When Sir Philip had seated his young friend, he listened in silence to the surprising tale he had to tell him.  Edmund told him briefly the most remarkable circumstances of his life, from the time when he first saw and liked him, till his return from France; but from that era, he related at large every thing that had happened, recounting every interesting particular, which was imprinted on his memory in strong and lasting characters.  Sir Philip grew every moment more affected by the recital; sometimes he clasped his hands together, he lifted them up to heaven, he smote his breast, he sighed, he exclaimed aloud; when Edmund related his dream, he breathed short, and seemed to devour him with attention; when he described the fatal closet, he trembled, sighed, sobbed, and was almost suffocated with his agitation.  But when he related all that passed between his supposed mother and himself, and finally produced the jewels, the proofs of his birth, and the death of his unfortunate mother, he flew to him, he pressed him to his bosom, he strove to speak, but speech was for some minutes denied.  He wept aloud; and, at length, his words found their way in broken exclamations.

“Son of my dearest friend!  Dear and precious relic of a noble house! child of Providence! the beloved of heaven! welcome! thrice welcome to my arms! to my heart!  I will be thy parent from henceforward, and thou shalt be indeed my child, my heir!  My mind told me from the first moment I beheld thee, that thou wert the image of my friend! my heart then opened itself to receive thee, as his offspring.  I had a strange foreboding that I was to be thy protector.  I would then have made thee my own; but heaven orders things for the best; it made thee the instrument of this discovery, and in its own time and manner conducted thee to my arms.  Praise be to God for his wonderful doings towards the children of men! every thing that has befallen thee is by his direction, and he will not leave his work unfinished; I trust that I shall be his instrument to do justice on the guilty, and to restore the orphan of my friend to his rights and title.  I devote myself to this service, and will make it the business of my life to effect it.”

Edmund gave vent to his emotions, in raptures of joy and gratitude.  They spent several hours in this way, without thinking of the time that passed; the one enquiring, the other explaining, and repeating, every particular of the interesting story.

At length they were interrupted by the careful John Wyatt, who was anxious to know if any thing was likely to give trouble to his master.

“Sir,” said John, “it grows dark—­do you want a light?”

“We want no light but what heaven gives us,” said Sir Philip; “I knew not whether it was dark or light.”

“I hope,” said John, “nothing has happened, I hope your honour has heard no bad tidings; I—­ I—­ I hope no offence.”

“None at all,” said the good knight; “I am obliged to your solicitude for me; I have heard some things that grieve me, and others that give me great pleasure; but the sorrows are past, and the joys remain.”