We all remember the terrible exclamation of the dying profligate, when a friend, to destroy what he supposed the hypochondriac idea of a spectre appearing in a certain shape at a given hour, placed before him a person dressed up in the manner he described.  “Mon Dieu!” said the expiring sinner, who, it seems, saw both the real and polygraphic apparition, “il y en a deux!” The surprise of the Lord Keeper was scarcely less unpleasing at the duplication of the expected arrival; his mind misgave him strangely.  There was no neighbour who would have approached so unceremoniously, at a time when ceremony was held in such respect.  It must be Lady Ashton, said his conscience, and followed up the hint with an anxious anticipation of the purpose of her sudden and unannounced return.  He felt that he was caught “in the manner.”  That the company in which she had so unluckily surprised him was likely to be highly distasteful to her, there was no question; and the only hope which remained for him was her high sense of dignified propriety, which, he trusted, might prevent a public explosion.  But so active were his doubts and fears as altogether to derange his purposed ceremonial for the reception of the Marquis.

These feelings of apprehension were not confined to Sir William Ashton.  “It is my mother—­it is my mother!” said Lucy, turning as pale as ashes, and clasping her hands together as she looked at Ravenswood.

“And if it be Lady Ashton,” said her lover to her in a low tone, “what can be the occasion of such alarm?  Surely the return of a lady to the family from which she has been so long absent should excite other sensations than those of fear and dismay.”

“You do not know my mother,” said Miss Ashton, in a tone almost breathless with terror; “what will she say when she sees you in this place!”

“My stay has been too long,” said Ravenswood, somewhat haughtily, “if her displeasure at my presence is likely to be so formidable.  My dear Lucy,” he resumed, in a tone of soothing encouragement, “you are too childishly afraid of Lady Ashton; she is a woman of family—­a lady of fashion—­a person who must know the world, and what is due to her husband and her husband’s guests.”  Lucy shook her head; and, as if her mother, still at the distance of half a mile, could have seen and scrutinised her deportment, she withdrew herself from beside Ravenswood, and, taking her brother Henry’s arm, led him to a different part of the terrace.  The Keeper also shuffled down towards the portal of the great gate, without inviting Ravenswood to accompany him; and thus he remained standing alone on the terrace, deserted and shunned, as it were, by the inhabitants of the mansion.  This suited not the mood of one who was proud in proportion to his poverty, and who thought that, in sacrificing his deep-rooted resentments so far as to become Sir William Ashton’s guest, he conferred a favour, and received none.  “I can forgive Lucy,” he said to himself; “she