much exhausted. 
 
 Presently she said: 
 
 "Bring my poor babe to me, Rachel, dear; I would 
 like to see him and kiss him once more." 
 
 Rachel tenderly lifted the sleeping babe and brought 
 him to his dying mother. 
 
 Rose attempted to take him in her arms, but her 
 strength was gone. She sighed and let her arms falL 
 
 Then Rachel held the babe very close to his mother s 
 face. And Rose kissed him and patted his cheeks. And 
 the babe waked and opened his eyes, and looked at her. 
 
 "How clean and comfortable he is! That is your 
 doing, dear Rachel," she murmured. 
 
 "Mrs. Kempton lent me a suit of baby linen for pres 
 ent use. And I am making some up now for future 
 occasions," answered Rachel. 
 
 "Bless you, dear ! Bless you !" murmured Rose. 
 
 Then she kissed her child again, murmured a prayer 
 for him, and let Rachel take him back to his cradle. 
 
 "I trust my orphan child to Him who blessed little 
 children. I trust my sinful soul to Him who pardoned 
 the Magdalen and the thief. Good-night, dear Rachel ; 
 I am going to sleep." 
 
 These were the last words of the poor ballet dancer, 
 She turned her face to the wall and closed her eyes, as 
 if in slumber. 
 
230 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 VISIT. 
 
 The short winter afternoon was closing in. 
 
 Rachel kept the room very quiet, that the sleeper 
 might not be disturbed. 
 
 Presently Judy Malony returned in a bustle of indig 
 nation against the officers of the dispensary. 
 
 "Sure, and I couldn t get back any suner," she said. 
 "Bedad, and the place was that full of poor craytures 
 all after physic, as you d thought the chollery had 
 broken out, and aich one was worse than the other wid 
 it. And sure I lifted up my voice and screamed out 
 to the man behind the counter that the girl and the 
 boy were kilt intirely for the want ov the physic I d 
 come for. Divil a bit would he mind me! And divil 
 a bit would the other spalpeens make way for me! 
 And so, bedad, and I had to wait my turn before ever I 
 could get the physic. But here it is at last, me dar- 
 lint!" said Judy, triumphantly, producing the medi 
 cine. 
 
 And she would have gone on talking in her excited 
 manner, if Rachel had not warned her to keep quiet 
 and not disturb the sleepers. 
 
 "Rose is sleeping more peacefully than she has done 
 since I have been here," added Rachel. 
 
 So she lighted a tallow candle and sat it on the man 
 tel-shelf, behind an old jug for a shade. 
 
 And then she and Judy sat down to wait the arrival 
 of the doctor. 
 
 He soon came, and inquired of Rachel whether she 
 had administered the medicines to the patients. 
 
 "I have almost just got the medicines. And they are 
 both sleping so quietly now that I thought I would not 
 disturb them." 
 
 "You were quite right," said the doctor, as he went 
 up to the bedside to examine the girl. 
 
 He took up her hand very gently, so as to feel her 
 
THE LOST HEIR 231 
 
 pulse, if possible, without waking her. He dropped her 
 hand almost instantly. 
 
 "Why, the girl is dead! he said. 
 
 "Dead!" echoed Kachel, shocked, even though she 
 had been all day long expecting this death. 
 
 "Dead! Och hone! Och hone!" wailed Judy Ma- 
 lony. 
 
 "Who s dead now? Stop your howling, can t you? 
 You Irish always wake the dead. And faith, wake 
 them you would, if the dead could be waked at all!" 
 growled the old woman, only half-roused to a conscious 
 ness of what was going on, and then relapsing into im 
 becility again. 
 
 "This girl has been dead for at least half an hour," 
 said the doctor, after having made a further examina 
 tion of the body. 
 
 Rachel Wood quietly approached the bedside, ten 
 derly turned the body over on its back, and reverently 
 closed the dead eyes, holding her fingers on the lids to 
 keep them down. 
 
 "I will notify the proper officer to send the parish 
 undertaker here to attend to the funeral. To-morrow 
 morning the sick child will be removed to the hospital, 
 and the old woman to the Union. Meanwhile, give the 
 child the medicine as directed/ said the doctor, as he 
 took leave. 
 
 The girls remained a few minutes longer standing 
 silently by the bedside. Then Rachel Wood said: 
 
 "Light another candle, Judy. We must have light 
 enough to see to do our duty by this poor clay. And set 
 a chair with a shawl over its back, to keep the light 
 from hurting Benny s head." 
 
 The Irish girl silently obeyed all these directions. 
 
 "Now, Judy, help me to draw this bedstead out into 
 the middle of the floor, so that we can get around it to 
 lay out the body," added Rachel Wood. 
 
 And they drew the bedstead into the middle of the 
 room, and then in silence began their solemn work. 
 
 The room was very still. 
 
 The old woman in the chimney corner had fallen 
 asleep, with her head dropped upon her chest. 
 
232 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 Benny had ceased his moans, and lay in a deep com 
 atose state. 
 
 Even the babe was perfectly quiet. 
 
 The court outside was unusually still. 
 
 Its inhabitants could not have known what had oc 
 curred in this house, yet it seemed as if even the un 
 known presence of Death had been felt by them, and 
 stilled their usual turbulence. 
 
 But while the two girls were busy with their mourn 
 ful work, the decent quietness of the court was broken 
 by ribald songs and laughter, by irregular fotsteps, 
 and by a young man s voice saying to the singer : 
 
 "Stow that, Sidney. I m blest if you won t have the 
 police on us." 
 
 "You talk of police! And rebuke hie! a gentle 
 man for amusing himself in his own way! I m an of 
 ficer and a gentleman hie ! and I want to know what 
 the deuce you have brought me into this blamed place 
 for?" 
 
 "Why? Why, I ve just got wind that a fugitive little 
 friend of mine lives somewhere hereabout. Jove! I 
 must have been very drunk that day I married her! I 
 haven t seen the little puss since that morning I had to 
 cut and run without saying good-by. Ever since I came 
 back I have been looking her up, and only to-night I 
 got news that she was living hereabout. Oh, I say! 
 here s a light in this house. Let s go in and inquire." 
 
 The two girls engaged in laying out the dead body 
 had just heard this much when the door was pushed 
 rudely open, and two reeling men entered. 
 
 "Can you tell me " began the younger, when sud 
 denly his eyes fell upon the half-undressed, emaciated 
 corpse of his once beautiful young victim, as it lay on 
 the poor bed under the hands of its dressers. 
 
 He started back, turned deadly pale, glared for an 
 instant at the vision, and then threw his hands to his 
 head, and, with a low cry of horror, rushed from the 
 room. His companion sobered by the sight he had 
 seen, hurried out to look after him. 
 
 All this had transpired without a word spoken be 
 tween the parties in the room. 
 
THE LOST HEIR 233 
 
 But Rachel Wood had noted both the men, and felt 
 sure that she should always be able to recognize either 
 of them. 
 
 "Faix! and that was very queer itself !" whispered 
 Judy, cautiously, breaking the solemn silence. 
 
 "It was strange," admitted Rachel. 
 
 "And sure I m thinking they were both beastly 
 drunk." 
 
 "They were neither of them quite sober." 
 
 "Will I fasten the door to perwent any other spal 
 peens from coming in to mislest us?" 
 
 "Yes," whispered Rachel Wood. 
 
 And Judy was about to lock the door, when it was 
 gently pushed open in her face, and Mary Kempton en 
 tered with a heavy basket on her arm. 
 
 "I could not come before. Mrs. Melliss slept late in 
 
 the day, and Oh! good gracious me alive! is she 
 
 really gone, then?" exclaimed Mary Kempton, cutting 
 short her explanations as her eyes fell upon the figure 
 of the dead girl. 
 
 "She died at seven this evening," gravely replied Ra 
 chel Wood. 
 
 Mary Kempton put down the basket and seated her 
 self on the solitary chair the poor room possessed, and 
 she remained silent for a few moments, and then said : 
 
 "I am too late with these things. I m sorry, but I 
 could not help it; and, after all, maybe she could not 
 have taken them. But Mrs. Melliss came home very 
 early this morning from the duchess ball, and went im 
 mediately to bed, and slept until late, so that I did not 
 see her until near four o clock this afternoon. And 
 then she had to have her tea, and then to dress for din 
 ner, which brought it up to near six o clock before I 
 felt free to tell her about poor Rosy Flowers. And then 
 she had to send for the housekeeper and order all these 
 wines and jellies and things to be packed up, to send 
 by me, so it was seven o clock before I got off." 
 
 "Do not distress yourself, Mary. She could not have 
 taken anything you brought, even if you had got here 
 at noon," said Rachel. 
 
234 THE LOST HEIE 
 
 "And, oh, tell me! Did she die like a heathen? or 
 did she did she " 
 
 And Mary Kempton broke down and wept. 
 
 "Do not weep for her, dear Mary. She was not the 
 great sinner we supposed. She was only foolish and 
 vain. But in poverty, illness and desertion, the Spirit 
 of the Lord was dealing with her. She died very peni 
 tent and very hopeful," said Rachel. 
 
 "I thank Heaven for that! That is a very great re 
 lief to our minds. And now, what about this poor child 
 this poor little Benny? Do you think he could take 
 a little of this jelly? 
 
 "Oh, no ! Look at him ! He is lying in a deep stupor. 
 I have been waiting for him to awake, to give him his 
 medicine. But he seems to sink deeper and deeper into 
 stupor. And I am afraid to rouse him, lest he should 
 fall into convulsions and die. It s a tender case to 
 treat. But he s to be removed to the children s ward 
 of the Middlesex Hospital to-morrow, and there he will 
 have the best medical attention." 
 
 As Kachel Wood spoke she smoothed the sheet over 
 the corpse, and thus finished her work there. 
 
 Then she went and sat by the pallet of little Benny, 
 and renewed the cold water applications to his burn 
 ing head. 
 
 Just at this time the old woman aroused, and said 
 she was hungry, and began to cry like a child for some 
 thing to eat. 
 
 Mary Kempton took the bread and butter and jelly 
 from her basket, and filled a plate and put it on the 
 poor old creature s lap. 
 
 She devoured the food greedily, and more after the 
 manner of a starving animal than a human being. 
 
 Mary Kempton then poured out some wine and water 
 and gave it to her. 
 
 And after that the old creature laid down on the 
 floor before the fire and went to sleep. 
 
 Kachel Wood rolled up her shawl and put it under 
 the gray head for a pillow. 
 
 Mary Kempton covered the withered form with her 
 cloak. 
 
THE LOST HEIK 235 
 
 That was the best the girls could do for Granny 
 Flowers. 
 
 And they thought the sooner the helpless old body 
 could be taken to the Union, the better for her. 
 
 Mournfully the night passed. 
 
 The girls, weary with the second night s watching, 
 slept at intervals, but were frequently roused by the 
 crying of the baby, or the delirious mutterings of little 
 Benny. 
 
 Morning dawned at length a bright morning for the 
 season. 
 
 By its light they looked at little Benny, and saw that 
 a change like the shadow of death had come over his 
 face. 
 
 Their hearts sank with fear for the child whom 
 they all loved, and they wished and prayed for the 
 speedy arrival of the parish doctor. 
 
 JuJy Malony put on the teakettle and prepared for 
 a frugal breakfast for the watchers. 
 
 They had scarcely got through it when the doctor 
 looked in, accompanied by the parish officer who was 
 to attend to the three needful duties the removal of 
 the sick child to the hospital, the committal of the old 
 woman to the Union, and the interment of the dead girl 
 in the paupers burial-ground. 
 
 The wretched inhabitants of the court, who had now 
 got news of what had happened in Granny Flowers 
 hut, crowded around the house, and would have poured 
 into it, had they not been kept back by the parish 
 officer. 
 
 A litter had been brought for the removal of little 
 Benny, and he was soon tenderly placed upon it and 
 carried away. 
 
 A few minutes later on, the workhouse van called for 
 Granny Flowers. 
 
 She had to be waked up from her sleep on the floor, 
 and in a half-unconscious condition put into the van 
 and taken away. 
 
 Then the doctor and the parish officer left the court, 
 saying that the parish undertaker should be sent forth 
 with to take charge of the dead girl s burial. 
 
236 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 Thus Rachel Wood, Mary Kempton and Judy Malony 
 were left with the corpse and the infant. 
 
 Mary Kempton put on her cloak and bonnet, and 
 took leave of Rachel Wood, saying: 
 
 "You know I must return to my duties at home now. 
 But I will come again as soon as I can get leave. Where 
 shall I find you?" 
 
 "I shall stay here and watch this poor body until 
 they take it away. Then I shall take my child there," 
 said Rachel, fondly, pointing to the rude cradle of her 
 adopted baby, "and return home." 
 
 "It will be a great charge to undertake, Rachel," 
 said Mary, gravely. 
 
 "It will be a great source of happiness to me. The 
 smallest child is always delighted with a kitten or a 
 bird, or anything in the shape of a pet that it can call 
 its own, to love. In a greater degree I am deeply de 
 lighted. I, who have nothing on earth to love, am very 
 deeply delighted to have this child." 
 
 "It is a wonder the parish officers didn t take it away 
 to the union, when they took the old woman away." 
 
 "I told the doctor in the beginning that I would 
 adopt the child, and bring it up as my own. I sup 
 pose he made it all right with the officers, or else he 
 will do so; for, anyhow, they never took the slightest 
 notice of the child, and never said a word to me about 
 it." 
 
 "Well, good-by till I see you again. Judy will stay 
 with you, I suppose?" 
 
 "Faix ! and Judy will !" broke in the Irish girl, speak 
 ing for herself. "It s not Judy will iver turn her back 
 on a frind in throuble!" 
 
 "And I knew that, Judy, dear. Good-by," said 
 Mary Kempton. And she went her way. 
 
 Rachel Wood and Judy Malony stayed until the un 
 dertaker came, and brought a coffin and a cart, and 
 took away all that remained of the poor, pretty bal 
 let girl. 
 
 They followed the body to the paupers burial- 
 ground, where it was laid in its humble grave, and 
 
THE LOST HEIR 237 
 
 where the chaplain of the workhouse read the burial 
 service. 
 
 And then Eachel Wood took leave of Judy Malony, 
 and folded her adopted baby to her bosom and returned 
 home. 
 
 There a surprise awaited her, which shall be related 
 in the next chapter. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 THE NEW LODGERS. 
 
 As Rachel Wood, with the young child in her arms, 
 entered the house in Junk lane, she passed a man who 
 was coming out, and whom she instantly recognized as 
 the broken-down gentleman whom she had seen with 
 the dissipated youth on that awful night of the ballet 
 girl s death. 
 
 Quite involuntarily she turned and gazed after him. 
 
 She saw that he was a gentleman, in spite of his 
 shabby dress and reckless bearing. 
 
 He was rather tall, and also rather stout, but very 
 graceful. He had light auburn hair and full beard, 
 merry, laughing blue eyes, regular features, fair, rosy 
 complexion, and gay, careless expression of counte 
 nance, and, as one would imagine, a frequent and jolly 
 laugh. 
 
 The sort of man of whom it is said that "he is no 
 one s enemy but his own;" the man that almost every 
 one loves, and almost every one helps to ruin ; the man 
 of whom people promptly borrow money, and slowly, if 
 ever, repay it ; the man of whom people ask favors, and 
 get them granted, too, which they would not ven 
 ture to ask of any other person; the man whom all 
 prudent, conservative men dread and avoid, unless they 
 want to use him; and finally the man whom wife or 
 daughter with any heart at all would love to the death, 
 as this man s wife loved him. 
 
 All this Rachel saw or divined in that one long gaze 
 she sent after him. 
 
238 THE LOST HEIE 
 
 Then, wondering what could have brought such a 
 man into that poor tenement house, she turned into the 
 old-clothes shop, to sit down and rest before climbing 
 the three flights of stairs that led to the floor on which 
 her own room was situated. 
 
 She found the old-clothes woman seated, as usual, 
 behind the counter, in a grove of dangling dresses, and 
 engaged in needlework. 
 
 "Lor, Rachel ! Come in the back room and sit down ! 
 You look just tired to death, and ready to drop under 
 all them bundles! What on earth have you got wrap 
 ped up there ?" inquired Mrs. Kempton, as she hastily 
 got up and opened the door of the back room, and 
 set a chair for her weary and panting visitor. 
 
 Rachel dropped into the seat; but before she could 
 get breath to answer the woman s question, Mrs. Kemp- 
 ton opened her mouth again. 
 
 "And to think I couldn t get to go to the funeral, nor 
 even to see the girl, poor thing! before she died! 
 though little good I could have done her, to be sure, for 
 she must a been past all that there. And so Benny is 
 sent to the ospital and Granny Flowers to the Union. 
 And the bits of bedding and stuff, which was all they 
 had, was snapped up by the landlord for rent. Least 
 ways that was what I heard from some o the women. 
 But what became of the baby? Was that sent to the 
 Union, too?" 
 
 "Didn t Mary tell you?" inquired Rachel, in surprise. 
 
 "Save us, child! I han t seen Mary since that night 
 as ever was when she went away long o you to see poor 
 Rose Flowers." 
 
 "I suppose she had not time to come to both places 
 here and the court, too; for she came there to bring 
 relief to the sufferers, and I thought she might come 
 here; but it seems she couldn t." 
 
 "Yes, child; but what has become o the baby?" 
 reiterated the woman. 
 
 "The baby?" said Rachel, hesitating and blushing, 
 as if she was ashamed of the act of heavenly charity 
 she was doing. "Oh, I have got the baby. Here he is." 
 
THE LOST HEIR 239 
 
 And she opened the shawl and displayed the poor 
 little waif. 
 
 "Poor, dear, lone, lorn little thing!" murmured the 
 old-clothes woman, gazing at the infant. "But, my 
 goodness, gracious me alive! Rachel Wood, whatever 
 are you a-going to do with it?" 
 
 "I m going to keep it." 
 
 "Eh?" 
 
 "To keep it, and bring it up as my own." 
 
 "What? Nonsense! Whoever heard tell on such a 
 thing? Why, child alive! you re hardly able to keep 
 yourself. How on earth will you ever be able to keep 
 the baby?" inquired the dismayed woman. 
 
 "It will be a comfort and a solace to me. I am get 
 ting to be an old maid " 
 
 "Get out, about being an old maid. You can t be 
 more n twenty-five year old, at most. And there s many 
 and many a fine young man as would like to court you 
 if you d let him." 
 
 "But I shall never marry. I will never send down 
 pulmonary consumption to another generation. So I 
 should always be alone, as I have been, but for this 
 little adopted child. And, oh, Mrs. Kempton ! you have 
 no idea what a blessing this little creature will be to 
 my lonely life. Something to love! something to love! 
 for which I deeply thank the Lord! As for the rest, 
 Mrs. Kempton as for our keep, I feel sure of that. I 
 have the Lord s word for that," said Rachel, as she 
 arose to go upstairs. 
 
 "Well, Rachel, you re one in a thousand, and that s 
 a fact. And now let me take hold and help you to 
 carry them bundles upstairs. The child is enough for 
 you to carry." 
 
 "Oh, the babe is very light and small." 
 
 "And you re similarly thin and weak, so let me help 
 you," persisted Mrs. Kempton, taking up the large bas 
 ket, full of bundles containing baby clothes and other 
 articles the seamstress had brought back from the 
 court. 
 
 "Thank you very much," said Rachel. 
 
 And they went upstairs together. 
 
240 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 When they got up to the fourth floor, Rachel was 
 surprised to see the doors of the three other large 
 rooms that, with her own, divided the floor, wide open 
 and all the signs of recent occupancy within them. 
 
 "We have new neighbors here," she said, as she un 
 locked her own door. 
 
 "Oh, yes. Let me come in and I ll tell you all about 
 it," answered Mrs. Kemp ton, following Rachel into the 
 room and dropping into a chair. 
 
 The girl also sat down to recover her breath, after 
 coming up all these flights of stairs. 
 
 "You see, they re none o the kind as usually comes 
 to this sort o house, or neighborhood, neither, to live. 
 They re broken-down gentry, as sure s you re born. And 
 I m a-thinking as he s in hiding. He calls himself Cap- 
 ting Sydney, though I can t find out what he s captaing 
 of. But a rale gent he is, that s a fact, broken down 
 though he be. And a rale lady she! And five as pretty 
 children as ever you clapped your two good-looking 
 eyes on ! You might a-seen him. He went out just as 
 you come in." 
 
 "Then I did see him a tall, stout, fair-haired, pleas 
 ant-faced man?" 
 
 "Ay, that s him. An t he handsome, just?" 
 
 "Yes, but he looks a little dissipated." 
 
 "Ay, you ve hit it now. That s just it. He is a lit 
 tle dissipated, poor fellow! Anybody with half an eye 
 can see that. And that s what has fetched them all 
 down in the world, I m thinking. And my heart does 
 ache for his poor wife and children. She s the prettiest 
 little creetur as ever you saw. She s not large and fair 
 like him. She s tall and slim, with a dark skin, and 
 coal-black eyes and coal-black hair. And the children ! 
 They are just beautiful; only, queer enough, the two 
 boys are dark like she is, and the three little girls are 
 fair like he." 
 
 "When did they move in?" 
 
 "The day before yesterday as ever was. They hadn t 
 much help; so I offered to lend a hand. And she 
 thanked me so sweetly as made me want to wait on her 
 
THE LOST HEIK 241 
 
 all day. Well, you see, they an t got put to rights yet. 
 And I asked her to call on me whenever she wanted 
 anything as I could do for her and to let me know,, 
 and I would do it cheerful. Lor , you see, they don t 
 keep no servant. And now, I ralely must go and look 
 after the shop, for there an t a soul there to mind it but 
 me." 
 
 "Why, where are the children? I remember, now, I 
 didn t see them when I was down in your room." 
 
 "The children? Why, bless you, Mary sends all on 
 em to school, and pays for em out n her wages. Didn t 
 I tell you so before?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "I forgot to do it, I reckon. Yes, she put em all to 
 school, directly after she come up from Brighton. Well, 
 good-day till I see you again." 
 
 Mrs. Kempton went down below stairs. 
 
 Rachel Wood laid the sleeping child on the bed, took 
 off her own bonnet and shawl, and proceeded to make 
 her room comfortable. 
 
 First she went to the corner cupboard and took from 
 the bottom of it coal, kindling wood, waste paper and 
 a box of matches, and soon lighted a cheerful fire in the 
 grate. 
 
 Then she went down to the pump, got a pail of fresh 
 water, returned and filled the teakettle, and hung it 
 over the fire. 
 
 She had brought bread and other needful articles of 
 food with her. And she soon had her own frugal little 
 tea-table spread and the baby s pap prepared. 
 
 She had scarcely finished her tea, when the baby 
 awoke and cried. She took it up, and fed it until it 
 was satisfied, and then dressed it in clean night clothes, 
 rocked it to sleep and put it to bed. 
 
 Then she found a great deal of cleaning up to do ; for, 
 however neat and nice any room may be when you lock 
 it up and leave it for a few days, you will find it dusty 
 enough when you come back and open it. 
 
 Rachel sat up till quite a late hour, working hard to 
 restore her room to cleanliness and order. 
 
 Then, very tired, she was about to prepare for bed, 
 
242 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 when her adopted baby again awoke and screamed, and 
 again had to be taken up and fed, and soothed to quiet 
 ness and rocked to sleep. 
 
 She had just laid her nursling down on the bed, and 
 was cautiously drawing her hands from under its tiny 
 form, so as not to awaken it, when she was startled by 
 a smart rap at her door. 
 
 She glanced instinctively up at the clock, and saw 
 that it was half-past eleven. 
 
 Then she went cautiously to the door, where the raps 
 continued to be rattled fast and sharply, and she asked : 
 
 "Who is there?" 
 
 "It is I Mrs. Sydney," said the sweetest voice Ra 
 chel had ever heard. "Oh, please open the door quickly." 
 
 Very much surprised, Rachel opened the door and 
 saw standing at its threshold the most beautiful little 
 dark woman she had ever seen in her life. She was 
 rather tall, but slender and graceful. She had small, 
 regular features, large soft black eyes, with very long, 
 black eyelashes, and delicately traced eyebrows, and a 
 veil of long, shining, jet-black hair, that hung down 
 upon her shoulders in strong contrast with a rather 
 dingy and shabby white flannel dressing gown. A 
 broken-down lady Rachel saw at a glance. 
 
 "Oh, if you are a mother, as I know you are, because 
 I heard your baby crying, come and help me ! My dar 
 ling little Freddy is in spasms. And my husband has 
 not come in, and I don t know what to do. Oh, come 
 quickly!" she breathlessly exclaimed, seizing the hand 
 of Rachel and drawing her out. 
 
 Rachel followed the speaker willingly enough, as she 
 led the way across the hall to the large front room op 
 posite her own, and once occupied by the Flowers 
 family. 
 
 It was now fitted up as a bedroom only, and with 
 Tery shabby-genteel chamber furniture. 
 
 A single tallow candle burned on a little stand be 
 side the crib, and by its light Rachel saw lying there a 
 child of about twelve months old, deadly pale and rigid, 
 with wide-open, stony eyes. 
 
 "Is he very ill? Is he in danger? Will he die? Oh, 
 
THE LOST HEIR 243 
 
 will he die?" pasionately questioned the young 
 mother, as she stood with Rachel beside the crib, gaz 
 ing at her child and wringing her hands. 
 
 "No, no," said Rachel, soothingly. "Wait for me here 
 a moment. I know what to do." 
 
 And she hurried over to her own room, and soon re 
 turned with the kettle of hot water from the hob of her 
 grate in one hand, and a good-sized washtub in the 
 other. 
 
 And in a little more time than it takes to tell it she 
 had prepared a warm bath, undressed the child, and 
 put him into it. 
 
 And soon the rigid limbs relaxed, the pallid face 
 flushed, the still bosom heaved, the suspended breath 
 came forth with a gasp and a sigh of relief, and the 
 pretty eyes softened, closed and then opened again with 
 a smile. 
 
 "There, he is all right now. He will live," said Ra 
 chel Wood, as she lifted the boy from his bath and 
 wrapped him in a heated sheet, and took him to the fire 
 to dry and dress him. 
 
 "He is saved! Oh, thank Heaven! Oh; bless you! 
 bless you! bless you" exclaimed the young mother, as 
 she followed Rachel to the fire and stood watching her 
 work. 
 
 When Rachel had dressed the child in warm night 
 clothes, and wrapped his feet in a piece of hot flannel 
 and laid him in the crib, she would have bid the mother 
 good-night and retired; but the poor little, pretty 
 woman was frightened and nervous, and pleaded with 
 her to stay longer. 
 
 "If it is not asking too much of you, I should be so 
 greatly obliged. And, you know, if your baby should 
 wake and cry, you could hear it quite distinctly in this 
 room, for I heard it twice this evening." 
 
 "Certainly, I will stay, if you wish me to do so," said 
 Rachel, seating herself beside the crib. 
 
 "Oh, yes, thanks; I do wish it. Charley my hus 
 band, Captain Sydney, I mean hasn t come in yet, and 
 Heaven only knows when he will, poor fellow ! And I 
 
244 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 am in this huge, gloomy old place, where everything is 
 strange; and I am frightened to be alone." 
 
 "But you have other and well-grown children, have 
 you not?" gently inquired Rachel. 
 
 "Oh, dear, no ! They are all babies. Look at them," 
 said the young mother, pointing to a corner of the room, 
 where, across the low trundle-bed, four little forms re 
 posed one having hair as black as jet, and the others 
 hair as red as gold. 
 
 "All babies, indeed!" said Rachel, with an amused 
 smile. 
 
 "Yes. I am am just twenty-four years old ; and and I 
 have been married seven years, and I have five children. 
 The eldest, May, is six; the next, Charley, whom we 
 call Chee, to distinguish his name from his father s, is 
 four ; Ada is three, Lily two, and Freddy one year old. 
 And I am soon expecting another little one. Think of 
 that!" said the heavily-burdened young mother, with 
 tears brimming up to her dark eyes. 
 
 "Well, dear," said Rachel, soothingly, "you love them 
 when they come, do you not? You would not part with 
 t one of your little ones for the whole world, would you, 
 * now?" 
 
 "Oh, no, indeed ! Heaven forbid ! I could bear any 
 thing in the world better than the loss of one of my 
 children," answered the young mother, with a shudder. 
 
 "Then, welcome the babies when they come. They 
 are God s gifts." 
 
 "Yes, they are. How many have you? Any but the 
 little one I heard crying?" 
 
 Rachel reflected for a moment whether she should 
 tell this lady the story of her adopted child, and she 
 decided that she would not. She had taken the child 
 as her own. As her own she would consider it and 
 speak of it. A very tender sentiment toward this for 
 lorn little creature made her feel unwilling to seem 
 to deny it by telling every one that it was not her own, 
 but an adopted child. 
 
 Poor Rachel never once reflected what sort of an ill 
 construction might be put upon her conduct by those 
 who did not know her character. 
 
THE LOST HEIR 245 
 
 "You have no other child than the little one I heard 
 crying?" again inquired Mrs. Sydney, repeating the 
 question, but varying its form. 
 
 "No ; no other child but that," answered Rachel, with 
 a smile. 
 
 "Oh, how you must prize that only one! I hope it is 
 healthy and likely to live." 
 
 "It is not very healthy now, but I shall try to make 
 it so." 
 
 "I hope you will. You have saved my boy s life this 
 evening. And you have a mother s prayers and bless 
 ings for that. I have been very unfortunate in every 
 thing but my children. Thank Heaven, I have been 
 fortunate in them, for they have all been spared to me. 
 Forgive me for talking about myself; but I have no 
 sister or female friend whatever, nor ever have had, 
 though I always longed for one. And your face seems 
 to invite confidence. You also look as if you did not 
 rightly belong to this place, any more than I do. You 
 seem to have seen better days, as I have." 
 
 "Yes," answered Rachel. "I have seen better days 
 and worse ones than I now see; for though I am not 
 as well off as I once was, yet I have peace and plenty 
 of profitable work." 
 
 "I wish I could say that of myself. I wish I had 
 peace. I wish I had plenty of profitable work, and was 
 able to do it. But instead of that I have confusion. 
 And I don t know how to work. Ah, my dear Mrs. 
 Mrs. " 
 
 "My name is Rachel Wood. You will please call me 
 Rachel ! Everybody calls me so, and I am used to it," 
 said the seamstress, gently. 
 
 "And I like the custom. You look as if your name 
 was Rachel. You have such a grave, sweet, tender 
 face. Ah, Rachel, it is years since I saw a face I could 
 confide in as I can in yours." 
 
 "You may confide in me perfectly. I never betray 
 confidence," answered the seamstress, who, without the 
 least degree of a gossip s vulgar curiosity, felt a strange 
 interest in this young creature s story. 
 
246 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 THE SPENDTHRIFT. 
 
 "Well, Rachel. I was not always in such straitened 
 circumstances as you find me now. My father is one 
 of the wealthiest men in the city, and I am his only 
 daughter." 
 
 "You don t say so! And he lets you and your chil 
 dren live in this place !" exclaimed Rachel Wood, in ex 
 treme surprise. 
 
 "He neither knows nor cares to inquire where or how 
 his daughter and her children live," said the young 
 mother, bitterly. 
 
 "Is he such an unnatural parent, then?" 
 
 "No; he was a fond father, and a just man. But 
 seven years ago I gave him the deadliest offense." 
 
 "And he has never forgiven you?" 
 
 "No; for I have never repented." 
 
 "Oh, my dear! never repented having offended your 
 dear father!" exclaimed Rachel, in a shocked tone. 
 
 "Never repented the act that offended him. So far 
 from that, and knowing as well as I now know all the 
 suffering that act has brought upon me, if it were to 
 be done over again, I would do it over again and dare 
 the consequences." 
 
 "I am much grieved to hear you say so." 
 
 "Maybe you would not be, if you knew what that act 
 was. It was just the act of marrying my dear Charley ! 
 You would not have me repent that? You would not 
 have me regret being the wife of my seven years hus 
 band, and the mother of our five beautiful children?" 
 
 "No, no. I did not mean to say that," said Rachel, 
 hastily. "But, my dear, have you ever sought a recon 
 ciliation with your father?" 
 
 "Have I ever? Often and often and often. I have 
 written to him and sent to him, but without the least 
 good effect." 
 
 "It is strange and sad that a father should be so im 
 placable," said Rachel, with a sympathetic sigh. 
 
THE LOST HEIR 247 
 
 "No, it isn t. You wouldn t think so, if you knew 
 all." 
 
 Then you know some reason for his implacability?" 
 
 "Ah ! do I not? Ah, Kachel, it is the old, old reason, 
 old as the hills ! Old as sin, old as Satan, old as selfish 
 ness! It is a stepmother, my good Rachel a step 
 mother, the natural enemy of all her husband s children 
 who are not her own ! A stepmother ! well named step 
 mother, for she steps upon the children s necks to reach 
 their rightful inheritance, whether of father s love or 
 father s money." 
 
 Rachel was silent, for she thought of one young step 
 mother so different from this one of whom the lady 
 spoke of one young stepmother who was the best 
 friend of her elderly husband s son and daughter. 
 
 Meanwhile Mrs. Sydney went on : 
 
 "When I married my poor Charley, my father was a 
 widower, as he had been for many years. He was not 
 considered a marrying man. But some old maid or 
 other I know she must have been quite old, for she has 
 had no children, and therefore, indeed, there is the less 
 excuse for her conduct in keeping alive my father s re 
 sentment against me some old maid or other, painted 
 and powdered and curled, enameled and made beauti 
 ful forever, as the false phrase goes, took advantage of 
 my dear father s anger against me, and flattered and 
 fascinated and married him within three months after 
 he had discarded me. And from the time of her mar 
 riage, as I do truly believe, she has set herself earnestly 
 to keep me and my dear father apart. What s the use 
 of talking about it? It is the way of stepmothers!" 
 
 Again Rachel was silent, for she was thinking of an 
 other stepmother, a young and lovely stepmother, 
 placed in very much the same position as this elderly, 
 self-seeking woman of the world, and who was doing 
 her utmost to reconcile her husband to his discarded 
 daughter, and who had been doing so for years in 
 vain! But Rachel said nothing. Mrs. Melliss confi 
 dence was too sacred to be tampered with. 
 "I am as fully convinced as if I had seen her do it 
 
248 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 that she intercepted and destroyed all my letters and 
 Charley s letters to my dear father. And that she used 
 arts, of the nature of which I cannot even guess no 
 honest mind could ever guess to alienate his love and 
 harden his heart against me ! Rachel, my father was a 
 fond father, and a just man. And what is more than all 
 that, as charity is greater than faith or hope, my dear 
 father was and is a charitable man. He judges the 
 faults of others leniently; that, I take it, is the spirit 
 ual phase of charity. And he relieves the necessities of 
 others liberally; that is the material form of charity. 
 Yet, Rachel, I have been suffering with cold and hunger, 
 I and my children. And I have written to my father 
 and told him so, and implored his forgiveness, and his 
 help for my perishing babes ; and I have taken care that 
 these letters should be delivered at his door. And yet 
 I have had no answer ! My stepmother, of course, inter 
 cepted the letters. It is the time-honored custom of 
 stepmothers! It is the role of stepmothers. It is their 
 fiendish mission on earth," said the young mother and 
 discarded child, speaking with bitter hatred. 
 
 And still Rachel said nothing. She was still think 
 ing of Mrs. Melliss, who was placed in a similar situa 
 tion between her husband and his offending daughter, 
 and yet whose conduct was so different from the con 
 duct of this person whom Mrs. Sydney described. 
 
 Meanwhile, the young wife went on : 
 
 "Strangers were kinder to me than my own flesh and 
 blood. If it had not been for the help of strangers, I 
 should have suffered even more than I have. I was liv 
 ing in barracks with my poor Charley when my first 
 child, little May, was born. He had but two small 
 rooms for his quarters, and he was not able to take 
 lodgings for me in town. I wrote to my father and 
 begged his forgiveness, and told him my condition ; but 
 he would have no mercy on his daughter or his ex 
 pected grandchild. But, of course, I know he never 
 got my letter. His wife intercepted and destroyed it. 
 And I should have wanted everything necessary for 
 that trying time, if it had not been for some kind 
 friend who sent me a complete outfit of invalid s and 
 
THE LOST HEIK 249 
 
 baby s linen, and also a note for fifty pounds. That out 
 fit, Rachel, has lasted me these six years, and has 
 served me and all my five babies in turn. Look at this 
 white flannel dressing gown I am now wearing. This 
 was an item in that invalid outfit. It was very elegant 
 once; but it is old and shabby and not overclean now. 
 That is the worst of it. Poor ladies are the most 
 wretched of poor women ! They do not know how to do 
 their own washing, and they cannot afford to put much 
 of it out. I can wash small articles, like pocket hand 
 kerchiefs and collars, but such a thing as a dressing 
 gown would be too heavy for me to work in the tub. I 
 should only spoil it." 
 
 Rachel sighed with pity for the utter helpfulness of 
 this poor wife and mother. 
 
 "I do believe my kind anonymous friends would have 
 continued to help me, had they been able to keep trace 
 of us. But poor Charley left the army, and we went 
 to the Continent, and since that we have been wander 
 ing about. Now, my good Rachel, I have talked to you 
 as freely as if I had known you all my life. But there 
 are some people one does feel that way toward. And 
 now tell me what you think of all this that I have told 
 you," concluded the little lady with a sigh. 
 
 "I think, my dear, that a reconciliation with your 
 father is not at all hopeless," said the seamstress. 
 
 "Not at all hopeless! And with a treacherous step 
 mother at his ear all the time!" hastily interrupted 
 Mrs. Sydney. 
 
 "I think, my dear, if I were in your place, I should 
 admit just the bare possibility that the stepmother 
 may not be to blame in this matter ; and that the father 
 may be waiting for some acknowledgment from you 
 of your fault toward him," said Rachel, gently. 
 
 The young lady made a gesture of impatience. 
 
 "How can I do that? I have asked him to forgive 
 me. I can do no more. I cannot repent having mar 
 ried my dear Charley, bless him! And so how can I 
 write as if I did?" 
 
 "I will tell you, my dear. You might write again to 
 your father and tell him that though you could not 
 
250 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 repent your marriage with a husband you have never 
 ceased to love dearly, yet you were grieved for the man 
 ner of it which proved so offensive to him. And then 
 once more ask for forgiveness and reconciliation," said 
 Rachel. 
 
 "That would be very hard for me to do. I do not 
 like to be a persistent beggar, even to my own father, 
 or for my own poor children s sake. I think I have 
 written often enough." 
 
 "Yet not in the way I now advise. Write once 
 more, as I counsel you. And if you please, I will be 
 your messenger and take it to your father, and put it 
 with my own hands into his hands. It cannot do the 
 least harm. It may do the greatest good," pleaded 
 Rachel Wood. 
 
 "Oh, you are so kind to me, I will take your advice. 
 I will, indeed. I will lose no time. I will write to 
 -morrow. Do you know where my father lives?" 
 
 "No, indeed; I do not even know who he is. You 
 have not mentioned his name," said Rachel, smiling. 
 
 "Oh, no; so I did not. I only told you he was one 
 of the wealthiest men in London. Well, his name 
 
 is Oh, dear, here comes my poor Charley, not 
 
 himself again," suddenly exclaimed the young wife, 
 breaking off in her discourse, as a man was heard 
 - walking up the hall, and singing as he came a frag 
 ment of a festive song. 
 
 "Hallo!" exclaimed Captain Sydney, cutting short 
 his song, as he opened the door and discovered his wife 
 still sitting up, and a strange woman with her. 
 "Hallo! What s the matter, Molly? Nothing wrong, 
 I hope?" he inquired, half -sobered by what he saw. 
 
 "No, Charley, dear; nothing wrong now. Poor little 
 Freddy has been very ill. But this kind neighbor came 
 in and put him in a hot bath, which relieved him; and 
 he has been sleeping nicely ever since," she said. 
 
 And not a word of reproach did she utter, and not 
 even an injured look did she put on. 
 
 "Good Heaven! What an infernal brute I am, to 
 stay out so late and leave you alone ! But when I get 
 with those fellows " 
 
THE LOST HEIR 251 
 
 "Yes, I know, Charley dear," she said, hastily inter 
 rupting him. Then she turned to Rachel, and with 
 sweet, grave courtesy, thanked her again for her serv 
 ices. 
 
 And the seamstress, taking this as a gentle hint to 
 retire, bade good-night and returned to her room. 
 
 The next day Rachel waited indoors all the morn 
 ing, fully expecting that Mrs. Sydney would come with 
 the promised letter, for her to take to that lady s 
 father. But Rachel waited long in vain. 
 
 The day was cold, so Rachel kept her room door 
 shut, and kept up a warm fire in her grate, at which 
 she sat and sewed steadily, for her needlework had 
 got very much behindhand during the days of her at 
 tendance upon the deathbed of the poor ballet girl. 
 
 The young babe gave her but little trouble. It lay 
 upon the bed and slept as steadily as babes of that 
 tender age will do, waking only to be fed and put to 
 sleep again. 
 
 Rachel listened, not in idle curiosity, but with benev 
 olent interest, to hear some sound from the opposite 
 room. 
 
 The house seemed very different to her, now that 
 the old lodgers had gone away and these new people 
 had come in. 
 
 Instead of the noisy tread and brutal oaths of Tony 
 Brice, Jerry Juniper, and the shrill scolding of Madge 
 and the perpetual wrangling of old Ruth Drug and old 
 Granny Flowers, was only the patter of children s feet 
 and the music of children s voices as they played in the 
 hall. 
 
 The place was like heaven to what it had been. 
 
 Once Rachel opened the door and looked out upon 
 them. 
 
 They were four as lovely children as were ever seen; 
 but oh, so shabbily dressed ! 
 
 There were two little red-haired girls and two little 
 black-haired boys. The youngest child was not there. 
 
 The eldest child, a golden-haired fairy of six sum 
 mers, seeing Rachel standing in the door and looking 
 
252 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 out at their play, ran frankly up to her to make an 
 apology, or to give an explanation. 
 
 "If you please, ma am, I hope we don t disturb you. 
 Our mamma sent us out here because poor papa is ill, 
 quite ill, with brown paper and vinegar on his head, 
 and he can t bear our noise." 
 
 "You don t disturb me, my dear; I like to see you 
 enjoy yourselves. Go on and play as much as you 
 please," said Eachel, kindly, as she returned to her 
 room and closed the door behind her. 
 
 Now she understood why it was that Mrs. Sydney 
 had not made her appearance with the promised letter. 
 Of course, she had had no opportunity of writing it. 
 Captain Sydney, after his night of revelry and dissipa 
 tion, was suffering under the usual penal headache. 
 And his poor little, adoring wife was in close attend 
 ance upon him. 
 
 Her heart ached for the sufferings of that young 
 wife, with the superstitious love for the gay and hand 
 some brute who had ruined her fortunes and almost 
 destroyed her peace. 
 
 She no longer wondered at the implacability of the 
 father. And, furthermore, she felt utterly discouraged 
 as to the probable result of the daughter s promised 
 letter, which she herself had offered to take to the 
 father with such confident hopes of success. 
 
 She now thought it more than likely that the dis 
 gusted father would make it an absolute condition 
 of his forgiveness that his daughter should separate 
 herself from her husband. 
 
 And that, Rachel felt sure that Mrs. Sydney would 
 never do. 
 
 While thus Rachel sat and sewed and ruminated, the 
 door was quietly opened, and the banker s young wife, 
 Mrs. Melliss, entered the room. 
 
 The lady was very plainly dressed, with a common 
 waterproof tweed cloak that covered her whole gown, 
 while its hood was drawn up over her little hat. 
 
 She looked quite disguised. 
 
 Rachel arose in astonishment, as well as with pleas 
 ure, to meet her. 
 
THE LOST HEIR 253 
 
 CHAPTEK XXXIII. 
 
 A BENEFACTOR. 
 
 "Mrs. Melliss!" exclaimed Rachel Wood, as she 
 hastily arose, and laid the babe upon the bed. 
 
 "You are surprised to see me here, Rachel," said the 
 banker s wife, smiling. 
 
 "On such a wet day, yes, madam ; but I am very glad 
 to see you. I hope you will not take cold," replied the 
 seamstress, as she relieved the lady of her dripping 
 water-proof cloak, hung it up to dry, and set a chair to 
 the fire for her visitor. 
 
 "Oh, I am not at all susceptible to cold," answered 
 Mrs. Melliss, as she sank into the offered seat, and 
 set her feet up on the fender. 
 
 At this moment the baby, dissatisfied with being 
 left upon the bed, set up a shrill squall. 
 
 "Oh, do take it up and bring it here for me to look 
 at, dear," said the banker s wife, turning quickly to 
 ward the child. 
 
 The seamstress complied with the request. 
 
 "Rachel," said the lady, as she looked from the feeble 
 young child to the face of the poor girl who had taken 
 it "Rachel, I have heard all about your adoption of 
 this poor babe. Mary Kempton told me. Dear Rachel, 
 I think it is a heavenly act." 
 
 "Oh, Mrs. Melliss, do not speak of it in that way, 
 please. I am as proud of the possession of this little 
 creature as ever a child was of a pet bird. It is some 
 thing to love and care for and raise," replied Rachel. 
 
 "Well, my dear, the burden must not rest on you 
 alone. You must let me help you to bear it." 
 
 "Dear madam, I do not feel this as a burden at all. 
 I believe I shall be able to rear the child by my own 
 exertions. If not, there is no one living I would call 
 on to help me so quickly as yourself." 
 
 "That is right," replied the lady, with a sigh. And 
 then she fell into thought, and gazed silently into the 
 fire. 
 
254 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 "Dear Mrs. Melliss," said the seamstress, at last, 
 "you did not come here through the rain for nothing. 
 Is it then, anything in which I can serve you?" 
 
 "Yes. Rachel. I came here to ask your advice and 
 assistance." 
 
 The seamstress looked interested. 
 
 "The truth is, I have at length found a clew to my 
 unfortunate stepdaughter and her husband," continued 
 Mrs. Melliss. 
 
 Rachel startled and looked intently at the speaker, 
 who went on to say: 
 
 "I have reason to believe that they are living in ob 
 scure lodgings in this very neighborhood." 
 
 "But you do not know exactly where?" inquired 
 the seamstress. 
 
 "No, Rachel; it is to find out that, that I require 
 your aid. I might employ a detective, but I confess I 
 do not like to do so, if I can avoid it. Yet I am very 
 anxious to find them, for I have heard what is most 
 likely to be the truth, that they are in great poverty 
 and distress." 
 
 "Mrs. Melliss, what was your stepdaughter s Chris 
 tian name?" thoughtfully inquired Rachel. 
 
 "Why, Melinda, of course. Have you not heard me 
 mention it?" smiled the lady. 
 
 "Yes, I have, once or twice; yet I hoped I might have 
 been mistaken." 
 
 -Why?" 
 
 "Nothing. What was the name of the guardsman 
 who married her, if you please, madam?" 
 
 -What! Did I never tell you his name?" 
 
 "Never." 
 
 "I think you must have forgotten ; but his name was 
 Faulkner." " 
 
 "Faulkner! Oh!" muttered the seamstress, in a tone 
 of disappointment. 
 
 "Why did you ask me, Rachel?" 
 
 "A fancy that I had. Nothing more. And now it 
 seems quite unfounded. You are acquainted with this 
 
THE LOST HEIR 255 
 
 gentleman, madam? You would know him if you 
 should see him ?" inquired Rachel. 
 
 "I am not at all acquainted with him, yet I should 
 know him if I should see him, because I saw him once. 
 My dear husband, while his anger was still very bitter 
 against him, pointed him out to me in the park, telling 
 me to note him well, and when I should see another 
 man who looked like that, I might know him to be a 
 villain. He quoted Shakespeare, you know. There, 
 now! I ought not to have repeated that! But really 
 it slipped out unawares. Forget it as soon as possible, 
 Rachel." 
 
 "Mrs. Melliss," said the seamstress, after grave re 
 flection, "I must go back to that fancy of mine, of 
 which I said that it was unfounded. I do not think it 
 was unfounded." 
 
 "What do you mean, my dear girl?" 
 
 "I fancy that the family you are in search of may be 
 lodging in this very house." 
 
 "Rachel!" 
 
 "On this very floor, in the rooms opposite to my 
 own." 
 
 "Tell me more." 
 
 "There is a poor gentleman, with a young wife and 
 five bits of children, lodging here. Their name is not 
 Faulkner, however ; but still I can t help thinking they 
 may be the family you are looking for." 
 
 "But, good gracious, girl, there are poor gentlemen 
 enough besides him. But who is he, then?" 
 
 "He is also an ex-guardsman." 
 
 "Hum ! There are broken officers enough, also. And 
 my scamp s name was Faulkner." 
 
 "Yes; but there are other circumstances. This poor 
 gentleman and ex-guardsman, while he was yet in the 
 service, had eloped with the daughter of a wealthy 
 man." 
 
 "Come! That begins to look something like the life 
 of my scamp." 
 
 "The wealthy father discarded his only daughter and 
 married again, and has remained unforgiving ever 
 since." 
 
256 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 "Rachel ! Rachel ! here is not only coincidence here 
 is identity. This is the family I am looking for," said 
 Mrs. Melliss, eagerly, and rising in her excitement. 
 
 "But I am not so sure, either," suggested Rachel. 
 "There are coincidences, indeed, but there are also dis 
 crepancies. It is true that the man you are in search 
 of and the man who lodges here are both poor gentle 
 men, and both ex-guardsmen. Both ran away with 
 only daughters, who were discarded by their fatjiers, 
 who married again and remained implacable. But it 
 is also true that the names are dissimilar. This man s 
 name is Captain Charles Sydney, while the man you 
 are looking for is called " 
 
 "Charles Sidney Faulkner." 
 
 Rachel started slightly, and exclaimed: 
 
 "Indeed! Then I suppose it is the same. But this 
 man calls his wife Molly, her name being, I presume, 
 Mary ; while your stepdaughter is named 
 
 "Melinda Mary. Her father always called her Me- 
 linda." 
 
 "And her husband calls her Molly. These differences 
 in the names were not, however, the only circumstances 
 that made me doubt the identity of this family with the 
 family you seek." 
 
 "What other circumstances are there, Rachel? And 
 how, my dear girl, did you come to know so much about 
 these new lodgers?" inquired the lady, with much in 
 terest. 
 
 "I was called in there last night to see a sick child. 
 I spent nearly the whole night with the mother, who 
 happened to like me " 
 
 "Happened to like you, Rachel, dear! I think that 
 is what everybody does. But go on, my dear." 
 
 "She was very confiding. And she told me all her 
 troubles all that I have told you, and more besides." 
 
 "What else besides, dear? Tell me, for I wish to 
 know everything in relation to this unfortunate girl." 
 
 "Well, Mrs. Melliss, she has a very wrong idea of 
 you. She could never have seen you, or heard the 
 truth about you." 
 
 "I have never in my life met my stepdaughter, I re- 
 
THE LOST HEIR 257 
 
 gret very much to say," replied the young stepmother. 
 "But what is her idea of me, then, Rachel?" 
 
 "You will not be displeased, I am quite sure, else I 
 never would tell you. You will laugh when you hear 
 that she is quite ignorant that her father married a 
 beautiful young woman from motives of pure love 
 and admiration " 
 
 "Tut, tut, Rachel, dear! Leave all that, and tell me 
 what she does think, poor child!" said Mrs. Melliss, 
 blushing and smiling. 
 
 "Well, then, she thinks her father married only to 
 spite her, his disobedient daughter. And that he mar 
 ried a cross old maid, who had been enameled and 
 made beautiful forever by Madam Rachel, and who 
 had taken advantage of his temporary anger with his 
 daughter to fascinate, entrap and marry him." 
 
 "That sounds very much like my story," said Mrs. 
 Melliss, with a smile. 
 
 "Ver much, indeed !" laughed Rachel. 
 
 "And what more?" 
 
 "Why, she thinks that ever since her father s second 
 marriage, his second wife has persistently prevented 
 a reconciliation between that father and his daughter 
 by intercepting letters, misrepresenting facts, and 
 
 and In short, dear Mrs. Melliss, she thinks her 
 
 father s lovely young wife is the traditional wicked 
 stepmother of all the story books!" concluded Rachel, 
 with a smile. 
 
 The banker s young wife did not smile ; she was very 
 grave. 
 
 "Poor child! Poor child!" she murmured. "Does 
 she really so much misunderstand me? I did not 
 mind I was even amused at her supposing me to be a 
 painted and padded and wigged old maid, for that was 
 really funny. But that she should think me a base and 
 cruel and treacherous stepmother, who could harden 
 the heart of her father against his suffering child ! Oh y 
 that hurts, Rachel! that hurts!" said the young wife r 
 as tears filled her lovely eyes. 
 
 "I ought not to have told you," murmured Rachel,, 
 remorsefully. 
 
258 THE LOST HEIK 
 
 "You ought, dear," sighed the lady. 
 
 "Yet, Mrs. Melliss, your stepdaughter cannot now be 
 long in ignorance of your real character, and your true 
 feeling toward her," said Rachel, soothingly. 
 
 "Yes, but she must, dear. I told you that Captain 
 Faulkner must never know where the help comes from, 
 that I shall send to his family. He is a gentleman, or 
 should be one ; and his feelings must be respected. Be 
 sides, dear Rachel, now that I think of it, it is better 
 that Mrs. Faulkner should blame me than blame her 
 father for this long estrangement," added the young 
 stepmother, with a patient smile. 
 
 "And you will rest under this false accusation?" 
 
 "It is better that I should. Some day, when I shall 
 have brought about this long-desired reconciliation, she 
 will know the truth. And now, Rachel, dear, tell me 
 all about them everything that comes into your head. 
 First, is she in good health?" 
 
 "No, she is just now delicate. She expects to be con 
 fined soon." 
 
 "How many children did you say?" 
 
 "There are five; the eldest, a lovely little golden- 
 haired fairy, is just five years old ; the second, a black- 
 haired boy named Charley, but called Chee, is four ; the 
 third and fourth, Ada and Lily, are two fair-haired 
 girls, aged respectively three and two years; and the 
 fifth is another black-haired boy, aged one year. It has 
 been noticed as a curious fact, that the girls are like 
 their fair-haired father, and the boys like their dark- 
 haired mother. But you might have seen them as you 
 came in. All, except the youngest, were playing in the 
 passage." 
 
 "Oh! I did see some children there. And I noticed 
 that they were so thinly clad! Oh, poor little things! 
 And so these were my grandchildren!" said Mrs. 
 Melliss. 
 
 "Your grandchildren," echoed Rachel Wood, with a 
 smile. 
 
 "Well, my step-grandchildren, then. It is just the 
 same," said the lovely young wife, gravely. 
 
THE LOST HEIR 259 
 
 "Not quite just the same," thought Rachel Wood, as 
 she looked at the beautiful, grave young face before 
 her. But Mrs. Melliss was speaking. 
 
 "Rachel, we must now consult how to relieve their 
 most pressing wants. Of course, it would be very easy 
 to do it, if one could just go and put a sum of money 
 in her hands; but we cannot do that. Of if one could 
 send it by mail, and be sure that it would not fall into 
 the hands of her spendthrift husband," said the lady, 
 reflectively. 
 
 "Dear Mrs. Melliss, you might inclose a sum in a 
 blank envelope, and give it to me to deliver into her 
 own hands. I would take care to deliver it safely. You 
 could trust me?" inquired Rachel. 
 
 "Trust you? Why, certainly! But you would be 
 cross-questioned, Rachel." 
 
 "I could baffle a cross-questioner, without prevarica 
 ting, either," said Rachel. 
 
 "Then I will do as you suggest. Will you let me have 
 an envelope?" inquired Mrs. Melliss. 
 
 Rachel arose to look for one. And this talk of an 
 envelope reminded her of the letter she had advised the 
 daughter to write to her father, and had offered herself 
 to carry. As she returned to Mrs. Melliss with the re 
 quisite envelope in her hand, she told that lady of the 
 circumstance, and inquired whether now it would be 
 advisable to carry out the intention. 
 
 "Most certainly. Let Mrs. Faulkner write the letter, 
 Rachel. And do you take charge of it and bring it to 
 Mr. Melliss, and with your own hand put it into his, 
 and then see what comes of it," answered Mrs. Melliss, 
 as she filled the envelope with banknotes and sealed it 
 up, and put it into the hands of Rachel, adding : 
 
 "And now, my dear girl, as I want to have the pleas 
 ure of selecting outfits for those children, I must beg 
 you to try, in some delicate way, to get their measures 
 for dresses, shoes, hats, and whatever else they may 
 require. Can you, will you be able to do this without 
 exciting their suspicion?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, they are such mere babies," answered Ra 
 chel, with a smile. 
 
200 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 "And use your ingenuity in getting this into the 
 hands of my stepdaughter without exciting her sus 
 picions," added Mrs. Melliss, as she placed the envelope 
 in Rachel s charge. 
 
 "Be sure that I will do so, dear Mrs. Melliss," an 
 swered the seamstress. 
 
 "And now," said the lady, rising with a smile, "as the 
 rain seems to be over, I will try to get back to Charles 
 street. To-morrow I will send Mary Kernpton to in 
 quire. We can trust her, you know." 
 
 "Oh, yes, indeed." 
 
 "And the next day I will come again in person. For 
 I must tell you, Rachel, that I have not put much in 
 that envelope only what I happened to have in my 
 purse, and scarcely enough to supply their immediate 
 wants. So I must come again soon say the day after 
 to-morrow. And now, good-by, my dear," said the lady. 
 
 And she wrapped her waterproof cloak around her 
 dress, and drew its hood up over her bonnet, and passed 
 out of the room. 
 
 In the passage she saw the children still playing. She 
 had been interested in them, even when she first saw 
 them. How much more was she attracted to them, now 
 that she knew who they were ! 
 
 She went up to the group and laid her hand on the 
 golden head of the oldest. 
 
 The little creatures all with one accord shrank away 
 from the cloaked and hooded form, until they saw the 
 bright and lovely face smiling under the hood, and then 
 they clustered around her. She patted their little 
 heads and felt in her pocket to find if she had any 
 change left. She drew forth a few of the smallest silver 
 coins, threepenny and fourpenny pieces, and distributed 
 them to the children, telling them to buy buns with the 
 money. 
 
 "Who diwed it to us?" inquired little two-year-old 
 Lily. 
 
 "What did you say, darling?" 
 
 "Se ast you who diwed us dis putty money," ex 
 plained little three-year-old Ada. 
 
 "Why, I did, my little loves!" 
 
THE LOST HEIR 261 
 
 "But who is oo?" persisted little Lily. 
 
 "Dirls, don t ast twestions," rebuked four-year-old 
 Charley. 
 
 "We only wanted to know your name," explained 
 golden-haired Mary, the oldest child. 
 
 "Ess! Who is oo?" persisted little Lily. 
 
 "Well, I am your own Fairy Grandmother. That is 
 my name Fairy Grandmother. Will you remember 
 it?" 
 
 "Ess, I remember. Fay Dammer. Oo tome adain, 
 Fay Dammer?" inquired Lily, while the other little 
 ones looked on. 
 
 "Yes, darling, be sure I will come again. Good-by, 
 babies." 
 
 "Tiss Illy dood-by, den," said the child, putting up 
 its rosy lips. 
 
 "Yes, I ll kiss Lily, and Lily s little sisters and broth 
 ers also. Good-by, darlings, all" said the lady, as she 
 stooped and kissed them all in turn, and then left them. 
 
 "Ets do by take," said little Ada, jumping up, with 
 her threepenny piece in her hand. 
 
 "Ess, ess," said Lily. 
 
 But grave little Mary said: 
 
 "No, no ; listen to me. Poor mamma hadn t any tea 
 for breakfast, and her head ached, and she wanted some 
 tea. And papa told her why didn t she buy some. And 
 mamma said she hadn t got no money, and the man at 
 the shop wouldn t trust her no longer. Now I tell you 
 what let us do. Let s all give our money to poor mam 
 ma to buy tea with." 
 
 "Ess, ess, ets div all our money to poor mamma to 
 buy tea wiz," chimned in all the generous little hearts 
 with one accord, and they eagerly arose and ran to the 
 door of their parents room. 
 
 Their innocent clamor brought out the mother, look 
 ing very much worried. 
 
 "For goodness sake, children, make less noise! Mary r 
 a great girl of five years old like you might keep your 
 little sisters quiet, one would think! Your poor, dear 
 papa ; 
 
 "But we s dot so heap of money to div you to buy tea 
 
262 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 wiz," said little Lily eagerly, while the others chined 
 in, and all with one accord forced their small coins on 
 their mother with such haste that the silver pieces scat 
 tered down upon the floor. 
 
 "Where did you get all this money, you little 
 beggars ?" 
 
 "A lady divved it to us," said Lily. 
 "Oh, a booful lady !" added Ada. 
 "Such a lovely, lovely, lovely lady, mamma, dear!" ex 
 plained Mary. 
 
 "What lady? What are you all talking about? You 
 confuse me so you make my head ache worse than it did 
 before! What was her name?" inquired the mother, as 
 she stooped and helped her little daughter Mary to 
 gather up the smal coins. 
 
 "Fay Dammer," quickly responded Lily. 
 "Who?" 
 
 "Fay Dammer, Fay Dammer! Tan t oo hear? Fay 
 Dammer," repeated little Lily. 
 
 "What in the world does the child mean, Mary? 
 Can t you speak?" inquired the nervous and irritable 
 mother. 
 
 "She means fairy grandmother, mamma dear. It was 
 a lady in a dark cloak and a hood drawn over her head, 
 and she come out of Miss Wood s room. And she patted 
 our heads and gave us money. And when Lily asked 
 her who she was, she laughed and said she was our 
 fairy grandmother." 
 
 "Fairy godmother, I suppose you mean?" said their 
 mamma. 
 
 "No, grandmother, mamma, not godmother," an 
 swered Mary. 
 
 "Ess, Dammer ! Fay Dammer," added Lily, emphati 
 cally. 
 
 "I suppose some well-to-do customer of Mrs. Wood s 
 who loves children, and gave you this to buy cake." 
 "Yes, mamma, dear," said Mary. 
 The poor mother counted the money. There were but 
 eighteen pence in all. It was not much, but quite 
 enough to buy a quarter of a pound of good tea. 
 The poor woman looked at the silver, and then at the 
 
THE LOST HEIR 263 
 
 little, upturned, eager faces. She hated to take the 
 money from her children, but she longed for a cup of 
 tea, as only a woman with a nervous headache could. 
 And those little faces, too, were all so full of delight at 
 the idea of their having something that they could give 
 their mother. 
 
 "Well, my poor little loves, I will borrow some of 
 your little money, but not all of it. Here, Mary, come 
 get a little basket and a little tin cup, and go to the 
 corner of the lane, to Mrs. Quigley s, and buy me an 
 ounce of good tea, and an ounce of white sugar, and a 
 pennyworth of milk that will be one and two pence 
 in all ; and then you ll have a penny apiece to spend," 
 said the young mother, as she retreated into the cham 
 ber and came out again with a small basket and a can, 
 which she gave to her eldest little daughter, together 
 with the money. She then repeated her directions to 
 the child. And the "grave fairy," though but five years 
 old, was quite capable of understanding, remembering 
 and executing them. 
 
 "May we do wii Mary to pend our pennies, mamma, 
 dear?" inquired tiny Lily. 
 
 "Yes, darling, you may all go. Take care of the chil 
 dren, Mary, dear," said the mother. 
 
 And the little matron of five promised to do so, and 
 went on her errand, followed by the troop. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 THE GAMBLER S HOME. 
 
 Mrs. Faulkner had scarcely closed the door behind 
 her children, when she was slightly startled by a soft 
 rap. 
 
 She went and opened the door again. 
 
 Rachel Wood, who had just succeeded in putting her 
 baby to sleep and getting it out of her arms, stood 
 there. 
 
 "Oh! I am sorry I cannot ask you to come in; but 
 
264 THE LOST HEIE 
 
 my husband is quite ill in bed just now," said Mrs. 
 Faulkner, apologetically, holding the door but half 
 open. 
 
 Yet while she held it so, her visitor quite unwillingly 
 caught a glimpse of the gambler s home by daylight. 
 How squalid it really looked! How much worse by 
 sunlight than by tallow candle light! And oh! how 
 much cleaner, decenter and more comfortable the poor 
 ballet girls had made their old grandparents in this 
 same room, than this gentleman now occupying it made 
 his wife and little children! 
 
 All this passed rapidly through the mind of Eachel 
 Wood, while Mrs. Faulkner stood there apologizing for 
 not inviting her in. 
 
 "Say no more, dear lady. I came to ask you to step 
 into my room for a few minutes. I have something to 
 say to you which indeed I would not like to say here, or 
 in the presence of any other person." 
 
 "Oh, it is about the letter that I am to write to my 
 father, and that you are to carry." 
 
 "About that and other matters. Will you come 
 now?" 
 
 "N-no not exactly come just now. I should not like 
 to leave the captain quite alone. But as soon as my 
 little woman Mary returns to sit with her father, I will 
 come. Will that do?" 
 
 "Thanks, yes, that will do. I shall wait for you," 
 answered Rachel Wood, and, with a nod, she returned 
 to her own room. 
 
 Mrs. Faulkner meanwhile filled her kettle and set it 
 over the fire. Notwithstanding all that she had said to 
 Eachel, she was resolved to have that cup of tea before 
 she would stir from the room. 
 
 At last her grave little matron returned, followed by 
 all the little children of her charge, each child being 
 made happy in the possession of a Bath bun. 
 
 "Here are all the things, mamma, dear, just as you 
 told me to buy them ; look and see," said the little five- 
 year-old woman, as she sat the basket and the can be 
 fore her mother. 
 
 "Yes, darling, everything is just right, and you are a 
 
THE LOST HEIR 2G5 
 
 dear little girl and your mother s right hand," said Mrs. 
 Faulkner, affectionately caressing her little daughter. 
 
 Little Mary was destined to distinguish herself as an 
 artist in after days, and to receive much praise from 
 competent critics ; but no praise ever sounded so sweet 
 in her ears as this, uttered by her poor mother. 
 
 Mrs. Faulkner made her cup of tea and enjoyed it, 
 felt herself relieved of her nervous headache, and then 
 left her stupefied husband and her infant children in 
 the charge of her little woman, and went to see what 
 Rachel Wood wanted with her. 
 
 She found the poor seamstress sitting by her small 
 fire, and, as usual, engaged in needlework. 
 
 Rachel rose at once and offered the visitor a seat. 
 And when the latter had taken it, the former said: 
 
 "It was not only about the letter to your father that I 
 wished to speak with you alone, madam, but about 
 something else a delicate mission that is intrusted to 
 me." 
 
 "A delicate mission?" echoed the gambler s wife. 
 
 "Yes, madam, and intrusted to me by one of your 
 best and truest friends." 
 
 "By one of my best and truest friends?" again 
 echoed the poor lady, who seemed unable to do much 
 more than echo the words of the seamstress. 
 
 "Yes, said Rachel. 
 
 U I did not know that I had a friend left in the 
 world," replied the lady, with a bitter sigh. 
 
 "You have many, let us hope. And did not you 
 yourself tell me of good friends who ministered to 
 you in times gone by, and whom you thought would 
 still serve you, had you not withdrawn yourself from 
 their knowledge?" 
 
 "Oh, yes! But they did their good work anony 
 mously. I do not even suspect who they are. I have 
 no means of communicating with them, nor they with 
 me," said the poor lady, sadly. 
 
 "Yet they have not lost sight of you, perhaps ; for I 
 have this morning received a visit from a lady who 
 thinks that you have claims upon her, and who has left 
 this packet with me to be placed in your hands. It is a 
 
266 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 debt that she thinks she owes you ; so pray do not feel 
 any embarrassment or reluctance in receiving it," said 
 Rachel, as she placed the envelope containing the bank 
 notes in the hand of her visitor. 
 
 Mrs. Faulkner opened the envelope and examined its 
 contents. 
 
 "This is an alms !" she exclaimed, as a flush of shame 
 suffused her face and neck. 
 
 "No, believe me, dear lady, it is not. So much I may 
 at least tell you. It is left for your by one who feels 
 that she owes you much more even than that sum," said 
 Rachel, earnestly. 
 
 "Who is it?" inquired the poor lady. 
 
 "I am not at liberty to tell you. Some day you will 
 know, but not yet. 
 
 "I hate mystery! And I utterly abhor alms!" 
 
 "Here is mystery I grant you. But some time it will 
 be cleared up. But here are not alms. This is your 
 right, madam. You may receive it without the slightest 
 danger to your self-respect." 
 
 "If I thought so " 
 
 "I assure you it is so ! The money is your right, I tell 
 you, madam." 
 
 "My right! Oh, then it must come from my father!" 
 exclaimed the poor lady, darting a penetrating glance 
 at the face of the seamtress. 
 
 Rachel dropped her eyes and continued silent. In 
 one sense the money certainly did come from her 
 father, since it was sent by her stepmother from the 
 private income settled upon the latter by her generous 
 husband. 
 
 "You do not answer. Say, did it not come from my 
 father?" persistly inquired Mr. Melliss daughter. 
 
 "I pray you, madam, not to press me with questions 
 that my honor forbids me to answer," said Rachel. 
 
 "Oh, well. That is quite enough. Now I know that 
 this money does come from my dear father. May 
 Heaven bless him !" fervently exclaimed the lady. 
 
 "I must entreat you, dear lady, to draw no inferences 
 from my silence," earnestly replied Rachel. 
 
 "Oh, be tranquil, you good soul! You have done 
 
THE LOST HEIR 267 
 
 your best to perform your mission and to keep your 
 secret. You can do more. If I have seen through the 
 little mystery, it is no fault of yours," said Mrs. Faulk 
 ner, with a gay laugh. 
 
 "I beseech you, madam, that you will not form hasty 
 conclusions. My pledged word forbids me to explain, 
 but " 
 
 "Oh, you dear creature, you needn t explain ! I know 
 all about it. I know now that my poor, dear, darling 
 old daddy has been my secret benefactor all along. I 
 mean, that I know it was he who sent me fifty pounds 
 in money and about a hundred and fifty more in baby 
 linens and invalid s outfit, when I was confined with 
 my first child at Brighton. I know it all now ; What 
 a fool I must have been not to have known it before! 
 Who in all the world but my own father, would have 
 cared enough for me to have done all that?" 
 
 Kachel sighed. She longed to justify the banker s 
 lovely young wife, and to say, "Who? who? who but 
 your angel stepmother?" And then to tell her the 
 whole story of Angela s goodness. But she was bound 
 by her promise to Mrs. Melliss not to reveal that lady 
 as the benefactress of her husband s discarded daugh 
 ter. 
 
 "My dear father!" continued the poor lady. "Ah! I 
 see how it is ! He would have forgiven us and brought 
 us home to himself long ago if it had not been for the 
 adverse influence of that base, cruel, treacherous wo 
 man whom he has made his wife! He has fallen com 
 pletely into her power. He can do nothing openly for 
 his poor daughter and her suffering children. Ah ! how 
 he must repent his marriage! Oh, I wonder if it is 
 wicked to wish that woman would die?" 
 
 It was on Rachel s tongue to say: "You do a sweet 
 and lovely lady bitter injustice." But again her prom 
 ise sealed her lips. It was very hard to sit still and 
 hear all this. But she had one consolation in looking 
 forward to that surely coming day when Melinda 
 Faulkner would know her best friend and be filled with 
 repentance for all this. 
 
 "And to think my dear father has been my secret 
 
268 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 benefactor all this while! Well, I can take this money, 
 since it comes from him. And now about the letter, 
 Rachel. Under these changed circumstances, had I 
 better write it?" 
 
 "Certainly." 
 
 "Well, I will do so. And had I not better thank him 
 for this assistance?" 
 
 "Decidedly not!" said Rachel, in some alarm, "for 
 you have no evidence that it does come from him." 
 
 "Oh, but I am morally certain that it does. And I 
 think perhaps I shall allude to it in my letter in a deli 
 cate and distant way, so as to let him see that I am 
 very grateful." 
 
 "I think you had better do nothing of the sort. And 
 now I must tell you, madam, that the donation did not 
 come directly from your father." 
 
 "Did not come directly? Oh! how you try to guard 
 the secret! Of course it did not come directly. It came 
 through you. And perhaps through others also. But 
 you cannot deny that this came originally from my 
 father!" said the lady, in a tone of confidence and 
 triumph. 
 
 No, Rachel could not deny that; for, of course, all 
 Mrs. Melliss income came from her husband. And 
 neither could Rachel explain this, for her promise tied 
 her tongue. 
 
 "It is ten pounds ! It is more money than I have had 
 for the last five years. But oh ! so many things to get 
 out of it! I must have tea and sugar and coffee. I 
 must have meat and potatoes, and coals and kindling 
 wood. All that immediately! Then I must buy bed 
 linen, blankets, quilts and underclothing," murmured 
 the poor lady to herself, counting over her money and 
 her wants, half in childish delight, half in womanish 
 anxiety ; for, after all, the money might not hold out. 
 
 "Rachel," she said, suddenly rising, "I have a favor 
 to ask of you. I am always asking favors of people, 
 especially if they are so imprudent as to grant me the 
 first one. I am a regular sponge upon people, Rachel 
 for their services, I mean." 
 
 "I am sure you are nothing of the sort. And I shall 
 
THE LOST HEIR 269 
 
 be very happy to serve you in any way/ answered the 
 seamtress. 
 
 Thanks, my dear woman. I knew you would." 
 
 "Is it about your father s letter?" inquired the seam- 
 tress. 
 
 "Oh, no, not that. I cannot write that to-day. I must 
 go out now and make my purchases ; for we want every 
 thing, Rachel, everything, everything from loaves of 
 bread to clean sheets." 
 
 Rachel could well believe it, from the daylight 
 glimpse she had got into the gambler s home. But she 
 said: 
 
 "Do you wish me to assist you in making these pur 
 chases to-day? I am quite ready to do so." 
 
 "Oh, no, my dear woman, no. I shall go out and take 
 a cab, for I cannot walk far in my state of health. And 
 I shall bring all my purchases home with me. No ; what 
 I want you to do for me, is to give an eye to my little 
 ones out in the passage. My little woman Mary will 
 have to stay in the room and watch her father, but 
 the others will have to stay out there in the passage 
 by themselves; and if you could only give an eye to 
 them " 
 
 "Oh, I will have them in the room here," said the 
 seamstress. "It must be cold for the poor little ones 
 out there." j 
 
 "Oh, thank you! Yes, indeed, I know it is cold for 
 the poor darlings. But ah! I cannot help it. If they 
 are allowed to stay in our room where there is a fire, 
 their noise disturbs their poor, dear father, so I have 
 to send them out there." 
 
 Indignation swelled the honest heart of the seam 
 stress. Here was this infatuated woman, not only de 
 voting herself to her dissipated husband, but even 
 risking her children s lives by leaving them out in the 
 cold passage, lest their innocent prattle should disturb 
 his drunken sleep. But Rachel said nothing. 
 
 And yet this poor, mistaken young mother loved her 
 children, too. And now, with the tears springing to her 
 eyes, she told Rachel about the money that the strange 
 
270 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 lady had given them, and how they came to her with it 
 and gave it all to her to buy tea with. 
 
 "They are sweet and lovely children. They should 
 not be exposed or neglected on their father s account, 7 
 Rachel ventured to say. 
 
 "Oh, yes," replied their mother, ignoring the latter 
 part of Rachel s speech. "They are sweet and lovely 
 children. They are all affectionate and generous. And 
 they take all their sweetness and generosity of dispo 
 sition from their dear father. Poor Charley! he is so 
 fond of us all. He is perfectly devoted to us. He 
 would do anything in the world for us." 
 
 "Except to restrain his own evil appetities, that are 
 destroying himself and you," thought Rachel, but she 
 said nothing. 
 
 And now Mrs. Faulkner was going. And Rachel ac 
 companied her to the door, and called the three little 
 children who were out in the passage to come into her 
 room. 
 
 The other two the eldest and the youngest were in 
 their parents room. 
 
 Rachel took a little bench and put it before the fire, 
 and told the children to sit there and warm them 
 selves. Their little hands were blue with cold, and they 
 were shivering in their thin and insufficient clothing. 
 
 "Fere is Fay Dainmer?" inquired little two-year-old 
 Lily, the brightest of the group. 
 
 "Where is who, darling?" asked Rachel. 
 
 "Se means Fayee Gammer," explained little Ada. 
 
 But Rachel shook her head. 
 
 "Oh, they can t talk plain. It is Fairy Ganmother," 
 expounded Master Charley, in the confident wisdom 
 of four years. 
 
 "Oh ! Fairy Grandmother. You must mean the lady 
 who gave you the silver bits?" smiled Rachel. 
 
 "Ess !" said little Lily. "Fay Dammer." 
 
 Rachel explained that she had gone home, but would 
 some day return. 
 
 And then, in a playful sort of a way, she told them 
 that she wanted to see how big they were. And so, 
 one after the other, she measured the children for their 
 
THE LOST HEIK 271 
 
 clothes and shoes, and made memoranda of the meas 
 urement to send to Mrs. Melliss. 
 
 After two hours absence, Mrs. Faulkner returned, 
 radiant with delight at her purchases. They were in 
 the cab before the house; and it took her and the cab 
 man three or four journeys up and down stairs before 
 they were all safely stowed away in her bare sitting- 
 room. Then she paid the cabman and sent him away, 
 and finally she came into Rachel s room and sat down, 
 panting with fatigue and smiling with delight. 
 
 "I have bought all the real necessaries that we re 
 quire, and I have spent eight pounds. Ah, dear me! I 
 could have spent the other two also, but I saved them 
 for poor, dear Charley. I know he hasn t a penny. 
 Those dreadful men he supped with last night cleared 
 him out. And it is so mortifying to a man not to have 
 any money in his pocket," she said, confidentially. 
 
 "Especially when he wants it to drink up, or to 
 gamble it away," thought Kachel, indignantly, but still 
 she said nothing. 
 
 Mrs. Faulkner then thanked the seamstress for her 
 care of the children, and would have taken them away, 
 but Rachel said : 
 
 "Leave them with me, if you please, until you can 
 take them into your own room. The passage is too 
 cold and damp for children." 
 
 "Oh, thank you, dear ; but I have coals and kindlings 
 now, and I am going to have a fire in my sitting-room 
 for the children. And I would like you also to come in 
 and see my purchases," said the young mother. 
 
 "Thank you. I will keep the children until the fire is 
 made for them, and then I will take them in and look at 
 your purchases," replied Rachel. 
 
 Her visitor went away. Half an hour later Rachel 
 kept her promise, and took the children into the sitting- 
 room, which adjoined the Faulkners bedroom, and had 
 once been the apartment of the stage carpenter s fam- 
 
 iiy. 
 
 Here Rachel found a good fire, and also the other two 
 children. 
 
 She examined and admired the purchases, and said, 
 
272 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 what she really thought, that the money laid out in 
 them had been very judiciously expended. 
 
 Then she requested, as a favor, that Mrs. Faulkner 
 would send her eldest and youngest child to see her in 
 the course of that afternoon, as she wished to get ac 
 quainted with them also. 
 
 And their mother gave her promise that they should 
 be sent. 
 
 So, a little later in the afternoon, the grave little 
 matron Mary entered Rachel s room, bending under the 
 burden of the twelve months old baby Freddy, whom 
 she brought in her arms. 
 
 Rachel relieved the little woman of her charge, and 
 gave her a seat. And then she played with the baby 
 and chatted with the little girl, until she had con 
 trived to measure them for shoes and clothes. Then 
 she let them go. And she added the new measures to 
 the memoranda she had prepared to send Mrs. Melliss. 
 
 She saw no more of the Faulkner family that day. 
 But at night she heard Captain Faulkner noiselessly 
 get up and dress himself and go out. 
 
 And she felt sure that the irreclaimable gamester 
 had gone off to gamble away the money his fond and 
 foolish wife had given him. 
 
 If the man returned home at all that night, Rachel 
 never knew it. 
 
 The next morning Mary Kempton came, according 
 to Mrs. Melliss promise. 
 
 Rachel gave her the memoranda of the children s 
 measures in a sealed envelope. She also wrote a short 
 note to Mrs. Melliss, telling that lady how she had exe 
 cuted her commissions. 
 
 After Mary Kempton went away, Rachel put her 
 child to sleep, dressed herself in her outdoor garments, 
 and went to carry some work home. 
 
 As she passed on to the head of the stairs, she heard 
 the Faulkner children at play in the sitting-room. She 
 felt glad that they had a fire, as she went down the 
 stairs. 
 
 She took her work home to the outfitter in St. Paul s 
 Churchyard. And then finding herself in the neighbor- 
 
THE LOST HEIR 273 
 
 hood of the children s hospital, where little Benny was 
 staying, she thought she would call and ask after him. 
 
 Fortunately it was "visiting day." And when she in 
 quired at the office, she was directed to the ward where 
 the child lay. 
 
 It was a long room, with two rows of windows on 
 each side, and two rows of little white beds, each bed 
 between two windows, and there was a broad aisle up 
 the middle. 
 
 About half the number of beds were occupied by 
 children. About half a dozen nurses were in attend 
 ance. As yet there seemed to be no visitors. 
 
 Eachel named the little patient she wished to see,, 
 and she was at once shown the bed on which little- 
 Benny lay. 
 
 She went up to look at him. She saw him and turned 
 away her head. She could scarcely restrain herself 
 from breaking into hysterical tears. 
 
 He looked so like death, yet so beautiful in death. 
 His bed and his clothes were as clean and white as 
 new-fallen snow. His wan face was as white as his. 
 pillow; his blue eyes were half closed, and his bright 
 gold hair was pushed away from his fair, broad brow, 
 and lay in little glittering, tangled curls each side his 
 face, upon the pillow. 
 
 "That is a beautiful child. You are a friend of his?" 
 inquired the nurse who stood beside the bed. 
 
 "Yes," said Rachel, scarcely able to speak for emo 
 tion. "Is he very ill? Will he recover?" she inquired.. 
 
 "While there s life there s hope," evasively answered: 
 the nurse. 
 
 "May I speak to him?" 
 
 Oh, yes ; the doctor thinks it best to rouse him some 
 times." 
 
 "Benny, dear Benny," said Rachel, bending over him.. 
 
 He opened his gentle eyes and looked at her. 
 
 "Do you know me, Benny?" 
 
 "Yes, Rosy," he softly replied. 
 
 She could no longer restrain her feelings, but burst 
 into tears. 
 
 "Don t cry, Rosy. I know you are hungry. Pll try 
 
274 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 to get up and go out and get you something I " 
 
 And with this the poor little fellow tried to raise 
 himself on his elbow and put one foot out of the bed; 
 but immediately fell back, exhausted and fainting. 
 
 "Nev nev-never mind, Rosy! Don t cry! I ll just 
 rest myself a little bit and then I ll go and get you 
 something to eat !" he murmured at intervals and with 
 difficulty, panting and gasping between his words. 
 
 "Oh ! this is " Rachel began, but her sobs choked 
 
 her voice. She dropped her head upon the side of the 
 bed and wept bitterly. 
 
 "You will cry ? Don t cry, Rosy There ! I ll get up 
 and go now Oh ! I can t it is so dark " 
 
 "I had better go. He takes me for somebody else, 
 and my presence excites him, I am afraid," said Rachel. 
 
 "Oh, no, you don t hurt him. The doctor dreads 
 
 coma worse than anything else for him Oh! here 
 
 comes her grace!" suddenly said the nurse, in a low 
 tone, as she broke off from her first discourse. 
 
 Rachel turned her head and saw a distinguished 
 party of visitors entering the room. 
 
 "Who did you say was coming?" she inquired of the 
 nurse. 
 
 "Her Grace the Duchess of Cheviot." 
 
 Benny s mother! 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 THE LITTLE OUTCAST. 
 
 Yes, it was she the beautiful young Duchess of 
 Cheviot, attended by a brilliant party. 
 
 What did she in the Middlesex Hospital for Chil 
 dren? 
 
 Well, the duke and duchess were entertaining a for 
 eign prince at Cheviot House. And they were showing 
 his serene highness the sights of London, especially its 
 "charities." 
 
 And this morning they had brought him here. 
 
THE LOST HEIR 275 
 
 The party consisted of the prince, the Duke and 
 Duchess of Cheviot, their son, the young Earl of Well- 
 rose, and a gentleman in waiting on his serene high 
 ness. 
 
 The distinguished party approached the bed occu 
 pied by little Benny, and which was nearest to the 
 door of entrance. 
 
 Kachel Wood had never seen the young duchess, but 
 she would have recognized the beautiful patrician any 
 where by the portraits she had seen of her in the photo 
 graphic galleries and the print shops. Kachel withdrew 
 to a short distance as the party came up. 
 
 The prince, a slim little old man, with very red hair 
 and beard and a wizened face, and dressed in plain 
 citizen s suit of black, stuck his glass to his eye and 
 bent over the child. 
 
 "A fair, pretty boy! A very interesting looking 
 boy ! What, then, is his malady, nurse ?" he inquired, in 
 the German language. 
 
 The good woman shook her head in despair, and 
 courtesied. She did not understand a word he said. 
 
 "What is the matter with the boy, nurse?" then in 
 quired the duchess. 
 
 "A low fever, your grace," answered the woman, with 
 another courtesy. 
 
 "A fever !" muttered the prince, hastily moving on. 
 
 "This is not a contagious fever, your highness. There 
 are no cases of contagious fever in this ward. Is it not 
 so, nurse?" inquired the duchess. 
 
 "Certainly, your grace; the fever cases, which I 
 mean to say contagious cases, are all on the other side 
 of the building," answered the nurse, with the inevi 
 table courtesy. 
 
 "It is quite true, madam. There i^ not, I assure you, 
 the slightest danger of infection from these cases," 
 added the physician in charge of the hospital, who 
 was in attendance upon the distinguished visitors, but 
 who had been unavoidably detained for a moment at 
 the door, and had now come up. 
 
 But his serene highness was anything but serene at 
 
276 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 this moment. He moved on, followed by the duke and 
 the gentleman in waiting. 
 
 The young duchess and the little earl lingered by 
 the bedside of the sick child. 
 
 The physician stood halting between two opinions 
 whether to follow the prince, or to wait for the lady. 
 
 "Are you not coming, Eglantine?" inquired the duke, 
 stepping back to her side. 
 
 "No, Willie, dear; not just yet You and the doctor 
 attend the prince. You will find me and Alick here on 
 your return," replied the young duchess. 
 
 "Come, doctor," said the duke. 
 
 And the physician no longer hesitated between two 
 opinions, but followed the duke to the spot where the 
 prince and his gentleman were both "waiting." 
 
 Meanwhile the young duchess and the little earl 
 stood by the bedside of Benny. 
 
 The sick boy lay with his white face, hollow cheeks, 
 half-closed blue eyes, broad forehead and damp golden 
 hair, quite still. 
 
 "Poor, poor, poor little pale face!" muttered the 
 duchess in a tone of the deepest compassion, as her 
 tears fell fast upon his pillow. 
 
 Why did she gaze so fondly on him? Why did she 
 weep so much? Why, indeed, did she linger so long at 
 his bedside, when there was so much more to see in this 
 hospital? 
 
 Who could tell? 
 
 Certainly she could not. She even wondered at her 
 self that she should be so overcome at the sight of a 
 sick pauper child who was a perfect stranger to her. 
 
 For she did not recognize him as a child that she 
 had ever seen before. And yet she had seen him twice, 
 at long intervals once as a babe in a beggar s arms, 
 and once as a poor street boy, on Brunswick terrace, at 
 Brighton. And now she saw him again as a patient in 
 the Middlesex Hospital for Children. 
 
 She could not recognize him. Still less could she 
 have the faintest suspicion that this poor little patient 
 sufferer, lying on a pauper s pallet bed, was her own 
 child, her first born, the real Earl of Wellrose, the real 
 
THE LOST HEIR 277 
 
 heir to the renowned Douglas, with their ancient 
 Dukedom of Cheviot, privileges, titles, dignities, en 
 joyed now by his younger brother; while he, deprived of 
 all his rights, outcast, disowned, neglected, perverted, 
 half famished for want of food, half frozen for want of 
 fuel, half poisoned from foul air, had found his way to 
 the fever ward of the pauper children s hospital. 
 
 Ah! if titles and estates, if rank and respect, had 
 been all that this child had been deprived of, though 
 much in themselves, they would have been little in 
 comparison with his other losses of mother s, father s, 
 sisters , brothers love, of moral and religious training, 
 of cleanliness arid decency. 
 
 In some occult manner, something of the truth of all 
 this must have found its way to the unconscious moth 
 er s spirit, as she gazed upon her unknown child. Else 
 why should she weep so abundantly? 
 
 "She has a very tender heart," whispered the nurse 
 apart, to Rachel Wood. 
 
 "Yes, it is evident that her extensive charities spring 
 from her benevolent heart alone, and not from a vain 
 love of praise," murmured the seamstress, in a low 
 voice. 
 
 The young duchess dried her eyes and looked up, and 
 inquired : 
 
 "Who is this poor boy, nurse?" 
 
 "I don t know, please your grace, let alone his being 
 sf Number Three," of this hospital. But the clerk he 
 could tell your grace from the books," answered the 
 nurse, as she respectfully approached the duchess. 
 
 "Will he die?" softly inquired the weeping lady. 
 
 The nurse glanced over her shoulder toward Rachel 
 Wood, who still stood modestly withdrawn to a short 
 distance, and then answered in a very low tone : 
 
 "Yes, your grace ; though I shouldn t like to have that 
 poor young oman hear me say so, she being a friend 
 o hizzen." 
 
 The young duchess followed with her eye the direc 
 tion of the nurse s glance, and saw a consumptive look 
 ing, poorly clothed young woman, whom she took to be 
 the elder sister or young aunt of the boy; but she was 
 
278 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 immediately recalled from her observation by the con 
 tinued voice of the woman : 
 
 "But the doctor says he can t possibly live through 
 to-night, your grace, or to-morrow, at farthest. He will 
 die." 
 
 u Thank God!" fervently, tearfully breathed the 
 duchess. 
 
 And she put down her veil to hide the traces of her 
 tears, and, followed by her son, went to meet and rejoin 
 her party. 
 
 Rachel Wood bent over the child and called him : 
 
 "Benny ! Benny ! Benny ! Wake up, dear !" 
 
 But the boy only rolled his head and murmured in 
 his dying dream. 
 
 "Benny, do you know me? Benny, dear, it is Rachel 
 Wood, your friend," she said, slightly shaking him. 
 
 But the boy only sighed, murmured about a lovely 
 lady, a ring and a wreath, and relapsed into stillness. 
 
 "Benny! Benny, darling! Wake up! Rouse yourself! 
 Look at me! Speak to me!" exclaimed Rachel, taking 
 him bodily and lifting him up in a sitting posture. 
 
 The child opened his eyes wide, stared at the speaker, 
 murmured some coherent promise as to what he would 
 do for her when he got to be "a big man," then drew a 
 deep breath and sank a dead weight in her arms. 
 
 Rachel looked up in alarm at the nurse. 
 
 "Lay him down. He is gone, poor dear," said the 
 woman gently. 
 
 "Gone!" echoed Rachel in a faint voice. 
 
 "Yes, gone. He is dead. It came sooner than we ex 
 pected. I am sorry for you, poor dear ; for belike you 
 are a near relation of hizzen." 
 
 "Poor, dear little Benny!" murmured Rachel, stoop 
 ing and pressing her lips to his pale forehead. 
 
 "War e a hoffing, ma am?" inquired the nurse. 
 
 "I suppose he was an orphan," answered Rachel, who 
 did not wish to answer the question by entering into 
 any details of the boy s little history. 
 
 And before the nurse could inquire further, the phy 
 sician returned from seeing his distinguished visitors 
 out. 
 
THE LOST HEIR 279 
 
 Noticing that something had happened on the bed 
 nearest the door, the physician stopped in passing, and 
 inquired : 
 
 "What is it, nurse?" 
 
 "Number Three is gone, sir," she answered. 
 
 He came up to the bed, took the little, thin wrist in 
 his hand for a moment, and then laid it down, saying: 
 
 "Yes. I will give orders for the. removal of the body." 
 
 And the physician passed on and left the ward by the 
 door at its furthest extremity. 
 
 "Where will they take him ?" whispered Rachel. 
 
 "To the dead-house," answered the nurse. 
 
 Rachel lingered a little longer, and then seeing the 
 opposite door open and two men bearing between them 
 a stretcher, she stooped and pressed a good-by kiss 
 upon little Benny s brow, and turned and went out. 
 
 She bent her steps homeward. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 A COMFORTER. 
 
 When Rachel Wood reached the house in Junk lane 
 she found a crowd collected before the doors a very 
 disreputable crowd of ragged, dirty and more or less 
 tipsy men and women, boys and girls. 
 
 Surprised and alarmed, yet not daring to question 
 any one that she saw outside, Rachel Wood made her 
 way through them as best she could and entered the 
 house, and turned into Mrs. Kempton s old-clothes 
 shop. 
 
 "What on earth is the matter outside?" she inquired 
 of the mistress of the shop, who was, as usual, sitting 
 sewing behind the counter, in her grove of dangling 
 dresses. 
 
 "Oh, Rachel, it s inside the matter is, not outside! 
 The captain s took!" said the old-clothes woman. 
 
 "Took! Do you mean that Captain Faulkner has 
 been arrested?" 
 
280 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 "Captain Sydney, child ; Captain Sydney have." 
 
 "What for, for Heaven s sake?" 
 
 "For debt, in course; what else? But sit down Rachel 
 sit down, girl; you look ready to drop," said Mrs. 
 Kempton, pushing a chair toward her visitor. 
 
 Rachel went round the counter, and took the offered 
 seat. 
 
 "And now tell me all about It," she said. 
 
 "Lor, child, you hadn t hardly turned your back 
 leastways, 1 know you hadn t more n turned the corner 
 of the lane into the alley afore the sheriff s officer 
 come and levied onto all their goods all, Rachel, 
 everythink even the new blankets and things as she 
 bought yesterday, poor thing!" 
 
 "Oh, I am very sorry to hear this," sighed the seam 
 stress. 
 
 "The captain he was out at the time; and the poor 
 wife! Oh, you ought to a seen how she cried and 
 screamed and wrung her hands and went on, pleading 
 with the officers to take pity on her poor children, 
 "which in course the men couldn t do, being obligated 
 to perform their dooty." 
 
 "And has not Captain Faulkner returned?" inquired 
 Rachel. 
 
 "Captain Sydney, you mean? Oh, lor, yes. He came 
 back right in the middle of it all. No sooner had the 
 captain come in, and before he had time to bluster and 
 blow up the baillies, as he was just about to do, in 
 comes another baillie with another writ for another 
 debt, and nabs my captain himself, and hauls him off 
 to prison. Oh, then you should a seen how the wife 
 went on ! All she said and did before was nothing to it. 
 She raved ; she tore handfuls of hair out of her head. 
 I took hold of her, and it was as much as ever I could 
 do to hold her. And all this had no more effect on 
 them there baillies than nothing at all." 
 
 "But the captain? What a severe trial it must have 
 been to him, poor man, to be taken away from his wife 
 at such a time !" said Rachel. 
 
 "You d better believe it. It run him wild. He strug 
 gled to get away from the officers and come to her. And 
 
THE LOST HEIR o 81 
 
 And the poor wife?" 
 
 "How is the poor lady now?" inquired Rachel 
 
 2? 
 
 "* 
 
 open, and she saw that the fnrnfSr 
 off. and the floors covered Jt h th 
 removal. She meant tn oT 
 
 RSSSa couid not h - *d 2SJT5S 
 
 s n : S^^ssjtsir^ but *** 
 
 again, and land him down. m " P and fed Wm 
 
282 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 Then she went and rapped at the closed door of 
 the Faulkners bedchamber. 
 
 The voice of the young wife bade her to come in. 
 
 She entered the room and found a scene of heart 
 breaking desolation. 
 
 The furniture had all been taken away with the ex 
 ception of one poor mattress that was thrown down 
 upon the floor. On this lay the young mother, with her 
 five babies weeping around her. Old wearing apparel, 
 thrown out from the bureaus and presses that had been 
 seized, was strewn about the floor. There was nothing 
 else left in the desolate room. 
 
 "Is it you, Kachel?" said the poor lady, as soon as she 
 saw the seamstress. "Oh, I am so glad you have come 
 back! Oh, see what they ve done to me, Eachel! And 
 see what they ve done to my poor Charley! They ve 
 taken everything we possess in the world, except this 
 miserable bed, and the few rags of clothes! And they 
 would have taken these, too, if the law had let them. 
 But, oh, worse than all, they have dragged off my poor 
 Charley to prison! Yes, they knocked him down when 
 he resisted knocked him down and dragged him off 
 as if he had been a dog. Oh ! Oh ! what shall I do?" she 
 exclaimed, bursting into tears, while the children wept 
 aloud. 
 
 "You need not be idle, dear Mrs. Faulkner." 
 
 "What can I do?" despairingly inquired the young 
 wife. 
 
 "You may take steps to night that may lead to your 
 husband s release to-morrow." 
 
 "Oh! tell me how to do that, and I will bless you, 
 Rachel Wood!" exclaimed the poor lady, starting up. 
 
 "You can write to your father, and I will take the 
 letter and put it into his own hands. He will not, he 
 cannot, refuse to help you under the present circum 
 stances." 
 
 "Yes! yes! yes! I will write to him immediately! Oh, 
 I thank you, Rachel, for your guidance ! You are a good 
 pilot to take me through this stormy sea ! I will write 
 n ow Ah! Heaven! but the wretches have not left me 
 chair or table, or even pen, ink or paper to write with !" 
 
THE LOST HEIR 283 
 
 la! abode. * ^^ ^ ** ^^ ar Und her **<> 
 
 Never mind! We shall improve all this to-morrow 
 cv- mm* ,nf rt r room and wp . te youp , ett - 
 
 npX ^ e J f te flnished R achel put on her bon 
 net and shawl and set out with it to Charles street 
 The hour was late, and the distance long. So when 
 
 WestFnd o ae to 
 
 West End. She knew that she herself could not 
 possibly afford the outlay of money required to pay 
 
 that 
 
 mwiv - su 
 
 illingly defray the expenses of her little journey 
 
 After an hour s drive the cab reached Charles street 
 ^^Sy^^^^^ 
 SSha(i t0pr ceed ca sly on her 
 
 . 
 It happened that Mary Kempton was at that moment 
 
 housekeeper s room - 
 
 "I want you to take me to Mrs. Melliss at once, Mary 
 to sa y to ^r, whispered the seam- 
 
 C me along with me " re P lj ed the girl 
 
 floor and 
 
 ten 
 
 !tUmed iU * teW minutes and told Rachel to 
 
 gon 
 
 alone ^r* SS ^ nt ^ the r m and found 
 alone with the mistress of the mansion. 
 
 , M , y P K orRachel ! "must be something very unusual 
 
 banker a ?w ? f Ught T "" ttta W8y at this ^ said "^ 
 hnmht 3S " he ar Se and shook han ds with her 
 
 not 
 
 "No, madam. I came in a cab, and it is waiting for 
 
284 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 me at the door," answered the seamstress as she sat 
 down. 
 
 "Ah ! that is well ; I am glad you did. And now your 
 errand, my dear girl, for your face tells me that it is 
 important," said the lady anxiously. 
 
 "Yes; it is important, dear Mrs. Melliss. Captain 
 Faulkner has been arrested for debt, and is now in 
 the Queen s Bench. His little personal property has 
 also been seized to satisfy other creditors. I need not 
 describe the deep distress of his wife and little chil 
 dren." 
 
 "Good Heaven, Rachel! This is a dreadful piece of 
 news! This must be seen to immediately!" exclaimed 
 Mrs. Melliss. 
 
 "It is for that I came. I am the bearer of a letter 
 from Mrs. Faulkner to her father, which I promised 
 to put into his own hands. Will you manage it for me, 
 dear Mrs. Melliss?" 
 
 "With great pleasure, Rachel. I would take it to him 
 myself, and back it with my best influence with my hus 
 band, but you know what I told you that I am abso 
 lutely forbidden to mention the name of his daughter 
 or his son-in-law in his presence." 
 
 "I know that, dear madam." 
 
 "But I will take you to him. Come!" 
 
 And the lady arose and opened the communicating 
 door between her own boudoir and her husband s read 
 ing room. 
 
 The banker sat at a table, engaged in writing. But, 
 on seeing his beautiful young wife, he immediately laid 
 aside his pen, and looked up with a welcoming smile. 
 
 "Here is Rachel Wood, my seamstress, who wishes to 
 speak with you, dear. Can you see her now?" 
 
 "Certainly," said the banker. "Let her come in." 
 
 And Rachel Wood entered the room. And Mrs. Mel 
 liss retired and closed the door behind her, leaving the 
 seamstress and the banker tete-d-tete. 
 
 A very anxious half hour passed. Mrs. Melliss could 
 not sit still. She paced restlessly up and down the 
 floor until the door opened, and the banker appeared, 
 followed by the seamstress. 
 
THE LOST HEIB 285 
 
 " 
 
 
 
286 THE LOST HEIK 
 
 "Quite right. Good-night," said Mr. Melliss, as he 
 left the room and withdrew to his study. 
 
 Kachel was also about to take leave, but Mrs. Melliss 
 made a sign for her to stay. 
 
 Angela Melliss had closely watched the interview 
 between her husband and his daughter s messenger. 
 
 And she came to a strange conclusion that though 
 Mr. Melliss might not, to use his own words, "lift a 
 finger to help" his daughter, except upon the condition 
 that she would leave her shiftless husband, yet he 
 would not be displeased if she, Angela, privately as 
 sisted her. 
 
 "Else why," inquired the young wife of herself 
 "why should he hurry away and leave me alone with 
 her messenger, knowing, as well as he does, how much 
 I pity her?" 
 
 "It is growing late, dear Mrs. Melliss. If you have 
 
 anything to say to me " began Rachel, but she was 
 
 interrupted by the lady. 
 
 "Yes, Rachel, I have something to say to you. And 
 you need not mind about the lateness of the hour. You 
 have a cab, you remember, which, as you engaged it in 
 our service, you must allow me to pay for." 
 
 "Thank you, Mrs. Melliss." 
 
 "And a part of what I have to say to you is this, 
 Rachel that from all you have told me of her, I do not 
 think it possible that Mrs. Faulkner will accept the 
 conditions of her father s letter." 
 
 "I am sure that she will not, madam." 
 
 "But for all that, you must give her the letter." 
 
 "I know it!" sighed Rachel. 
 
 "But you must not let her despair. You must com 
 fort her to-night. Assure her that her husband shall 
 be released from prison to-morrow. But do not men 
 tion my name as a possible benefactress. If she presses 
 to be informed as to who will release her husband from 
 prison, assure her that you are not at liberty to tell 
 her." 
 
 "And she will think it is her father helping her 
 secretly, because she believes he cannot venture to do so 
 openly," said Rachel, in a tone of vexation. 
 
THE LOST HEIR 287 
 
 in the 
 
 l will do so, madam." 
 
 woman," as she styled Mrs MeTL J S S 
 
 h( Ka< 1 was sworn to secrecy and dare not undeceive 
 
 expected, but the beautiful 
 
288 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 i 
 
 CHAPTEK XXXVII. 
 
 THE HAUNTING FACE AGAIN. 
 
 What could have brought the fair partician to this 
 poor neighborhood, and alone and unattended? 
 
 Rachel was too much amazed to speak, but she 
 silently placed a chair, which her visitor, with a bow, 
 immediately took. 
 
 "I saw you at the hospital yesterday," said the 
 duchess, in a voice low and tremulous with suppressed 
 emotion. 
 
 "Yes, madam," answered the seamstress. 
 
 "We met there at the bedside of a sick boy a very 
 fair, interesting child." 
 
 "Yes, madam." 
 
 "The child is since dead," continued the duchess, and 
 then her voice broke down as she added : "I went there 
 this morning to see him once more. I found his little 
 cot empty. They told me that he had died the evening 
 before." 
 
 "Yes, madam, he died soon after you left. He went 
 off without suffering, and very gently. And it is 
 well," said Rachel Wood. 
 
 "Yes, it is well. And yet it is very strange. I cannot 
 help weeping." And here the duchess gave way for a 
 time to her quiet tears, and then resumed : 
 
 "I asked to see the little body. But they told me 
 that it had been taken to the dead-house, where there 
 were some cases recently dead of contagious fevers, and 
 advised me not to venture thither. And, of course, on 
 my children s account, I would not run the risk of 
 taking the fever home with me. But I was overcome, 
 Miss Wood ; I do not know why." 
 
 "It is always very affecting to see children suffer and 
 die," said the seamstress, not well knowing what else 
 to say to her weeping visitor. 
 
 "There was a woman present who had also come to 
 see the sick child. Her name was Oaks no, Pine 
 
THE LOST HEIR 289 
 
 Elin? what was it?" inquired the duchess of herself, 
 in perplexity. 
 
 "It was Juniper, perhaps," suggested Rachel Wood. 
 
 "That was it. I remember that it was the name of a 
 tree," said the duchess, smiling through her tears. "It 
 was Juniper. And when I inquired after the friend of 
 the dead boy whom I had seen on the preceding day 
 meaning yourself, Miss Wood the nurse could not tell 
 me anything about you. But this woman, Mrs. Juniper, 
 asked a few questions of the nurse as to your personal 
 appearance, and having received satisfactory answers, 
 said at once that your name was Rachel Wood, and 
 that you lived here. I sent my little Alick home in 
 the brougham, and I took a close cab and came hither. 
 And now I suppose you will wonder why I am here." 
 
 "I shall at least be very happy to serve your grace in 
 any way that I can," respectfully answered Rachel 
 Wood. 
 
 "I came," gravely began the young duchess, "to learn 
 all I can of that child s life from you ; who, I am told, 
 have known him from his infancy. Is this true?" 
 
 "Yes, madam. I have known little Benny from the 
 time his foster-mother brought him from Scotland," an 
 swered Rachel. 
 
 "From Scotland!" echoed the duchess, while a 
 strange thrill passed over her frame. But she con 
 trolled the emotion which she could not understand, 
 and said, very calmly: 
 
 "You wonder, Miss Wood, and, indeed, I also wonder, 
 at the strange and morbid interest I take in this dead 
 child, who was an entire stranger to me. But, in truth, 
 I think I have seen him three times in my life under 
 peculiar circumstances, not easily forgotten," she 
 added, and then fell for a few seconds into a thoughtful 
 pause. 
 
 Rachel Wood waited in respectful silence until the 
 lady resumed. 
 
 "When I saw the little, pale, patient face lying on 
 the hospital pillow, I did not recognize it at all as one I 
 had ever seen before, though there was something in it, 
 even then, that deeply moved me. But when I went 
 
290 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 home and recalled that little face, with its clear com 
 plexion, fair flaxen hair, broad brow and blue eyes, its 
 refined features and its look of patient suffering, two 
 other faces came up beside it one of a babe that I had 
 seen in its mother s arms before St. George s Church 
 on the morning of my marriage, and the other that of 
 a fair street boy whom I saw on Brunswick terrrace, 
 Brighton, on Twelfth-night. I saw both, as I said 
 before, under circumstances not easily forgotten, but 
 which it is not necessary to describe now. But, Miss 
 Wood, when I saw in my mind s eye those three fair, 
 refined, patient, suffering little faces, I knew that they 
 were one and the same. That is all. Now tell me who 
 were this child s parents?" 
 
 They are not known, madam. The poor child was a 
 stray. Magdalena Hurst, the woman who brought him 
 up, was his foster-mother," replied Rachel. 
 
 "Magdalene Hurst, did you say? It seems to me that 
 there is a faint echo in such a name somewhere in my 
 memory. Did you say Magdelene Hurst?" 
 
 "Yes, madam; she was the stewardess on the Shaft, 
 plying between London and the western parts of Scot 
 land. She was taken ill one day on the steamer, and 
 was put ashore at Killford." 
 
 "Killford !" echoed the duchess. 
 
 "Yes, madam; and she was confined there. And it 
 seems that her baby died. And as she had just heard of 
 the sudden death of her husband, the death of her child 
 was concealed from her in mistaken mercy, and this 
 child of unknown parents this little Benny was 
 placed in her arms as her own." 
 
 "By whom? by whom?" breathlessly inquired the 
 duchess. 
 
 "By the attendant physician. It seems that he had 
 brought it only to place it at nurse with this Magdalene 
 Hurst ; but, finding the woman in an opium sleep, and 
 hearing from the nurse that her baby was dead, but 
 that the mother did not know it, he bribed and swore 
 the midwife to silence, and then substituted the living 
 child for the dead one, and took away the dead one 
 and buried it." 
 
THE LOST HEIR 291 
 
 "That doctor s name? that doctor s name?" gasped 
 the lady, scarcely able to conceal her emotion. 
 
 "I do not know it, madam. He was some country 
 practitioner in or near Killford," replied Rachel. 
 
 "And is this all you can tell me? Was there no sur 
 mise as to the parentage of the child ? And how did the 
 woman Hurst discover the fraud that had been prac 
 ticed upon her?" 
 
 "I can answer both your grace s questions in one. 
 When this abandoned child, little Benny, was about 
 twelve months old or so, this woman, Magdalene Hurst, 
 received a message from the midwife who had nursed 
 her through her confinement. The message waa 
 brought by a fireman on board the Shaft, plying be 
 tween London and Killford and other western ports. 
 The message was to the effect that Madge should go to 
 Scotland to hear an important secret that the midwife 
 had to confide to her. Madge, having the freedom of 
 the Shaft as its old stewardess, went to Killford by the 
 very next trip of the boat. She made her way to the 
 midwife s cottage, where she found the old woman 
 dying " 
 
 "And, of course, heard a deathbed confession," mur 
 mured the duchess. 
 
 "Yes, madam. Then for the first time Madge learned 
 that her own child was dead and buried, and that some 
 other woman s abandoned babe had been palmed off 
 upon her in its stead." 
 
 "By whom?" 
 
 "Your grace will please remember that I told you be 
 fore, by this midwife and the medical attendant, whose 
 name I have forgotten, if indeed I ever even heard it." 
 
 "But whose child was this? Had they no knowledge, 
 no, clew, no suspicion?" 
 
 "But very slight. The nurse told Madge that the 
 doctor had told her that the substituted babe was the 
 child of a lady of Stirling or of Callender she had for 
 gotten which but that the lady had died in her con 
 finement." 
 
 As Rachel spoke these last words, the excitement of 
 
292 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 her visitor perceptibly subsided, and she more calmly 
 remarked : 
 
 "I felt great interest in that poor child. Pray, how 
 did this woman Madge treat the innocent babe left to 
 her uncertain mercy?" 
 
 "Very capriciously, madam fondling or beating 
 him, without any good reason for the one or the other 
 treatment. It is good that he has gone to heaven, 
 madam." 
 
 "It is very well," sighed the duchess. "But did this 
 woman throw him off at length?" 
 
 "Oh, no, madam. With all her faults, she would 
 never have done that, I think." 
 
 "Where is she, then? She might be able to tell me 
 more." 
 
 "Ah! madam, do you not remember that celebrated 
 trial of the woman who strangled her rival to death, 
 but was acquitted of murder on the plea of insanity?" 
 
 "Certainly I do ; but that woman s name was Brice." 
 
 "It is the same, your grace. Magdalene Hurst mar 
 ried, as her second husband, a man by the name of 
 Brice, who was not very faithful to her. She stranged 
 her rival in a fit of insanity. And now she is a lifelong 
 prisoner in the Asylum for Criminal Lunatics, and, al 
 though her insanity was a very doubtful matter at the 
 time of her imprisonment, it is a very certain one now. 
 She is hopelessly mad." 
 
 "Poor creature ! Then there is nothing to be learned 
 from her." 
 
 "There was nothing to be learned from her on that 
 subject even before her madness at least, nothing 
 more than I have told you. Madge, as soon as she had 
 heard the secret told her by the dying woman, made the 
 most particular inquiries in the village and in the 
 neighborhood, but could discover nothing more, not 
 even the register of her child s death, or the place 
 of its burial. She was only laughed at for her credulity 
 in believing the nurse s story, which was set down as 
 the hallucination of a decaying brain." 
 
 "But the doctor the doctor who had attended her, 
 
THE LOST HEIR 293 
 
 and who had practiced this fraud upon her could 
 she not have found him?" 
 
 "The doctor had been dead for months," answered 
 Rachel, gravely. 
 
 "The doctor dead !" echoed the duchess, in a strange 
 low tone. 
 
 "Yes the doctor had died and made no sign," con 
 tinued Rachel. 
 
 "Perhaps he made a sign, though not a very clear- 
 one," murmured the duchess, as she remembered the 
 strange incidents of Dr. Seton s deathbed. 
 
 Her voice did not this time reach the seamstress* 
 ears. 
 
 "And so she never gained a clew to the parentage of 
 the child?" 
 
 "No, madam ; the secret seemed to have died with the 
 doctor who attended the woman." 
 
 "And that is all?" 
 
 "That is all, except this trifling incident that the 
 woman found in the nurse s hut an elegant little em 
 broidered sack and sock that could not have been made 
 for any but an infant of rank." 
 
 "Where are those relics ?" 
 
 "It would be hard to tell. After Madge came back 
 from Scotland with the infant she very carefully pre 
 served those little garments, believing that some day 
 they might lead to the discovery of the child s parents 
 and also help to identify the child himself. But what 
 ever became of them in the confusion that followed the 
 murder of the ballet girl and the arrest of Madge I do 
 not know. When Madge was sent to the Criminal 
 Lunatic Asylum her husband was in prison. As soon 
 as he got out he came here and sold off everything, and 
 went, it is supposed, to America." 
 
 "Miss Wood, I wish you would tell me what in the 
 meantime, became of the unfortunate boy." 
 
 "He was taken away to Brighton by the old mother 
 of Madge. And I lost sight of him for some time 
 until, indeed, I found him ill of the fever in which he 
 was taken to the hospital, where your grace also saw 
 him." 
 
294 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 "He is the same boy I have seen at intervals three 
 times, and whose face haunts me like a spirit. Miss 
 Wood, would it trouble you too much to give me a de 
 tailed account of that poor child s life as you have wit 
 nessed it?" 
 
 "Not at all, your grace. I will willingly tell you all I 
 know." 
 
 And Rachel related the London life of little Benny as 
 far as she was acquainted with it. 
 
 The duchess shed tears over the sad story, and at its 
 close she thanked the narrator and arose and took 
 leave. 
 
 She drew her thick veil over her face and went down* 
 stairs and entered the close carriage that was waiting 
 for her below. 
 
 She gave the order to the cabman to drive her to 
 "Very s," where she had directed her own brougham to 
 meet her. 
 
 And then she sank back in her seat and burst into 
 tears and wept passionately, thinking all the while: 
 
 "My first-born child is dead. And this child, that 
 my heart so yearns over, is also dead. It is well. It is 
 well, I suppose; and yet, oh, oh! I have that on my 
 mind that must forever impair its peace!" 
 
 So sighing, and mourning over her vague suspicions 
 of the truth, poor little Benny s beautiful mother went 
 back to her palace home, leaving him 
 
 Where? 
 
 In the deadhouse of the Middlesex Hospital? 
 
 No. It is not every body carried into the deadhouse 
 that remains there until it is carried to its grave. 
 
 Little Benny lay stretched out upon the "cooling 
 board" in the same room with two other bodies. 
 
 He lay there all night, and until nearly noon of the 
 next day. 
 
 Then the undertaker came to put the bodies in their 
 coffins. 
 
 He placed two in their last narrow cradles, and then 
 lifted little Benny s light form, but immediately let it 
 down again, whispering in a scared tone of voice to his 
 assistant : 
 
THE LOST HEIR 295 
 
 "Hallo, Bill, hold hard! I m blowed if we wa n t 
 just agwine to bury this shaver alive !" 
 
 "What?" asked the other, under his breath. 
 
 "This one s alive, I tell you ! He s warm. I m blest 
 if he ain t in a prespuration under his armpits," added 
 the man, as he pursued his investigations. 
 
 "Then we d better not nail him down in the coffin, 
 J m thinking," remarked the other, gazing curiously at 
 the subject. 
 
 "Nail him down in the coffin, you born fool! Nail 
 the live boy down in the coffin, even sposin he is a 
 pauper?" 
 
 "Well, I wa n t a saying we d do it; I was saying 
 as we d better not." 
 
 "I should think so, unless we d like to be scragged 
 for murder." 
 
 "Then what will we do at all?" 
 
 "Go call the doctor, and he ll tell you." 
 
 The undertaker s man went in search of the physician 
 in charge; but that gentleman could not be found. 
 
 An assistant surgeon, however, came to the dead- 
 house, examined the subject, decided that "it was not 
 a corpse, but a patient," and ordered him to be taken 
 immediately back to his bed, where we must leave him 
 for the present. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 THE GOOD FAMY S WAND. 
 
 After the beautiful young duchess had left her, Ra 
 chel Wood sat sewing on the everlasting "shirt," and 
 thinking on all that had just passed, until a sharp 
 knock at her room door aroused her. 
 
 She arose to admit the visitor, and with more pleas 
 ure than surprise she met the sweet face of Angela Mel- 
 liss smiling on her. 
 
 "Well, Rachel, dear, I am here at last. How are the 
 children?" she inquired, as she entered the humble 
 apartment of the seamstress. 
 
296 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 "The children are quite well, Mrs. Melliss," answered 
 Eachel. 
 
 And she arose and led the way across the hall to the 
 room occupied by the Faulkners. 
 
 As she opened the door Angela Melliss shrank back 
 suddenly, surprised and repelled by the aspect of the 
 place. 
 
 "A chamber of desolation," indeed it was. 
 
 The floor, from which the carpet had been rudely 
 torn, was left covered half -inch thick with dust. 
 
 Piles of shabby clothing, thrown out of bureaus and 
 boxes that had been seized, lay about the one poor mat 
 tress that had been left there. 
 
 And on this mattress the children were playing at 
 throwing pillows over each other. 
 
 The children stopped at the sight of the lady. 
 
 The little six-year-old woman Mary whispered : 
 
 "You must be good now. There are visitors." 
 
 "It s only Fay Dammer! She won t mind," said lit 
 tle Lily, scrambling out of the confusion of bedclothes 
 and the cloud of dust, and running up to greet her 
 friend. 
 
 "My poor darling!" murmured Mrs. Melliss, instinct 
 ively shrinking from contact with the dusty child, but 
 immediately recovering, and caressing the little golden- 
 haired head. 
 
 "Oh ! what a sight, Rachel ! Their mother, I suppose, 
 tias gone to visit her imprisoned husband." 
 
 "Yes, madam!" 
 
 "I hope she will not be likely to come home soon. I 
 wish to do a great deal before she comes." 
 
 And a great deal it truly was, for Mrs. Melliss had 
 brought sundry packages of clothing with her, and as 
 soon as the children were washed they were arrayed in 
 their new garments, then placed in a cab and driven out 
 over Waterloo Bridge to a charming cottage at Syden- 
 ham. 
 
 A lovely little miniature villa it was! 
 
 They entered a hall, on each side of which were 
 stained glass doors, leading into the drawing-room, 
 dining-room, sitting-room and library, on the first floor. 
 
THE LOST HEIR 297 
 
 Opposite the front door, and at the back of the hall, 
 was a French window glazed with stained glass, and 
 now open, and revealing a flight of steps leading into 
 the garden below. 
 
 The housekeeper or caretaker of the premises, turn 
 ing back to Mrs. Melliss, said : 
 
 "Wouldn t you like to take the little ones upstairs to 
 the bedrooms, ma am, to lay off their bonnets before 
 they have luncheon?" 
 
 "Yes, certainly," said Mrs. Melliss, and, assisted by 
 Rachel W<5od and Mary Kempton, she took the children 
 upstairs into one of the fresh, fragrant, white-draped 
 bedrooms to prepare them for their repast. 
 
 "Oh! what a lovely, lovely place! Oh, an t this a 
 holiday!" exclaimed Master Charley. 
 
 And all the children chimed in with his notes of ad 
 miration. 
 
 When they had sufficiently admired the white enam 
 eled chamber furniture, and the white curtained win 
 dows, with bird cages hung between the folds of the 
 curtains, and all the pretty objects about the suburban 
 cottage, they willingly followed their fairy grand 
 mother and her attendants to the rooms below. 
 
 There new delights awaited them. TJiey were shown 
 the pretty drawing-room, with its pale blue damask 
 and silver hangings and covers, and its delicate lace 
 curtains ; and the cozy parlor, with its dark green fur 
 niture; and the library, with its pictures and busts, 
 and with its bookcases, not yet filled, and its tables 
 adorned with a few fine illustrated volumes. 
 
 And then they were taken into the neat, clean, cool 
 dining-room, with its nicely-set luncheon-table. 
 
 "Oh ! this is a holiday ! you bet !" said Master Char 
 ley. 
 
 "It must have cost a deal of money," said grave Miss 
 Mary. 
 
 "It an t polite to talk about tost, Mary. Papa al 
 ways says so," put in Miss Ada. 
 
 "And now, here is our luncheon all ready, my chil 
 dren. So we will gather around the table and take it," 
 said Mrs. Melliss. 
 
298 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 And, assisted by Mary and Rachel, she placed all the 
 little ones at the well-spread table, and afterward 
 helped them to dainties to which, poor children! they 
 were very little accustomed ; for to their familiar bread 
 and butter were added broiled spring chicken, lettuce, 
 radishes, cheese, cream cakes and sweetmeats. 
 
 When the children had finished their repast, little 
 Lily, the irrepressible and demonstrative, came up to 
 her fairy grandmother s side, and whispered: 
 
 "Fay dammer, I want to ast you somefin ." 
 
 "Ask what you please, my darling." 
 
 "May us do and p ay in de darden?" 
 
 "Yes, love; go and play in the garden as much as you 
 please." 
 
 "Tome along, tildern!" called the little leader of 
 three years old, as she ran out through the open French 
 window at the back of the hall. 
 
 Her brothers and sisters followed her with shouts of 
 joy, and disappeared among the shrubbery of the gar 
 den below. 
 
 The children had scarcely left the house before a 
 "hansom" pulled up at the front gate, and a young 
 gentleman alighted from it. 
 
 Mrs. Melliss went down the garden walk to receive 
 him; for he was no other than her stepson, Mr. Percy 
 Melliss, barrister, come there to meet her by appoint 
 ment. 
 
 "Well, my dear Percy, how have you sped ?" inquired 
 his stepmother. "But come injto the house and sit 
 down, before you tell me," she added, leading the way 
 into the cottage. 
 
 When both were seated in the pretty blue and white 
 drawing-room, she asked him again: 
 
 "How have you sped in your mission, dearest Percy?" 
 
 "Thanks to your munificence, sweet mother, I sped as 
 people speed who have their pockets full of money," 
 answered the young man, with a smile. 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "I have bought up all the outstanding claims against 
 that poor man, as far as I could ascertain them, and 
 now, as your agent, I am his only creditor. And as 
 
THE LOST HEIR 299 
 
 you are the most interested in this matter, I wait your 
 orders to release him." 
 
 "Thanks, good son. But now, about his release, and 
 his removal hither, there is a little awkwardness. That 
 poor, man with all his sins and follies and weakness 
 and helplessness, is just as proud as Lucifer. Who 
 ever may help him or his family will have to do it very 
 discreetly. He would see his wife and children in the 
 almshouse before ever he would come here and accept 
 this home at my hands. Dear Percy, I am in a quan- 
 dery. The children are all here so comfortable and 
 happy that they think themselves in fairy land or Par 
 adise. But how to get the father and mother here 
 without wounding their pride I do not know." 
 
 "Good little angel mamma, do not distress yourself. 
 The haughty gentleman and gallant officer, Captain 
 Faulkner, has a saving faith in a comfortable home, so 
 that you will give it to him, as it were, without his 
 knowledge and consent Dear, honest little mother, 
 all you have to do is to give it to him through his wife. 
 He will know all the while that it is a gift of charity ; 
 but then he will not feel obliged to know it, or to 
 acknowledge it, even to himself." 
 
 "I see! Oh, how clever you are, Percy, dear! You ll 
 sit upon the woolsack one of these days." 
 
 "Then it will be by cleverness, not by honesty or in 
 tellect," answered the young lawyer, with a bitter 
 sweet smile. 
 
 "Well, now, of course, you have matured the whole 
 matter. Now, how are you going to act? through his 
 
 "My fair mother, it is you who will have to act." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 "You must either go yourself " 
 
 "That will not do." 
 
 "Or send some reliable messenger to the wife, to put 
 her in possession of the whole, or of as much of the 
 facts as you may deem advisable. She will know how 
 to deal with her husband, and to save his most ridicu 
 lous self-esteem." 
 
 "Rachel Wood ! T will send Rachel Wood ! She will 
 
300 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 know exactly what to say and do. She has a great deal 
 more sense than I have." 
 
 "I would knock any man down, and stand an action 
 for assault and battery, who should dare to hint that 
 any living creature had half the brain and heart of my 
 fair young mother !" said the stepson, with enthusiasm. 
 
 "I am glad that the opportunity will not be afforded 
 you, dear Percy ; for your little mother s name is not likely 
 to be so discussed," said Mrs. Melliss gravely. 
 
 Her stepson bowed silently to the rebuff. 
 
 "And now, dear Percy, I will go and call Eachel Wood, 
 and instruct her in that part she is to play." 
 
 "Do so, belle mere; but do not forget that these Faulk- 
 ners are not half so much averse to being assisted as your 
 own pure heart gives them credit for being." 
 
 Mrs. Melliss went into the dining-room, where she had 
 left Rachel Wood and Mary Kempton, lunching at the 
 second table. 
 
 She found them loitering in the bay window, as if not 
 exactly knowing what they were next expected to do 
 with themselves, and half inclined to join the children in 
 the garden. 
 
 "Rachel, I want you. Come here," said the lady. 
 
 And the girl quickly joined her. 
 
 The lady took the seamstress up into one of the fresh, 
 fragrant bedchambers. 
 
 When they were seated Mrs. Melliss unfolded her 
 plans for inducing the "haughty" Captain Faulkner to 
 be so obliging as to accept what, indeed, the beggared 
 spendthrift might well consider the most unmerited bless 
 ing of his life a comfortable home for himself and his 
 family. 
 
 Rachel Wood, with ready wit, quickly comprehended 
 the case, and agreed to take the part assigned to her. 
 
 Mrs. Melliss then sent a messenger to the hotel to recall 
 the cab she had left there. 
 
 And in half an hour afterward Rachel Wood was on 
 her way to London. 
 
 She reached the debtor s prison a few minutes before the 
 closing of the gates. 
 
THE LOST HEIE 301 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 A GLAD END. 
 
 As Rachel Wood s cab drew up before the gloomy 
 doors, she noticed a "hansom" there, with Mr Percy 
 Melhss and another person seated in it. 
 
 She had chanced to see the young barrister several 
 times since that memorable day when he defended 
 Madge Brice with such success. 
 
 She therefore recognized him immediately. 
 TIT 7v h Ml , ss Rachel > is th t you? You come from Mrs. 
 Melhss. My fair stepmother has been prompt," said 
 the young gentleman, as he alighted and handed Rachel 
 Wood out of her cab, and led her up to the prison door. 
 
 Rachel thanked him while they stood waiting to be 
 admitted. 
 
 "You have my mother s instructions, I think?" he 
 said. 
 
 "Yes, sir," she answered. 
 
 "Then I have only to add that, for certain family rea 
 sons, I do not wish to appear in this matter any more 
 than does my stepmother. You will, therefore, if you 
 please, Miss Rachel, avoid all mention of my name as 
 well as of hers," said Mr. Percy Melliss. 
 
 ^Certainly, sir. I understand that," replied Rachel. 
 The man in the cab there will attend to all the nec 
 essary formalities involved in the releasing of Captain 
 Faulkner from prison. You will do the rest 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "Then that is settled. Now then said the 
 
 young man, as the sound of the opening of doors was 
 heard Bolts were drawn, keys were turned, chains 
 fell with a loud clang, and the way stood free 
 
 Mr Percy Melliss led Rachel Wood in, and said to 
 one of the officers of the prison: 
 
 "Show me into the office, and then take this young 
 person where she can have an interview with Mrs 
 
 with her husband the 
 
302 THE LOST HEIK 
 
 The man threw open a door on the left, and admitted 
 Mr. Percy to the office of the prison. 
 
 And then he led the way to a door on the opposite 
 side of the hall, and showed Kachel Wood into a small, 
 plainly furnished waiting-room, where he told her she 
 could wait for her friend. 
 
 And then he went away to fetch the prisoner s wife. 
 
 Kachel had long to wait three-quarters of an hour, 
 that seemed to her like three whole hours. 
 
 Then the door was opened, and Mrs. Faulkner, 
 dressed to go out, entered, walked rapidly across the 
 room, threw her arms around Rachel Wood s neck, and 
 burst into tears, exclaiming eagerly: 
 
 "Oh, Rachel! Rachel! It is true! it is true! It has 
 happened as you said it would. My poor, dear Charley s 
 debts are paid, and he is released from durance by some 
 unknown friend ! Ah, well I know who that unknown 
 friend is. My dear papa ! my poor papa ! Ah, I hope my 
 base and cruel stepmother won t find out what he has 
 been secretly doing for me, and tear his eyes out for it ! 
 Do you think she will, Rachel?" 
 
 "I think," replied Rachel, "that you do your father s 
 young wife bitter injustice, and that you will some day 
 acknowledge this with sorrow and shame. This is all 
 I am at liberty to say, Mrs. Faulkner." 
 
 "Oh, I forgot! You are a partisan of young Mrs. 
 Melliss. You have fallen under the spell of her fasci 
 nations. When you know as much about her as I un 
 happily do, you will not be so enthusiastic in your 
 praise." 
 
 "Do you know anything at all about that lady, Mrs. 
 Faulkner?" 
 
 "I should think I did! I know that she was a mer 
 cenary, low adventuress, who married my dear father 
 for his money, and then made fatal mischief between 
 him and his only daughter," said the poor lady, bit 
 terly. 
 
 "Ah! well, time will show," sighed Rachel Wood. 
 "But now, Mrs. Faulkner, we must leave this place. I 
 have a cab waiting at the door to take you away," she 
 added. 
 
THE LOST HEIR 303 
 
 "To leave this place ! Ah, yes ; thank Heaven, we may 
 leave this place! My poor Charley, as soon as he found 
 he was free, and with a ten-pound note in his pocket, 
 sent out for a barber to shave and trim him up and 
 for a gentleman s outfitter to furnish him with a com 
 plete change of clothes. My dear Charley is so fas 
 tidious as to his personal appearance! He never would 
 show himself in the streets with soiled linen, and with 
 a beard of two days growth. We must wait for him 
 here for a few minutes. He won t keep us long." 
 Rachel Wood shrugged her shoulders. 
 Two habits of pretty little helpless Mollie Faulkner 
 tried Rachel Wood s patience severely. The first was 
 her absurd admiration for her good-for-nothing hus 
 band; and the second was her unjust hatred of her 
 lovely young stepmother. 
 
 As yet Rachel had not had time to explain to Mrs. 
 Faulkner the happy change of circumstances that were 
 before her. 
 
 She was hesitating how to begin, when Mollie herself 
 made an opening by saying: 
 
 "Oh, good Heaven! in my delight at my dear Char 
 ley s release from prison, I had quite forgotten the des 
 olation of our home! Ah, Heaven, what a wretched 
 place to go back to!" 
 
 "My dear Mrs. Faulkner," said Rachel, cautiously, 
 "the same kind hand that paid your husband s debts 
 has provided new lodgings for you. Your children are 
 already there. And I am here with a cab to take you 
 to them, if you will consent to go there." 
 
 "Consent? Oh, Rachel! what choice have I? Of 
 course, I consent willingly, joyfully! New furnished 
 lodgings, did you say? Where are they Rachel?" 
 eagerly inquired Mollie. 
 
 "They are out of town a little way. " 
 "Out of town? Oh, I am so glad of that! That is 
 for cheapness, I suppose, of course. But I do not care 
 how cheap and poor and plain they are, so that my chil 
 dren may have fresh air, and my poor, dear Charley 
 may be kept away from temptation." 
 
 While she spoke the door was noisily opened, and 
 
304 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 Captain Faulkner came bustling in, looking clean, 
 fresh, strong and handsome. 
 
 He bowed slightly to Rachel Wood, and then hurried 
 ly addressed his wife. 
 
 "Well, Mollie, are you ready to go? They are about 
 to shut up here." 
 
 "Yes, Charlie dear, quite ready; only waiting i 
 
 } "Come on, then. And a deuce of a place we have got 
 to go to! Bare walls and bare floors; bare cupboards 
 and bare wardrobes!" he growled. 
 
 "No, no, dear Charley; not so bare as all that! ^ur 
 neighbor of the old tenement-house, Miss Rachel Wood, 
 has & been so lucky as to find furnished lodgings for us, 
 a little way out of town. But you won t mind Uat, 
 Charley, dear, will you, for a little while? 
 
 "No: any place will do for a few days. And a poor 
 place enough K is, without any doubt," he added, in a 
 low tone, not to be uncivil to Rachel Wood whom he 
 supposed, or affected to suppose, to be his wife s agent 
 and messenger in the engagement of these lodgings. 
 
 Mollie tied her bonnet strings, drew her shawl 
 around her and arose and slipped her arm m her bus- 
 
 band s 
 
 And then they went to the outer door of the prison, 
 where, after more unlocking, unbolting and falling of 
 bars and chains, the door was opened, and they found 
 themselves outside the prison walls. 
 
 "I must find a cab," said the captain. 
 
 "No indeed, Charley, dear. Rachel has brought one. 
 There it is, I suspect, around the corner," said Moll 
 
 "Yes, that is it," said Rachel, and she beckoned the 
 
 Ca cTpt n ain Faulkner handed his wife and the seam- 
 stress into the cab, and was about to follow them in, 
 when he paused, hesitated, considered, and a said : 
 
 "You d better give me the address of the new lodg 
 ings, Mollie, and let me follow you later in the evening. 
 There s a man in town I want to see. 
 
 "Oh, Charley! can t you come now?" entreated the 
 young wife. 
 
THE LOST HEIR 305 
 
 "No, dear ; but I ll not be an hour behind you." 
 
 "Oh, Charley!" she said, with such a look of disap 
 pointment and apprehension on her face that for once 
 the better nature of the man was awakened. He 
 laughed and said: 
 
 "I know exactly what you are afraid of, dear. But I 
 will set your fears at rest. Here is my pocketbook. It 
 contains just four pounds seven shillings and nine- 
 pence, all the money I have in the world. Take it and 
 keep it for me," he added, taking it and putting it into 
 her hand. 
 
 "Oh, Charley, dear, since you promise me, I can take 
 your word," she said, gently putting back the book. 
 
 "You d better take the pocketbook also," he said, with 
 a laugh. 
 
 "But how, then, will you manage to get out to the 
 new lodgings?" 
 
 "Oh, I will call a hansom and pay it at the door 
 when I get home. There! it s all right, my dear. Go 
 on, driver!" he said, closing the door, and putting into- 
 his pocket the written address of the new lodgings that 
 Rachel had given him. 
 
 "Oh, Rachel Wood, isn t he an angel?" warmly in 
 quired Mollie, as the cab drove on. 
 
 "I confess that I begin to have hopes that he may be 
 come a man," answered the seamstress. 
 
 "Oh, you don t know him ! If only he could keep out 
 of the way of that horrid set, he would always be just 
 as good as he is to-day," said the credulous wife, igno 
 rant or forgetful that her husband was himself one of 
 the very worst of that "horrid" set that she supposed to 
 be his tempters. 
 
 The carriage rolled rapidly on, and Mollie babbled 
 about her favorite subjects the excellence of her hus 
 band, the wickedness of her stepmother, and the weak 
 ness of her father until the carriage passed through 
 Kennington. 
 
 Then Mollie left off talking to look out and enjoy the 
 rare vision of green hedges, shady lanes and flower- 
 gardens near, and vistas of fields and woods and 
 streams farther off. 
 
306 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 At length the carriage passed through Brixton, 
 through Lower and Upper Norwood, and on to Syden- 
 hain. 
 
 "Why, how far you are taking me! Quite out into 
 the country!" said Mollie, with increasing surprise. 
 
 "We have not far to go now," answered Rachel. 
 
 And the carriage turned into a deeply-shaded green 
 lane that led directly up to a pretty rustic cottage, 
 completely enbosomed among trees, and overgrown 
 with climbing vines. 
 
 A group of gayly-dressed and merry children were 
 playing under the trees in front of the cottage. 
 
 "Oh, what happy -looking little ones they are ! I won 
 der who lives here, Rachel?" suddenly exclaimed Mol 
 lie, as this beautiful scene burst upon her sight. 
 
 "Look closer," was all that the seamstress answered. 
 
 "Heaven of Heavens ! they are my own children !" ex 
 claimed Mollie, after a second look. "My own chil 
 dren, so handsomely dressed, and so happily at play! 
 Oh, Rachel ! And this is their lovely home ! Oh, it is 
 too much joy! My dear father! Oh, my dear, dear 
 father! how I thank him and bless him for this!" 
 
 Tears sprang to Rachel Wood s eyes, as she noticed 
 among the children a slender figure in a black tweed 
 cloak and hood, gliding away to the deeper shadows of 
 the trees. 
 
 She knew the lovely young giver of all this good was 
 hastening away to conceal herself from her stepdaugh 
 ter. 
 
 The cab drew up before the gate, and Mrs. Faulkner 
 and Rachel alighted. 
 
 The children, instantly recognizing their mother, ran 
 with joy to meet her, and began with clamorous delight 
 to tell her all about the wonders and beauties of their 
 lovely new cottage home. 
 
 So, talking and laughing and dancing with joy, they 
 drew their mother into the house and into the pretty 
 drawing-room, where the elder boy and girl united 
 their little strength to pull the large easy-chair toward 
 her, and the younger pushed her into it. 
 
THE LOST HEIR 307 
 
 Utterly overcome with emotion, poor Mollie sank in 
 to the chair and drew her children to her bosom. 
 
 Then Rachel Wood, finding herself forgotten by the 
 happy family, seized the opportunity to slip out of the 
 room and to go and look for Mrs. Melliss. 
 
 She found that lady walking under the trees. 
 
 "I have been waiting here to receive your report, 
 Rachel," she said, coming to meet the seamstress. 
 
 In a very few words Rachel Wood told Mrs. Melliss 
 all that had passed at the prison, and about Captain 
 Faulkner s prudent precaution in handing over his 
 pocketbook to his wife for safekeeping while he himself 
 remained for a few hours in the city. 
 
 "That looks as if the man really meant reform, Ra 
 chel. And if he does, and if his well-meaning ends in 
 well-doing I shall have very strong hopes that his 
 father-in-law may yet become reconciled to him," said 
 Mrs. Melliss. 
 
 "Heaven grant it!" sighed Rachel Wood. "But, my 
 dear Mrs. Melliss," she continued, "they are all under 
 the false impression that it is you who keeps up the 
 feud between the father and daughter. And that makes 
 Mrs. Faulkner so unjust in her thoughts and speeches 
 about you that it is very hard for me to be obliged to 
 hear it all in silence. Oh, if you would only give me 
 leave to speak!" 
 
 "No, Rachel, no! Not quite yet. It would not be 
 wise or prudent to do so. Some of these days they will 
 all know how much I have cared for them," said the 
 banker s young wife, smiling to herself. 
 
 "Yes, they will know that the hated stepmother and 
 the beneficent fairy grandmother are one and the 
 same," added Rachel. 
 
 "Well, Rachel, I have seen their happiness, and now 
 I am going home. But first may I ask you to do me 
 another favor?" 
 
 "You may command me to do anything in the world 
 you wish me to do, dear Mrs. Melliss," earnestly an 
 swered Rachel Wood, whose reverence for this lady al 
 most amounted to worship. 
 
 "Thanks, dear Rachel. I will only ask you, then, to 
 
308 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 remain here for an hour or two after I have gone, to in 
 duct the young housekeeper into her new home. And 
 then come to Charles street to report progress. Can 
 you do this?" 
 
 "Certainly I can, madam. And I will do so with 
 great pleasure," said Kachel, earnestly. 
 
 "Thanks again, Eachel; you are a good, unselfish 
 girl. I will call and leave word at the Family Hotel 
 for them to send a cab around, say at eight o clock, for 
 you. Will that do?" 
 
 "Quite well, thank you, Mrs. Melliss." 
 
 "Good-by, then, for the present," said the lady. 
 
 And she entered her cab where Mary Kempton, by 
 her mistress directions, was already seated. 
 
 "Back to town," was the order she gave the cabman, 
 who touched his hat and drove off. 
 
 Eachel Wood, with affectionate interest, watched the 
 cab out of sight, and then went in and rejoined the 
 happy little family. 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 MOLLIE S MISGIVINGS. 
 
 But already a cloud had come over the clearness of 
 their joy a cloud, though it was no darker or heavier 
 than the light summer mist that tempers the bright 
 ness of the noonday sun. The cloud was on the young 
 mother s brow. 
 
 "Ah, Rachel, you didn t go away in the cab? I am 
 so glad ! I wanted to talk with you, and to know more 
 about all this," she said, as she saw the seamstress. 
 
 "I am here on purpose to satisfy you, Mrs. Faulk 
 ner," answered Rachel. 
 
 "Run out, children, and play in the garden the beau 
 tiful garden," whispered their mother. And when the 
 little flock had flown out among the flowers, she turned 
 to the seamstress and said : 
 
 "Ah, well, my dear woman, this is what I wanted to 
 
THE LOST HEIK 309 
 
 say. It is all very beautiful and delightful here, Ra 
 chel ; but it may be all a fool s paradise, after all ! How 
 on earth are we to keep it up, Rachel, when poor Char 
 ley is doing nothing and getting nothing? How are we 
 to keep this up?" 
 
 "Dear Mrs. Faulkner, set your mind at ease on this 
 subject. The first quarter s rent for this cottage has 
 been paid in advance " 
 
 "The first quarter s rent for the cottage! You don t 
 mean to say we have got the whole cottage to our 
 selves?" 
 
 "Indeed, I do, ma am, and there are eight rooms." 
 
 "Oh, that is perfectly delightful! Oh, how long it 
 has been since we have had a whole house to ourselves ! 
 But will this last? Oh, will this can this last?" 
 
 "I hope so, Mrs. Faulkner. I see no reason why it 
 should not. I was about to explain to you, when you 
 interrupted me, that the first quarter s rent of your 
 new house is already paid in advance, by the same kind 
 friend who has cared for you from the beginning of 
 your troubles. This kind friend " 
 
 "Why can you not say my dear father at once? For 
 you know that I know he is my secret benefactor," 
 again interrupted Mollie. 
 
 "You are mistaken," said Rachel, coldly. 
 
 "Oh, well keep the secret, if you must. Bur remem 
 ber that I know, whoever may be the medium of my 
 dear father s beneficence to me, he and he only, is the 
 source of it. And now go on," said the obstinate little 
 lady. 
 
 And the provoked seamstress controlled her temper 
 and went on to say : 
 
 "This friend will continue to pay the rent quarterly 
 in advance. And will also from time to time send In 
 all manner of family provisions, so as to keep the house 
 well stocked with every sort of comfort." 
 
 "But why can t this friend send the money to my hus 
 band that he may provide for the family?" testily in 
 quired the little lady. 
 
 As she spoke the doorbell rang. 
 
310 THE LOST HEIK 
 
 Eachel herself went and opened the door, and ad* 
 mitted the master of the house. 
 
 But Mollie was quickly behind her. 
 
 "So you kept your word, Charley, you dear, good fel 
 low! Come right into the drawing-room. Oh! this is 
 such a delicious place, Charley! You will like it so 
 much! Papa has engaged it for us! He s coming 
 round, all right, Charley, dear. Only give him time! 
 There that s right ! Hang up your hat and come right 
 in! 7 she eagerly exclaimed, pulling her husband into 
 the pretty drawing-room, and shoving him down into 
 the easiest resting-chair, very much as the children had 
 pulled and shoved her an hour before. 
 
 "Oh, see here! you know " cried the gallant cap 
 tain, looking about him, "I say, you know ! this is com 
 ing it rather strong, isn t it, Mollie? Has any one left 
 you a legacy? or what s up, that I find you in this 
 miniature palace?" 
 
 "Oh, Charley, haven t I just told you that dear papa 
 has taken this house for us, and paid the rent in ad 
 vance also? And that he means to do a handsome part 
 by us, though he don t wish to be known in it just now. 
 That s on account of my cruel stepmother, you know !" 
 explained Mollie. 
 
 " Whe-ew-ew !" commented the captain, with a long 
 whistle. 
 
 The children came rushing in to greet their father. 
 
 They welcomed him as if he had been the best father 
 in the world. They climbed on his knee, they hugged 
 and kissed him, and they deafened him with accounts of 
 their beautiful new home, and of the good fairy grand 
 mother who had given it to them. 
 
 "Who, what fairy grandmother?" inquired their 
 father. 
 
 "Oh ! some woman whom dear papa has employed as 
 his agent, for a blind, you know, Charley, dear. She 
 told the children she was their fairy grandmother," 
 Mollie explained. 
 
 "Humph !" commented the captain. 
 
 "And now, Charley, while they are putting supper 
 on the table, we will go and look over the house. Do 
 
THE LOST HEIR 311 
 
 you know I haven t seen it yet, except this room? I 
 waited for you to come, that we might see it first in 
 company," said Mollie, putting the children aside and 
 rising to lead the way. 
 
 With a grunt of assent the captain followed her. 
 
 They crossed the little hall, with its little stained 
 glass window, and inspected the cozy front sitting-room 
 and the back dining-room. And then they went up 
 stairs and looked into the large bedchamber over the 
 drawing-room, with the small dressing-room at the 
 back. 
 
 "This is to be our own room, of course, Charley. 
 And the children will occupy the room on the other side 
 of the hall, over the front parlor ; and the two servant- 
 girls will sleep in the back room, over the dining-room. 
 Don t you think that a good arrangement?" 
 
 a Humph! I suppose so. But how is this business 
 to be managed, Mollie?" 
 
 "Oh, papa will see to that. Not quite in the way we 
 would wish, just at first, Charley ; for I think he is put 
 ting us on a sort of probation, you see, Charley. And 
 that is the reason, I think, why he will not himself be 
 seen in it. But you won t mind his trying us in this 
 way, just a little at first, Charley, dear, will you? He ll 
 come right all in good time," said Mollie, anxiously. 
 
 The captain burst out laughing, and said: 
 
 "I don t care a copper how the deuce the old quiz 
 does it, so that he makes you and the children comfort 
 able, as he ought, for you are his only daughter, and 
 they are his only set of grandchildren." 
 
 "That s right, Charley. Now come ; we will only just 
 glance into the children s room, and then gc down to 
 supper," said his wife. 
 
 And she opened the door on the opposite side of the 
 hall and showed a glimpse of a pretty chamber, with 
 windows shaded with climbing green vines without, 
 and draped with thin white muslin within, and fitted 
 up with furniture covered with white dimity. 
 
 "Isn t that a sweet room for the little ones?" in 
 quired Mollie. 
 
312 THE LOST HEIR 
 
 The captain assented, with another grunt, and then 
 followed his wife downstairs. 
 
 They found Rachel Wood standing in the hall, 
 dressed to go out. 
 
 "Not going yet, Rachel?" inquired Mollie. 
 
 "Yes, ma am. The cab is waiting to take me back to 
 town. And the drive is a long one," replied the seam 
 stress. 
 
 Mollie had pressed her to stay to supper, but Rachel 
 resolutely declined to do so. 
 
 She took leave of the parents and children, and 
 turned to go. 
 
 "Div lots and lots of love and tisses to fay dammer," 
 said little Lily. 
 
 And all the other children joined her in sending this 
 sweet, childish message. 
 
 Rachel Wood promised all they wished, and then she 
 left them. 
 
 Captain and Mrs. Faulkner, and their children, en 
 joyed some weeks of unbroken happiness in their beau 
 tiful little rustic house. 
 
 The refreshing change from the unwholesome street 
 and wretched tenement house to the beautiful country 
 neighborhood and the clean, well-furnished cottage, was 
 enjoyed by them all even by the husband and father, 
 despite his perverted tastes. 
 
 For, notwithstanding his passion for wine, cards and 
 evil companions, he was naturally very fond of his 
 pretty young wife and his fair little children. 
 
 He had been very fond of them, even when extreme 
 poverty had made them all uncleanly, ill-clothed and 
 irritable, and when their very existence seemed a bitter 
 reproach to himself. 
 
 And now that they were all clean, well-dressed, 
 happy and smiling, he really delighted in them, and in 
 their beautiful home. 
 
 Here, too, the expected babe their sixth child wa, 
 born. It was a boy, and named by his mother Walter 
 Melliss, after her father. 
 
 And, besides his natural affection for wife, children 
 and home, Captain Faulkner had two other saving at- 
 
THE LOST HEIR 313 
 
 tributes, if only he would cultivate them a taste for 
 horticulture and a taste for literature. 
 
 Now he had an opportunity of gratifying both. 
 
 Nearly all day long he was in his garden, at work 
 among his flowers, fruits and vegetables, with his flock 
 of little children at his heels, and his wife sitting, with 
 her needlework, in the arbor. 
 
 Or, if it rained, he would go to the little apartment at 
 the back of the drawing-room, which he had fitted up 
 for a study, and read books on horticulture, borrowed 
 from a neighboring library, or he would write articles 
 on the same grand subject and send them to the papers. 
 These articles were occasionally accepted, and well 
 paid for. 
 
 Thus occupied with his wife, children, home and 
 hobby, the half-reformed spendthrift seemed safe and 
 happy. 
 
 He never seemed to wish to go to town, or to seek 
 out his late evil companions. It may well have been 
 that he was afraid of being found out by them, and 
 tempted again into the downward road. 
 
 As for poor Mollie, she seemed to think her dear 
 Charley was growing into an angel in downright earn 
 est. 
 
 Would this happy state last? Who could tell? 
 
 At any rate, it lasted some weeks, when, late in the 
 summer, Captain Faulkner took it into his head that 
 he must have "a boy" to wait on him, that, in fact, "a 
 boy" was indispensable to his comfort. 
 
 "You know, Mollie," he said, "it is absolutely neces 
 sary that I should have some one to brush my coat and 
 black my boots and run my errands." 
 
 "Of course it is, Charley, dear," assented Mollie, who 
 would have assented to anything in the world her para 
 gon might please to propose. "Of course you must 
 have a servant of your own. I only wonder how you 
 have managed to do without one this long!" 
 
 "Well, it is not much of a servant that I shall be able 
 to keep, you know. Only a boy one that I can have 
 authority enough over to train him in my own ways. 
 And now I think of it, I will go and see if I can t find 
 
SU THE LOST HEIR 
 
 one to suit me at the Middlesex Workhouse. If I can 
 I will have him bound to me, and then he will be mine 
 to do as I please with. If I were not a Briton, Mollie, 
 I would say that the next best thing to having a slave 
 of one s own is to have a bound boy of one s own. Don t 
 you think so?" 
 
 "I I never thought about that at all ; but, of course, 
 you must be right, Charley, dear," assented Mollie. 
 
 "Then I ll go and brush my coat and black my boots 
 for the last time, and get ready to ride to town. And, 
 Mollie, dear, here are my best gloves with all the finger 
 ends blowing out, like the leaves of my favorite flowers. 
 Just mend them for me, will you?" 
 
 And he went off, leaving his little wife a good half- 
 hour s work. 
 
 She had nearly completed the task when he came in, 
 all ready for his ride, and in a hurry for his gloves. 
 
 "Charley, dear," she pleaded, as she gave them to 
 him, "I want to ask you one favor, if you won t mind." 
 
 "Ask away, Mollie." 
 
 "This is the first time you have left me to go into 
 town since we have been living so happily here. Oh, 
 Charley, promise me you won t go near any of that 
 horrid set!" 
 
 "If I should see one of them, I will run from him as 
 , if he were a mad dog !" answered the captain, laugh 
 ing good-humoredly. 
 
 "That s a dear fellow !" she exclaimed, kissing him. 
 
 And so the captain went away to find "a boy" who 
 should be the "next best thing to a slave" of his own. 
 
 Meantime Mollie anxiously awaited his return, and 
 earnestly hoped that he would keep his promise. 
 
 The day seemed very long to her uneasy heart, but it 
 passed at length, as the longest day does. 
 
 Mollie heard the whistle of the "parliamentary" 
 train from London, and went out to the gate to watch 
 for her husband, whom she expected would return by 
 that one, and walk from the station. 
 
 She waited about ten minutes, and then she saw him 
 and a small lad turn into the lane leading up to the 
 cottage. 
 
THE LOST HEIR 315 
 
 "Thank Heaven !" she fervently breathed ; for, by his 
 very step and bearing, as he rapidly approached, she 
 saw that he had kept his promise to her. 
 
 In another minute he was at the gate, and she threw 
 her arms around his neck and welcomed him home as 
 joyfully as if he had just returned from a long and 
 dangerous voyage. 
 
 But then, you see, she knew how much danger he 
 really had been in. 
 
 He laughed and kissed her, as he said : 
 
 "Come into the house. I want you to look at my 
 new boy." 
 
 "And I want you to come to tea. It is quite ready," 
 she answered, as she led the way into the cottage. 
 
 There, in the full light of the parlor, Mollie turned 
 to see the bound boy. 
 
 He was a fair-skinned, blue-eyed, golden-haired lad, 
 with very delicate features and a very refined coun 
 tenance. 
 
 It was no other than little Benny, who had been lit 
 erally snatched from the grave, and whose further ad 
 ventures will be chronicled in the sequel to this story, 
 entitled, "A Noble Lord," published uniform with this 
 volume. 
 
 THB END. 
 
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 who go down in ships" been written by one more familiar with the scene* 
 depicted. 
 
 The one book of this gifted author which is best remembered, and which 
 Will be read with pleasure for many years to come, is "Captain Brand," 
 who, as the author states on his title page, was a "pirate of eminence in 
 the West Indies." As a sea story pure and simple, "Captain Brand" hat. 
 never been excelled,, and as a story of piratical life, told without the UBU 
 embellishments of blood and thunder, it has no equal. 
 
 NICK OP THE WOODS. A story of the Early Settlers of Kentucky. By 
 Robert Montgomery Bird. Cloth, izmo. with four illustrations by J. Watson 
 Davis. Price, $1.00. 
 
 This most popular novel and thrilling story of early frontier life In 
 Kentucky was originally published in the year 1837. The novel, long out of 
 
 ?rint, had in its day a phenomenal sale, for its realistic presentation of 
 ndian and frontier life in the early days of settlement in the South, nar 
 rated in the tale with all the art of a practiced writer. A very charming 
 love romance runs through the story- This new and tasteful edition of 
 "Nick of the Woods" will be certain to make many new admirers fo> 
 this enchanting story from Dr. Bird s clever and versatile pen. 
 
 For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid OR receipt of price by the 
 publishers, A. L. BURT COMPANY, 114-120 East 23d Street, New York 
 
Good Fiction Worth Reading. 
 
 A series of romances containing several of the old favorites in the field 
 of historical fiction, replete with powerful romances of love and diplomacy 
 that excel in thrilling and absorbing interest. 
 
 GUY FAWKES. A Romance of the Gunpowder Treason. By Win. Harri 
 son Ainsworth. Cloth., izmo. with four illustrations by George Cruikshank. 
 Price, $1.00. 
 
 The "Gunpowder Plot" was a modest attempt to blow up Parliament, 
 the King and his Counsellors. James of Scotland, then King of England, 
 was weak-minded and extravagant. He hit upon the efllcient scheme of 
 extorting money from the people by imposing taxes on the Catholics. In 
 their natural resentment to this extortion, a handful of bold spirits con 
 cluded to overthrow the government. Finally the plotters were arrested, 
 and the King put to torture Guy Fawkes and the other prisoners with 
 royal vigor. A very intense love story runs through the entire romance. 
 
 THE SPIRIT OF THE BORDER. A Romance of the Early Settlers in the 
 Ohio Valley. By Zane Grey. Cloth, izmo. with four illustrations by J. Watsoa 
 Davis. Price. $1 . oo. 
 
 A book rather out of the ordinary Is this "Spirit of the Border." Tht 
 main thread of the story has to do with the work of the Moravian mis 
 sionaries in the Ohio Valley. Incidentally the reader is given details of the 
 frontier life of those hardy pioneers who broke the wilderness for the plant- 
 Ing of this great nation. Chief among these, as a matter of course, is 
 Lewis Wetzel, one of the most peculiar, and at the same time the most 
 admirable of all the brave men who spent their lives battling with the 
 savage foe, that others might dwell in comparative security. 
 
 Details of the establishment and destruction of the Moravian "Village 
 of Peace" are given at some length, and with minute description. The 
 efforts to Christianize the Indians are described as they never have been 
 "before, and the author has depicted the characters of the leaders of the 
 several Indian tribes with great care, which of itself will be of interest td 
 the student. 
 
 By no means least among the charms of the story are the vlvfd word- 
 pictures of the thrilling adventures, and the intense paintings of the beau 
 ties of nature, as seen in the almost unbroken forests. 
 
 It is the spirit of the frontier which is described, and one can by it. 
 perhaps, the better understand why men, and women, too, willingly braved 
 every privation and danger that the westward progress of the star of em 
 pire might be the more certain and rapid. A love story, simple and tender,. 
 runs through the book. 
 
 RICHELIEU. A tale of France in the reign of King I/mis XIH. By G. P. 
 H. James. Cloth, I2mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, gz.oou 
 
 In 1829 Mr. James published his first romance, "Richelieu," and waa 
 recognized at once as one of the masters of the craft. 
 
 In this book he laid the story during those later days of the great car 
 dinal s life, when his power was beginning to wane, but while it waa 
 yet sufficiently strong to permit now and then of volcanic outbursts whichi 
 overwhelmed foes and carried friends to the topmost wave of prosperity- 
 One of the most striking portions of the story is that of Cinq Mar s conspir 
 acy; the method of conducting criminal cases, and the political trickery 
 resorted to by royal favorites, affording a better insight into the state 
 craft of that day than can be had even by an exhaustive study of history. 
 It is a powerful romance of love and diplomacy, and in point of thrilling 
 and absorbing interest has never been excelled. 
 
 For gale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by toe 
 ubUshers, A. L. BURT COMPANY, 114-120 East 23d Street, Hew York 
 
Good Fiction Worth Reading. 
 
 A series of romances containing several of the old favorites in the field 
 Of historical fiction, replete with powerful romances of love and diplomacy 
 that excel in thrilling and absorbing interest. 
 
 WINDSOR CASTLE. A Historical Romance of the Reign-of Henry VIII., 
 Catharine of Aragon and Anne Boleyn. By Wm. Harrison Ainsworth. Cloth, 
 >2ino. with four illustrations by George Cruikshank. Price, |i.oo. 
 
 "Windsor Castle" Is the story of Henry VIII., Catharine, and Anne 
 Boleyn. "Bluff King: Hal," although a well-loved monarch, was none too 
 good a one in many ways. Of all his selfishness and unwarrantable acts, 
 none was more discreditable than his divorce from Catharine, and his mar- 
 Hare to the beautiful Anne Boleyn. The King s love was as brief as It 
 was vehement. Jane Seymour, waiting maid on the Queen, attracted him, 
 and Anne Boleyn was forced to the block to make room for her successor. 
 This romance is one of extreme interest to all readers. 
 
 HORSESHOE ROBINSON. A tale of the Tory Ascendency in South Caro 
 lina in 1780. By John P. Kennedy. Cloth, ismo. with four illustrations by J. 
 WaUon Davis. Price, |i.co. 
 
 Among the old favorites in tie field of what Is known as historical fic 
 tion, there are none which appeal to a larger number of Americans thai* 
 Horseshoe Robinson, and this because It Is the only story which depict* 
 *vlth fidelity to the facts the heroic efforts of the colonists in South Caro 
 lina to defend their homes against the brutal oppression of the Britim 
 under such leaders as Cornwallis and Tarleton. 
 
 The reader is charmed with the story of love which forms the thread 
 pf the tale, and then impressed with the wealth of detail concerning thos 
 times. The picture of the manifold sufferings of the people, is never over 
 drawn, but painted faithfully and honestly by one who spared neither 
 time nor labor in his efforts to present in this charming love story all that 
 price in blood and tears which the Carolinians paid as their share in th 
 winning of the republic. 
 
 Take it all in all, "Horseshoe Robinson" is a work which should be 
 found on every book-shelf, not only beause it is a most entertaining 
 Btory, but because of the wealth of valuable information concerning tha 
 colonists which it contains. That It has been brought out once more, well 
 Illustrated, is something which will give pleasure to thousands who have 
 long desired an opportunity to read the story again, and to the many who; 
 have tried vainly in these latter days to procure a copy that they might 
 read it for the first time. 
 
 THE PEARL OP ORR S ISLAND. A story of the Coast of Maine. By 
 Harriet Beecher Stowe. Cloth, i2mo. Illustrated. Price, $1.00. 
 
 Written prior to 1862, the "Pearl of Orr s Island" is ever new; a book 
 filled with delicate fancies, such as seemingly array themselves anew eacrt 
 time one reads them. One sees the "sea like an unbroken mirror all 
 around the pine-girt, lonely shores of Orr s Island, and straightway 
 comes "the heavy, hollow moan of the surf on the beach, like the wild 
 angry howl of some savage animal." 
 
 Who can read of the beginning of that sweet life, named Mara, which 
 came Into this world under the very shadow of the Death angel s wings, 
 without having an intense desire to know how the premature bud I 
 eomed? Again and again one lingers over the descriptions of the char 
 acter of that baby boy Moses, who came through the tempest, amid the 
 angry billows, pillowed on. his dead mother s breast. 
 
 There is no more faithful portrayal of New England life than that 
 Which Mrs. Stowe gives in "The Pearl of Orr s Island. 
 
 For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the pub 
 lishers, A. L. BURT COMPANY, 52-58 Duane St., New York. 
 
14 DAY USE 
 
 RETURN TO DESK FROM WHICH BORROWED 
 
 LOAN DEPT. 
 
 This book is due on the last date stamped below, or 
 
 on the date to which renewed. 
 Renewed books are subject to immediate recall. 
 
 ,,.--:. ;-.. rj 
 
 WL 2 3 1983 
 
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 RECCIR JUL 9 83 
 
 ADR ? 1 1967 5 9 
 
 
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 General Library 
 
 University of California 
 
 Berkeley