“I am going into the country a few miles to see a patient,” said the Doctor; “so we shall have time for undisturbed consultation. I have so often wondered what had become of you. Not hearing from Prickett, I wrote to him, and received an answer as dry as a bone from his heir. Poor fellow! I found that he had neglected his globules, and quitted the globe. Alas, _pulvis et umbra sumus_! I could learn no tidings of you. Prickett’s successor declared he knew nothing about you. I hoped the best; for I always fancied you were one who would fall on your legs—bilious-nervous temperament; such are the men who succeed in their undertakings, especially if they take a spoonful of _chamomilla_ whenever they are over-excited. So now for your history and the little girl’s—pretty little thing—never saw a more susceptible constitution, nor one more suited—to pulsatilla.” Leonard briefly related his own struggles and success, and informed the good Doctor how they had at last discovered the nobleman in whom poor Captain Digby had confided, and whose care of the orphan had justified the confidence. Dr Morgan opened his eyes at hearing the name of Lord L’Estrange. “I remember him very well,” said he, “when I practised murder as an allopathist at Lansmere. But to think that wild boy, so full of whim, and life, and spirit, should become staid enough for a guardian to that dear little child, with her timid eyes and pulsatilla sensibilities. Well, wonders never cease. And he has befriended you too, you say. Ah, he knew your family.” “So he says. Do you think, sir, that he ever knew—ever saw—my mother?” “Eh! your mother?—Nora?” exclaimed the Doctor quickly; and, as if struck by some sudden thought, his brows met, and he remained silent and musing a few moments; then, observing Leonard’s eyes fixed on him earnestly, he replied to the question:— “No doubt he saw her; she was brought up at Lady Lansmere’s. Did he not tell you so?” “No.” A vague suspicion here darted through Leonard’s mind, but as suddenly vanished. His father! Impossible. His father must have deliberately wronged the dead mother. And was Harley L’Estrange a man capable of such wrong? And had he been Harley’s son, would not Harley have guessed it at once, and so guessing, have owned and claimed him? Besides, Lord L’Estrange looked so young;—old enough to be Leonard’s father!—he could not entertain the idea. He roused himself, and said falteringly— “You told me you did not know by what name I should call my father.” “And I told you the truth, to the best of my belief.” “By your honour, sir?” “By my honour, I do not know it.”