“Have patience, child; he will be here by and by.  You cannot long to see him more than I do.  But, Lucy, listen to me; for the present we must keep his discovery and restoration to us a profound secret.”

“A profound secret! and why so, papa?  Why should we keep it secret?  Is it not a circumstance which we should publish to the world with delight and gratitude?  Surely you will not bring him into this house like a criminal, in secrecy and silence?  Should the lawful heir of your name and property be suffered to enter otherwise than as becomes him?  Oh, that I could see him!  Will he soon be here?”

“How your tongue runs on, you foolish girl, without knowing what you say.”

“I know what I say, papa.  I know—­I feel—­that he will be a friend to me—­that he will share with me in my sorrows.”

“Yes, the sorrows of being made a countess.”

“And a wretched woman, papa.  Yes, he will sympathize with, sustain, and console me.  Dear, dear brother, how I wish to see you, to press you to my heart, and to give you a sister’s tenderest welcome!”

“Will you hear me, madam?” said he, sternly; “I desire you to do so.”

“Yes, papa; excuse me.  My head is in a tumult of joy and sorrow; but for the present I will forget myself.  Yes, papa, speak on; I hear you.”

“In the first place, then, it is absolutely necessary, for reasons which I am not yet at liberty to disclose to you, that the discovery of this boy should be kept strictly secret for a time.”

“For a time, papa, but not long, I hope.  How proud I shall feel to go out with him.  We shall be inseparable; and if he wants instructions, I shall teach him everything I know.”

“Arrange all that between you as you may, only observe me, I repeat.  None in this house knows of his restoration but I, yourself, and Corbet.  He must not live here; but he shall want neither the comforts nor the elegancies of life, at all events.  This is enough for the present, so mark my words, and abide by them.”

He then left her, and retired to his private room, where he unlocked a cabinet, from which he took out some papers, and having added to them two or three paragraphs, he read the whole over, from beginning to end, then locked them up again, and returned to the library.

The reader may perceive that this unexpected discovery enabled the baronet to extricate himself from a situation of much difficulty with respect to Lucy; nor did he omit to avail himself of it, in order to give a new turn to her feelings.  The affectionate girl’s heart was now in a tumult of delight, checked, however, so obviously by the gloomy retrospection of the obligation she had imposed upon herself, that from time to time she could not repress those short sobs by which recent grief, as in the case of children who are soothed after crying, is frequently indicated.  Next to the hated marriage, however, that which pressed most severely