His housekeeper was in bed, and he himself opened the door upon a tall, handsome, black-browed lad, and a covered cart, drawn by a powerfully-built horse, with flanks steaming in the frosty air. It was a case of life and death, the lad said, and the patient was his sister. Dr. Netherbridge was an absolutely unselfish man in following his profession, and slipping on his overcoat, he entered the cart, and was driven for over an hour and a half through the dark country roads until the driver, who had been monosyllabic or silent on the way, drew up near a thatched cottage a little back from the road. “You’ll find my sister and her grandmother within. I’ll wait here to drive you home,” he said. Dr. Netherbridge tapped at the cottage door, which was opened by an evil-looking old woman, with unkempt hair bound with a bright-colored kerchief. After hearing his name, she conducted him to the invalid’s room, where two women, apparently nurses, were busy, the one in trying to quiet a baby ten days old, the other bending over the still figure of its mother stretched upon the bed. One glance at the waxen face, the blue-black hair, delicate features and great dark eyes told Dr. Netherbridge that this mysterious patient was none other than the missing Lady Cranstoun, and that the baby girl whose fretful cries filled the room was the child concerning whom the Baronet was so anxious. The mother was intensely weak, hardly, indeed, alive at all. Dr. Netherbridge administered and prescribed what remedies he could. But before leaving he thought well to inform old Mrs. Carewe, the sick woman’s grandmother, that he had recognized the patient, and should at once communicate the fact to her husband. “That is just why I sent for you,” said the old woman, while a smile of malevolent cunning lit up her face. “As soon as my Clare is dead, and she won’t live above a few hours now, doctor or no doctor, that child will be sent to her father, Sir Philip Cranstoun. Poor folks like us, with no men to work for us, can’t afford to bring up a Baronet’s daughter properly. And your word will be needed in proof of her identity.” On the following day, when he called at the Chase with his statement, Dr. Netherbridge learned that a neighboring farmer had been commissioned to bring a basket to the house, within which reposed an infant eleven days old, upon whose gown was pinned a paper with the following words: “This is Stella Cranstoun, daughter of Sir Philip Cranstoun and Clare his wife, formerly Clare Carewe. She was born on the twelfth of November. Her mother, Lady Cranstoun, died at four o’clock this morning.--Signed, Sarah Carewe; Mary Wrexham, nurse; Julia Tait, nurse;” and dated carefully. Thus was Sir Philip freed from his matrimonial perplexities, and left with an altogether undesired infant daughter on his hands. CHAPTER I. KNIGHTS ERRANT. Eighteen years had passed since the flight of Clare Lady Cranstoun and the birth of her daughter Stella.