broken spirit fled from disgrace and sorrow.  Yes; I shall soon meet you, where your lips will not be passive to the embraces of a sister, and where your eyes will not be closed against those looks of affection and tenderness which she was prepared to give you, but which you could not receive.  Ah, here there is no repugnance of the heart, as there was in the other instance.  Here are my blessed mother’s features; and nature tells me that you are—­oh, distressing sight!—­that you were my brother.”

“Keep silence,” exclaimed Corbet, “you must hear me out.  Thomas Gourlay, there lies your son; I don’t know what you may feel now that you know he’s your own—­and well you know it;—­but I know his sufferings gave you very little trouble so long as you thought that he was the child of the widow of your brother that was dead.  Well now, my lord,” he proceeded, “you might think I’ve had very good revenge upon Thomas Gourlay; but there’s more to come.”

“Attention!” from old Sam, in a voice that startled almost every one present.

“Yes, my lord, I must fulfil my work.  Stand forward, Sir Edward Gourlay.  Stand forward, and go to your affectionate mother’s arms.”

“I fear the old man is unsettled, certainly,” said his lordship.  “Sir Edward Gourlay!—­there is no Sir Edward Gourlay here.”

“Attention, Ned!” exclaimed old Sam, again taking the head of his cane out of his mouth, where it had got a merciless mumbling for some time past.  “Attention, Ned! you’re called, my boy.”

Old Corbet went over to Ensign Roberts, and taking him by the hand, led him to Lady Gourlay, exclaiming, “There, my lady, is your son, and proud you may be out of him.  There is the real heir of the Gourlay name and the Gourlay property.  Look at him and his cousin, your niece, and see how they resemble one another.  Look at his father’s features in his face; but I have plenty of proof, full satisfaction to give you besides.”

Lady Gourlay became pale as death.  “Mysterious and just Providence,” she exclaimed, “can this be true?  But it is—­it must—­there are the features of his departed father—­his figure—­his every look.  He is mine!—­he is mine!  My heart recognizes him.  Oh, my son!—­my child!—­are you at length restored to me?”

Young Roberts was all amazement.  Whilst Lady Gourlay spoke, he looked over at old Sam, whose son he actually believed himself to be (for the fine old fellow had benevolently imposed on him), and seemed anxious to know what this new parentage, now ascribed to him, could mean.

“All right, Ned!  Corbet is good authority:  but although I knew you were not mine, I could never squeeze the truth out of him as to who your father was.  It’s true, in spite of all he said, I had suspicions; but what could I do?—–­I could prove nothing.”

We will not describe this restoration of the widow’s son.  Our readers can easily conceive it, and, accordingly, to their imagination we will leave it.