"My father was a gentleman, and died rather suddenly in Italy, when I was three years old; my mother followed him three weeks after, of a broken heart, 'twas said, and I was adopted by a friend of my father's, an artist, named Welthorp, a great traveller, but kind and good, who took me to Australia--in fact, almost all round the world--and finally to London, where he and his wife died--both died while I was a mere lad. But I had learnt to dabble and paint, and so, making the most of my knowledge, have managed by degrees to struggle up to what I am." This was his meagre story. "My father? no, I never knew who he was, nor his name--not Weston; Mr. Welthorp knew that much--but my father was a reserved man: he never mentioned who he was, nor what his position or property, not even to him. I've heard he sent a message to his mother when dying, but----" The interruption came from Madame Giche, who suddenly clasped his hand, crying, "That ring, where did you get it--say?" "It was my father's ring, all he had to show of his former life, so to speak;" and Mr. Weston took the ring from his finger like a man in a dream--a costly gold ring, studded with diamonds. "It is my dead husband's ring; I gave it to my son to wear in memory of him when he attained his eighteenth birthday," cried Madame Giche. "See here"--and her trembling fingers touched a spring--"here are their initials, my boy's and his father's." Ah! yes, there they were, there was no denying it. Denying it! sweet-eyed, eager old lady, she led them to the gallery, and made them look at that all-convincing portrait of her son, over which unconscious Inna had dreamt so often, longing for her mother, she scarcely knew why, while it was her father's face spoke to her mystified little heart. Ah! it was as clear as the light of day before Mr. Weston and Mr. Mortimer left the Owl's Nest that morning. Mr. Weston was the rightful master of Wyvern Court, and Inna its heiress to come after--Madame Giche's great-granddaughter. * * * * * There was a right joyful Christmas keeping at Wyvern Court that year: it was all joy, peace, and home-coming to Madame Giche; all a fairy dream to Inna and the twins, to have Dick and Jenny as their guests, Dr. Willett, Mr. Barlow, and Oscar coming up for the Twelfth Night. "I say, who would have thought you'd prove to be the heiress of Wyvern Court that day when I met you in the railway carriage?" said Dick Gregory--he, Jenny, Inna, the twins, all out on the terrace, in the moonlight, at the old court, listening to the bells on Christmas evening. "I didn't know it myself," returned Inna. "You see, papa's illness and all was like the cloud with the silver lining." "Your cloud was lined with gold, Miss Giche," remarked Dick, "and no mistake!" "It is _our_ cloud as well--mine and Olive's--isn't it, Inna dear?" spoke Sybil, clinging to the new little heiress's hand. "We are to be co-heiresses, all three, and grand-auntie knows how."