“Recently remorse, illness, and age, have overtaken Mrs. Foley, now a widow, and she has made the extraordinary confession that Mary Foley, a girl of one-and-twenty, is no child of hers, but the child of the Earl of Mulgrave. Of course, no one credits this statement, for Mary is a Kerry girl, with all a Kerry girl’s tastes. Every one, including the priest and doctor, believe the poor old woman to be suffering from a delusion, and crazy. Mary herself has no doubt whatever of her antecedents. Hearing from the old gardener that her appearance was remarkable, I made my way to Foley’s farm and interviewed the young woman, and I have come to the conclusion that the ravings of old Katty are the _truth_. The girl’s likeness to the late Countess of Mulgrave is so extraordinary, that for my own part I believe the relationship to be undeniable, and I am confident that this girl is your lordship’s daughter and heiress. “I am afraid my information may be unwelcome, for several reasons: the girl has been brought up as an Irish peasant; she has had but little education, and is, of course, a Roman Catholic. On the other hand, she is remarkably intelligent, has read all the books that she could lay hands on, and has a natural grace and charm of manner, that is lacking in many young ladies that have had ten times her advantages. If I might venture to make a suggestion, I think your lordship should come over and _see_ the girl and judge for yourself. I have not breathed my conviction to a soul, and, should I be mistaken, at least no harm is done. I am staying at the Glenveigh Hotel, where fairly comfortable quarters are available. It is within an easy distance of Foley’s farm, and five miles from a station. I have debated with myself whether to disturb your lordship with my discovery or to pass over the event in silence. I am aware what a change in the girl’s circumstances, and in other people’s expectations, such a revelation will occasion. At present Mary Foley is happy, satisfied with her lot in life, devoted to her mother, and full of high spirits, vivacity, and contentment. It will be for _you_ to judge, for you to speak the word, and to break the spell. “Awaiting instructions, I remain, “Your lordship’s obedient servant, “BENCE USHER.” “Well,” exclaimed the marquis, as he deliberately folded the letter, “this is a nice thing to spring on a man after twenty-one years!” “Nice! Yes. Oh, Max,”--and his voice shook--“I hope to God it is no mirage, and that it may be true.” “Then you are glad?” he asked sharply. “Yes, I should think so. Why not?”