“I am so glad that he fell into our hands, instead of strangers; yet I grieve for the poor little fellow and his father, who was just in the prime of life. It is sad that my gain must come from poor Lady Douglas’ misfortune.” “It is sad, dearest; and I was satisfied with my wife just as she was; but, I suppose, that this will go to prove to Mrs. Grundy that I have not made a _mésalliance_ after all,” Adrian returned, somewhat scornfully. “It never rains but it pours,” is the homely old adage, and the next day brought a lengthy epistle from Mr. Conrad, of Philadelphia, stating that the concern in which he had invested so much of Miss Mehetabel’s property had formed a new stock company, which had assumed all the obligations of the old one, which they would cancel at their earliest convenience. It might be some time, he wrote, before they could make over the whole amount to her, but meantime, they would continue the interest on the whole, and make a yearly deposit in whatever bank she saw fit to designate, unless she should prefer to let her shares remain as they had been. And, the honest lawyer added, things were beginning to look brighter to him, also, and he hoped to be able soon to do something for her on his own account. One day, not long after, it was necessary for Brownie to go to Capel & Armand’s to sign some papers regarding her coming into possession of the estate at Winchester. Adrian accompanied her as far as the door, where he was obliged to leave her to transact some business of his own. She mounted the stairs to the office, swung open the door, entered, and found herself face to face with Lord Dunforth! He did not recognize her, for he had only seen her once while she was at the castle, and he could not associate this elegantly clad, blooming woman, with the pale, black-robed figure, who had been so attentive to Lady Ruxley’s wants. At all events, he thought her wondrously beautiful now, and wondered who she could be. Brownie knew him instantly, and the rich color flew to her cheek, but she did not lose an atom of her self-possession. Her manner was perfect, her language, as she conversed with the lawyers, was choice and fluent, while the little hand with which she signed the documents they placed before her, was white, and soft, and tapering—“a sure sign of a lady,” his lordship, who was watching from behind his paper, said to himself. “A remarkably lovely woman that,” Mr. Capel said to him, after Brownie’s departure. “She is, indeed. Who is she?” “She is heiress to the property of Sir Edgar Douglas, who died so suddenly a couple of weeks since.” “Ah, yes! I heard that he left no heir. That was a sad circumstance.” “It was, indeed, for his rent roll at Winchester is no mean one, and his town house will compare favorably with the best.” “So I have been told; but how does this young lady happen to inherit them? Whose child is she?”