We have landed safely at Southampton, my own Edith.  God has preserved us from many dangers, doubtless owing to thy many prayers at St. Wilfred’s altar.  Thou hast, I hope, received safely the letters I sent from Joppa last autumn, and knowest whom I am bringing home with me.  How wonderful it all is, and with what strange feelings the exile must approach the home of his boyhood!  But he is very composed and quiet in his manner, and we grow in mutual esteem daily.  He declares that he will accept no part of his ancient inheritance, but that he finds his highest joy in thinking that, in his sister’s children, the descendants of the ancient line yet possess the land of their forefathers.

“What can he mean?  Whom is he bringing with him?  Send for Tristam.  Ah!  I see there is the old prior at the gate—­he is talking with him;” and Hugh hurried down to fetch them up.

They entered the room:  our old friend, Father Kenelm, as hale an old man as one could well find at seventy-five years of age—­Wilfred’s protector and friend, in the most critical moments of his life—­and Tristam—­do our readers remember him?

“God bless you, my children, in joy as in sorrow,” was his salutation.

“How far are they off?”

“When will they be here?” and Tristam, who stood humbly at the door, found himself the object of universal attraction, and did not know which to answer first.

“Welcome, Tristam, welcome,” said his lady; “thou art the morning star, the harbinger of my sun.  How far hence are they?”

“They will be here by sunset, my lady.”

“I will go and meet them,” cried Hugh, and ran down stairs to get his horse ready.

“But whom is he bringing with him?”

“My child,” said Father Kenelm, “has he not told thee?”

“Nay, he speaks so mysteriously—­read.”

Father Kenelm read.  Then, looking up, he spoke with deep emotion.  Tristam had told him all.

“One long since dead to the world, and as many thought buried.  I alone knew of his existence, as a secret which I was absolutely forbidden to disclose; and as many years had elapsed since I last heard of him, I thought him dead—­he who was once the hope of Aescendune.”

“End our suspense!”

“Thou hadst a brother once—­a bright, laughing, fair-haired boy, whom thou didst love whilst father and mother lived.  I speak of events long forgotten, save by me.”

“Nay, I have never forgotten him.  Hast thou not often commemorated him amongst the faithful departed, at my request?”

“Only as one, whom the world might yet contain in the body, or whose soul heaven might have received—­I knew not which.  Well, my lady, this thy brother yet lives.”

“Wilfred?”

“And is returning home with thy husband.”

“Wilfred alive!—­nay, thou jestest.  He died at Oxenford and was buried there, nearly thirty years agone.”

“Geoffrey, then Bishop of Coutances, deceived the lad’s enemies by a fictitious death and burial, but forbade the rescued youth to return home, or make his existence known, save to me.”