It was attended, however, by an incident which we cannot pass over without some notice.  Lady Emily, on witnessing the extraordinary turn which had so providentially taken place in the fate and fortune of her lover, was observed by Mrs. Mainwaring to grow very pale.  A consciousness of injury, which our readers will presently understand, prevented her from offering assistance, but running over to Lucy, she said, “I fear, Miss Gourlay, that Lady Emily is ill.”

Lucy, who was all tenderness, left her brother, over whom she had been weeping, and flew to her assistance just in time to prevent her from falling off her chair.  She had swooned.  Water, however, and essences, and other appliances, soon restored her; and on recovering she cast her eyes about the room as if to search for some one.  Lady Gourlay had her arm round her, and was chafing her temples at the time.  Those lovely fawn-like eyes of hers had not far to search.  Roberts, now young Sir Edward Gourlay, had been standing near, contemplating her beautiful features, and deeply alarmed by her illness, when their eyes met; and, to the surprise of Lucy Gourlay, a blush so modest, so beautiful, so exquisite, but yet so legible in its expression, took place of the paleness which had been there before.  She looked up, saw the direction of her son’s eyes, then looked significantly at Lucy, and smiled.  The tell-tale blush, in fact, discovered the state of their hearts, and never was a history of pure and innocent love more appropriately or beautifully told.

This significant little episode did not last long; and when Lady Emily found herself recovered, Thomas Corbet advanced, and said:  “I don’t know what you mean, father, by saying that the young man who has just died was Sir Thomas Gourlay’s son.  You know in your heart that this”—­pointing to his nephew—­“is his true and legitimate heir.  You know, too, that his illegitimate son has been dead for years, and that I myself saw him buried.”

“My lord, pay attention to what I’ll speak,” said his father.  “If the bastard died, and if my son was at his burial, and saw him laid in the grave, he can tell us where that grave is to be found, at least.  His father, however, will remember the tattooing.”

The unexpected nature of the question, and its direct bearing upon the circumstance before them, baffled Thomas Corbet, who left the room, affecting to be too indignant to reply.

“Now,” proceeded his father, “he knows he has stated a falsehood.  I have proof for every word I said, and for every circumstance.  There’s a paper,” he added, “a pound note, that will prove one link in the chain, for the very person’s name that is written on it by the poor young man himself, I have here.  He can prove the mark on his neck, when in outlier despair, the poor creature made an attempt on his own life with a piece of glass.  And what is more, I have the very clothes they both wore when I took them away.  In short, I have everything full and clear; but I did