The lawyer was struck by her appearance, as well he might be. She was dressed in a neat stuff gown, which fitted tight to her graceful and symmetrical figure, and he thought she was the very personification of female loveliness without the aid of any meretricious adornment. He entered the parlour and was handed a chair by the mistress of the establishment. “You will, perhaps, be no wiser,” said Mr. Chicknell, with a smile, when I inform you that I am solicitor to Lord Ethalwood, seeing that in all probability even the name of his lordship may be unknown to you.” “It is.” “Well, madam, it must remain so no longer, as it is requisite that you should know who you are.” A bright flash overspread the beautiful features of Aveline Gatliffe. “Who I am!” she murmured. “Indeed――indeed, sir, I have yearned to know this for very many years past.” “I am not surprised at that, madam. Let me at once inform you that you belong to the aristocracy of this country.” “Oh, sir, are you serious? Can this be possible?” inquired Aveline, in a state of the deepest anxiety. “I am dealing with facts which are incontrovertible,” said the lawyer, in a more serious tone. “Listen, madam.” Slowly, deliberately, and with singular dearness, Mr. Chicknell proceeded to make his companion acquainted with all those circumstances connected with his case, as he termed it. He passed lightly over the elopement of Aveline’s mother with the Italian; neither did he dwell upon the painful scene in the infirmary after the accident on the line, but he gave her to understand that the articles of jewellery taken from the dead body of her parent were in the possession of Lord Ethalwood. Mr. Chicknell made the young wife acquainted with every grain of evidence, which taken altogether proved most incontestably her identity. As Aveline listened her wonder-struck countenance lost much of its wonted colour; her lips grew white as lilies, and her eyes dilated with an expression which was something akin to terror. He finished his narrative, the last words of which were of serious import. A mist seemed to float before her eyes. “Am I really that great lord’s grandchild?” she gasped forth with evident effort. “You are so beyond all question,” returned the lawyer. “You are undoubtedly the daughter of Aveline Beatrice Ethalwood, who ran away from home with her music master. You are the grandchild of Lord Ethalwood, the master of Broxbridge and its rich dependencies. The child playing there (pointing through the window of the apartment to the little boy on the grass plot) may be one day an earl, and you yourself may be a wealthy heiress; but I regret to say that there is one condition attached to all this.” “A condition!” she replied, her face recovering its colour, her eyes flashing light. “I am bound to accept the condition, I suppose? You do not know how I have always longed to be rich and great.” The lawyer smiled.