"Nothing that I know, indeed, Marian," he answered: "I came with the purpose of opening my whole thoughts to you; for you have every right, that either true love or our mutual situation can give you, to know every thing that I know. Well, then, my beloved, the fact which most completely tends to corroborate the assertions in this letter, occurred in a conversation between myself and my father yesterday morning. It was when he was angry in regard to his unfortunate quarrel with Manners and my opposition of the view he had taken: and he said sternly, and bitterly enough, that though the estates were entailed, I could be deprived of them by a word." "Indeed!" said Marian, thoughtfully, "indeed!" but the next moment she added, "No, no, Edward, it must have been said in a moment of passion, without reason, and without truth. Depend upon it, your father and my uncle would never have spoken about our marriage to me, and to all my mother's family, as he has often done, calling you somewhat particularly the heir of his titles and estates, if you were neither, as that letter says." "But yet the letter and his words confirm each other," said De Vaux: "they both tell the same tale, dear Marian. Many a true word is spoken in a moment of passion, that a man has concealed for years, and would give worlds afterward to recall. Besides, I think I have heard the name of this Pharold before: have you not heard my aunt speak of some gipsy boy that my grandfather wished to educate?" "Oh, no, not my aunt," answered Marian. "All that happened when she was very young, quite a child, I believe. It was poor Mrs. Dickinson, the old housekeeper, who used to tell us stories about that gipsy when we were children; and his name was Pharold, I think. She spoke of him as of a fine creature, but very wild." "You see, dear Marian," said De Vaux, with a gloomy smile, "everything tends to the same result. My father's words confirm the story of the gipsy, and what we know of the gipsy would show that he had some acquaintance with the history of our family." Marian mused: "It is very strange, Edward," she said at length, "and I suppose there must, indeed, be some foundation for all this. But yet I cannot understand it: if the estates are entailed, what is there on earth that can prevent your inheriting them? If the title goes to the sons, you must have it; and if it had gone to the daughters, I must have had it, you know, which would have been all the same thing. If you do believe this story, as I am afraid you do, tell me how it can be."