This strange speech fell upon, it seemed, unheeding ears. The indifferent spectators stared, not knowing what it meant. The Doctor was absorbed in watching his patient; and Edgar, in the new and strange position which he was obliged to keep, did not realise what was said. He heard the words, and was conscious of a vague wonder in respect to them, but was too fully occupied, body and mind, to be able to make out what they meant. Only Arthur Arden took them fully into his mind. He could scarcely restrain an exclamation, scarcely keep himself still, when this confirmation of every hope, and explanation of every difficulty, came to his ears. He went out immediately, in the stupor of his delight, and stood at the cottage door, under the twinkling stars, repeating it over to himself. “Near of kin to Jeanie--near, near of kin.” No Arden at all--an alien, of different name and inferior race. And it was he, Arthur, who was Arden of Arden. Could it be true? was it true? The night was dark, relieved only by the stars which throbbed and trembled in the sky. One of them shone over the dark trees of Arden in the distance, as if it were a giant fairy blossom springing out of the foliage. Was the star his, too, as well as the tree? Was all his, really his--the dewy land under his feet, the wide line of the horizon where it extended over the park and the woods--the very sky, with its “lot of stars.” His head swam and grew dizzy as the thought grew--all his--house and lands, name and honour. A wild elation took possession of him. All that had happened had been well for him; and there passed across his mind vaguely an echo of that wonderful sentiment with which those who are at ease pretend to console those who suffer. All for the best--had not all been for the best? The accident which almost killed Jeanie--the sudden crisis of illness which had made the watchers send to Arden for her grandmother--all for the best. God had taken the trouble to disturb the order of nature--to wear out the young life to such a thread as might snap at any moment--to wring the old heart with bitterest pangs of anxiety--all for good to him. Thus the egotist mused; and though he was irreligious, said, with a horrible gratitude, and something like an assumption of piety in his heart, “Thank God!”--Thank God! for all but killing Jeanie--for working havoc in her mother’s breast. It had been all for the best.