“Ay, twins,” he repeated; “one dead, and another living—­even you yourself, Henney, who are as like your father as if there never had been a Captain Preston in the world.”

And thus was John Cowie precognosced.  We need not say that he was that very day examined before the commissioner.  He gave an account of all the proceedings of the house in Meggat’s Land on the eventful night to which we have referred.  The case was no longer a puzzle; and accordingly a decision was given in favour of Henrietta, whereby we have one other example of truth and right emerging from darkness into light.  Some time afterwards, the heiress, with Mrs. Hislop alongside, and John Cowie on the driver’s box, proceeded to Eastleys and took possession; where Henrietta acted the part of a generous lady, Mrs. Hislop that of a kind of a dowager, and John was once more butler in the house of the Napiers.  We stop here.  Those who feel interest enough in the fortunes of Henney to inquire when and whom she married, and what were the subsequent fortunes of a life so strangely begun, will do well to go to Eastleys.

THE ORPHAN.

About forty years ago, a post-chaise was a sight more novel in the little hamlet of Thorndean, than silk gowns in country churches during the maidenhood of our great-grandmothers; and, as one drew up at the only public-house in the village, the inhabitants, old and young, startled by the unusual and merry sound of its wheels, hurried to the street.  The landlady, on the first notice of its approach, had hastily bestowed upon her goodly person the additional recommendation of a clean cap and apron; and, still tying the apron-strings, ran bustling to the door, smiling, colouring, and courtesying, and courtesying and colouring again, to the yet unopened chaise.  Poor soul! she knew not well how to behave—­it was an epoch in her annals of innkeeping.  At length the coachman, opening the door, handed out a lady in widow’s weeds.  A beautiful, golden-haired child, apparently not exceeding five years of age, sprang to the ground without assistance, and grasped her extended hand.  “What an image o’ beauty!” exclaimed some half-dozen bystanders, as the fair child lifted her lovely face of smiles to the eyes of her mother.  The lady stepped feebly towards the inn, and though the landlady’s heart continued to practise a sort of fluttering motion, which communicated a portion of its agitation to her hands, she waited upon her unexpected and unusual guests with a kindliness and humility that fully recompensed for the expertness of a practised waiter.  About half an hour after the arrival of her visitors, she was seen bustling from the door, her face, as the villagers said, bursting with importance.  They were still in groups about their doors, and in the middle of the little street, discussing the mysterious arrival; and, as she hastened on her mission, she was assailed with a dozen such