"It says barely the words which I have repeated," Lady Cecil replied. "Sir Boyvill, knowing his son's impetuosity, hurried down here, to stop, if he could, his reviving, through such means, the recollection of his unfortunate lady--with what success you have seen; Gerard is gone, nor can any one guess what tale will be trumped up to deceive and rob him." Elizabeth could not feel as secure as her friend, that nothing would come of the promised information. This was not strange; besides, the different view taken by a worldly and an experienced person, the tale, with all its mystery, was an old one to Lady Cecil; while, to her friend, it bore the freshness of novelty: to the one, it was a story of the dead and the forgotten; to the other, it was replete with living interest; the enthusiasm of Gerard communicated itself to her, and she felt that his present, journey was full of event, the first step in a discovery of all that hitherto had been inscrutable. A few days brought a letter from Gerard. Lady Cecil read it, and then gave it to her young friend to peruse. It was dated Lancaster; it said, "My journey has hitherto been fruitless; this man Hoskins has gone from Lancaster, leaving word that I should find him in London, but in so negligent a way as to lower my hopes considerably. His chief aim must be to earn the promised reward, and I feel sure that he would take more pains to obtain it, did he think that it was really within his grasp. "He arrived but a few weeks since, it seems, from America, whither he migrated, some twenty years ago, from Ravenglass. How can he bring news of her I seek from across the Atlantic? The very idea fills me with disturbance. Has he seen her? Great God! does she yet live? Did she commission him to make inquiries concerning her abandoned child? No, Sophia, my life on it, it is not so; she is dead! My heart too truly reveals the sad truth to me. "Can I then wish to hear that she is no more? My dear, dear mother! Were all the accusations true which are brought against you, still would I seek your retreat, endeavour to assuage your sorrows; wherever, whatever you are, you are of more worth to me--methinks that you must still be more worthy of affection than all else that the earth contains! But it is not so. I feel it--I know it--she is dead. Yet when, where, how? Oh, my father's vain commands! I would walk barefoot to the summit of the Andes to have these questions answered. The interval that must elapse before I reach London, and see this man, is hard to bear. What will he tell? Nothing! often, in my lucid intervals, as my father would call them, in my hours of despondency, I fear--nothing!