He carefully read those extracts which Marion’s son had made from the rector’s diary, and with which we are so familiar. He listened with painful interest to the repetition of the sexton’s story of his confession, and how he became a witness to the marriage ceremony, and he could scarcely credit his own sense of hearing as he heard the marvelous tale, and his better judgment told him that every word was true. But when one is already suffering, as he was suffering, with his heart so sore and bitter, one’s natural antagonism and rebellion against the iron hand of fate is more easily aroused. So it was now with Paul Tressalia; he had been obliged to relinquish his dearest hopes—to give up the woman he loved; and now, with this almost incontestable evidence before him, it seemed as if every hope of his manhood was destined to be crushed; and, with a strange perversity, even in the face of such stern facts as had just been presented to him, he said within himself that he _would not yield_ his inheritance to this unknown child of Marion Vance—he _would not_ give up his position, his wealth, his proud and honored name. “It is a cunningly devised fable,” he said, with a stern, white face, “and I defy the claim.” “I am sorry, my lord; for, with all my experience in the law, I must say I never undertook a clearer case,” the Hon. Mr. Faxon replied, with the same unvarying politeness that he had displayed all through the interview. “Nevertheless, I shall resist to the uttermost of my ability. Tell your client so. He will have to fight a mighty hard battle before he will win one foot of Wycliffe,” the young marquis returned, moodily. “He is prepared to do so, if necessary, your lordship, for his mother’s sake alone. He has expressed deep regret at your disappointment, but _her_ honor and purity must be established at all events, whether he wins anything else or not. He will at once take measures to establish the validity of her marriage, that all who formerly knew her may know that no shadow of stain rests upon her character.” “Who is he? Where has he been all these years? Where is he now?” demanded the marquis, with clouded brow. He saw the reasonableness of what the young man contemplated, and knew that if those facts were once established there would be no hope left for him. “Until about seven years ago he resided with his mother in ——, a little town in the southwest of England. After her death, prompted by curiosity, he visited the place where she believed she had been so grossly deceived, and accidentally stumbled upon the evidence with which I have presented you to-day.” “Then his mother knew nothing of all this?—she believed up to the time of her death that she had forfeited all claim to this property?” Mr. Tressalia inquired, gravely. “Most assuredly, or she would have returned immediately to her father and vindicated herself, for the sake of her child’s future.”