“Would you wish to see Dean Palmer, papa?”

“No, no, Lucy; not at all; he could do me no good.  Go, now, and see Dunroe, and do not let me be disturbed for an hour or two.  You know I have seen the body of my son to-day, and I wish I had not.”

“I am sorry you did, papa; it has depressed you very much.”

“Go, Lucy, go.  In a couple of hours I—­Go, dear; don’t keep his lordship waiting.”

Poor Lucy’s heart was in a tumult of delight as she went down stairs.  In the whole course of her life she had never witnessed in her father anything of tender emotion until then, and the tear that fell upon her hand she knew was the only one she ever saw him shed.

“I have hope for papa yet,” she said to herself, as she was about to enter the drawing-room; “I never thought I loved him so much as I find I do now.”

On advancing into the room, for an instant’s time she seemed confused; her confusion, however, soon became surprise—­amazement, when Dean Palmer, taking our friend the stranger by the hand, led him toward her, exclaiming, “Allow me, Miss Gourlay, to have the honor of presenting to you Lord Dunroe.”

“Lord Dunroe!” exclaimed Lucy, in her turn, looking aghast with astonishment.  “What is this, sir—­what means this, gentlemen?  This house, pray recollect, is a house of death and of suffering.”

“It is the truth, Miss Gourlay,” replied the Dean.  “Here stands the veritable Lord Dunroe, whose father is now the earl of Cullamore.”

“But, sir, I don’t understand this.”

“It is very easily understood, however, Miss Gourlay.  This gentleman’s father was the late Earl’s brother; and he being now dead, his son here inherits the title of Lord Dunroe.”

“But the late Earl’s son?”

“Has no claim to the title, Miss Gourlay.  His lordship here will give you the particulars at leisure, and on a more befitting occasion.  I saw the late Earl to-day, not long before his death.  He was calm, resigned, and full of that Christian hope which makes the death of the righteous so beautiful.  He was not, indeed, without sorrow; but it was soothed by his confidence in the mercy of God, and his belief in the necessity and wisdom of sorrow and affliction to purify and exalt the heart.”

“And now, Lucy,” said the stranger—­for so we shall call him still—­taking her hand in his, “I trust that all obstacles between our union are removed at last.  Our love has been strongly tested, and you especially have suffered much.  Your trust in Providence, however, like that of Lady Gourlay, has not been in vain; and as for me, I learned much, and I hope to learn more, from your great and noble example.  I concealed my name for many reasons:  partly from delicacy to my uncle, the late Earl, and his family; and I was partly forced to do it, in consequence of an apprehension that I had killed a nobleman in a hasty duel.  He was not killed, however, thank