“I will not attempt to offer your ladyship consolation,” replied the stranger; “but I would suggest simply, that the dying words of your steward, perhaps, may be looked upon as the first opening—­the dawn of a hopeful issue.  I think we may fairly and reasonably calculate that your son lives.  Take courage, madam.  In our efforts to trace him, remember that we have only commenced operations.  Every day and every successive attempt to penetrate this painful mystery will, I trust, furnish us with additional materials for success.”

“May God grant it!” replied her ladyship; “for if we fail, my wounds will have been again torn open in vain.  Better a thousand times that that hope had never reached me.”

“True, indeed, madam,” replied the stranger; “but still take what comfort you can.  Think of your brother-in-law; he also has lost his child, and bears it well.”

“Ah, yes,” she replied, “but you forget that he has one still left, and that I am childless.  If there be a solitary being on earth, it is a childless and a widowed mother—­a widow who has known a mother’s love—­a wife who has experienced the tender and manly affection of a devoted husband.”

“I grant,” he replied, “that it is, indeed, a bitter fate.”

“As for my brother-in-law,” she proceeded, “the child which God, in his love, has spared to him is a compensation almost for any loss.  I trust he loves and cherishes her as he ought, and as I am told she deserves.  There has been no communication between us ever since my marriage.  Edward and he, though brothers, were as different as day and night.  Unless once or twice, I never even saw my niece, and only then at a distance; nor has a word ever passed between us.  They tell me she is an angel in goodness, as well as in beauty, and that her accomplishments are extraordinary—­but—­I, alas!—­am alone and childless.”

The stranger’s heart palpitated; and had Lady Gourlay entertained any suspicion of his attachment, she might have perceived his agitation.  He also felt deep sympathy with Lady Gourlay.

“Do not say childless, madam,” he replied.  “Your ladyship must hope for the best.”

“But what have you done?” she asked.  “Did you see the young man?”

“I saw him, madam; but it is impossible to get anything out of him.  That he is wrapped in some deep mystery is unquestionable.  I got a letter, however, from an amiable Roman Catholic clergyman, the parish priest of Ballytrain, to a man named Dunphy, who lives in a street called Constitution Hill, on the north side of the city.”

“He is a relation, I understand, of Edward Corbet, who died in my service,” replied her ladyship, with an interest that seemed instantly to awaken her.  “Well,” said she, eagerly, “what was the result?  Did you present the letter?”