The day came at last which was to decide Mrs. Richards’ claim to the Thornton estates, and, according to appointment, she repaired to the office of Compton & Bailey, in the highest of spirits, dressed in the most magnificent style, and accompanied by Josephine, clad with equal richness, and her husband. “Well, Mr. Compton, my probation is ended at last,” she said, gayly, to that gentleman, as she entered, and greeted him with her most gracious manner. “Ahem! I suppose we may say that it is,” he returned, in a strangely embarrassed way. “Well, then, I presume there is no need of further delay, and we can take possession of the late Sir Charles’ property as soon as we choose,” she remarked, too deeply engaged with thoughts regarding her own brilliant future to notice his manner. “Ahem!” the lawyer repeated, an uneasy expression on his face; “I _did_ expect that I could tell you to-day everything was all right and you could go down to Halowell Park as soon as you liked; but——” “But what?” Mrs. Richards demanded, with some show of impatience. “It appears to me that you are somewhat mysterious this morning, when heretofore you have acknowledged my relationship to Sir Charles Thornton to be proved beyond a doubt.” “Yes, madam, you have clearly proved, it cannot be contested, that you were a relative of the late baronet’s; but—I am sorry—it will be a great disappointment to you, doubtless, to learn at this late day that another party has put in a claim for the estate, as being the nearest of kin.” The lawyer heaved a sigh of relief when he had stumbled through this piece of ill-news. “What?” almost screamed Mrs. Richards, reeling where she stood. She had never even thought of such a calamity. “There is no nearer relative living,” she continued, with pale lips. “You yourself said you were convinced of that.” “And so I was, a month ago, madam; but I have been obliged to change my opinion since then.” “What—what has changed it?” she asked, trembling with fear and excitement. It would be too dreadful now, when the prize was almost within her grasp, to lose it, and to be obliged to return poor and disappointed to America. “You remember, perhaps,” the lawyer said, avoiding meeting her eyes, for they were wild in their expression, “that I told you that Sir William Thornton—the late Sir Charles’ father—had a younger brother, Albert by name——” “Yes, but you said that he left home years ago to go as a missionary to some outlandish place, where he died,” interrupted the anxious woman. “Where it was _supposed_ he died,” said Mr. Compton, with significant emphasis. “Did he not die?—is he living?—has he returned?” his client gasped. “No; he died some years ago; but he left a child. That child is living, and has put in a claim for the estate.” “But you told me he left no issue——” “It was all supposition, madam, since we could learn nothing to the contrary; but we have recently learned our mistake.”