Shortly after Buchanan’s departure, Lady Margaret had recovered from her indisposition. She was tranquil, and had retired early to rest. The next morning she was in her brother’s apartment, when a servant entered with a letter. “There is a gentleman below who wishes to speak with your grace.” “What is his name?” “I know not, my lord; he would not inform me.” The duke opened the letter. It was from M. De Ruthven, who entreated permission to have a few moments conversation with the duke, as a secret of the utmost importance had been communicated to him that night: but it was of the most serious consequence that Lady Margaret Buchanan should be kept in ignorance of the appeal. The name was written in large characters, as if to place particular emphasis upon it; and as unfortunately she was in her brother’s apartment at the moment the letter was delivered, it was extremely difficult for him to conceal from her its contents, or the agitation so singular and mysterious a communication had caused him. Lady Margaret’s penetrating eye observed in a moment that something unusual had occurred; but whilst yet commanding herself, that she might not shew her suspicions to her brother, Mac Allain entered, and giving the duke a small packet, whispered to him that the gentleman could not wait, but begged his grace would peruse those papers, and he would call again. “Sister,” said the duke, rising, “you will excuse. Good God! what do I see? What is the matter?” Lady Margaret had arisen from her seat:—the hue of death had overspread her lips and cheeks:—yet calm in the midst of the most agonizing suspense, she gave no other sign of the terror under which she laboured. Kindly approaching, he took her hand. “That packet of letters is for me,” she said in a firm low voice. “The superscription bears my name,” said the duke, hesitating. “Yet if—if by any mistake—any negligence—”—“There is no mistake, my lord,” said the servant advancing. “Leave us,” cried Lady Margaret, with a voice that resounded throughout the apartment; and then again faltering, and fainting at the effort, she continued: “Those letters are mine:—my enemy and yours has betrayed them:—Viviani may exhibit the weakness and folly of a woman’s heart to gratify his revenge; but a generous brother should disdain to make himself the instrument of his barbarous, his unmanly cruelty.” “Take them,” said the duke, with gentleness: “I would not read them for the world’s worth. That heart is noble and generous, whatever its errors; and no letters could ever make me think ill of my sister.”