“Do you know me? Did you know my father? Was he your cousin?” he cried, with an increasing emotion. “He was Patrick Livingstone, of Norlaw, a kinsman of the old Huntleys; and you--you--tell me! You are Mary of Melmar! I know it! I have found you! Oh, father! I have done my work at last.” The lad’s voice broke into a hoarse cry--he had no words to express himself further, as he stood before her with burning cheeks and a beating heart, holding out his hands in appeal and in triumph. He had found her! he could not doubt, he could not hesitate--gazing into that beautiful old face, the whole country-side seemed to throng about him with a clamorous testimony. All those unanimous witnesses who had told him of her beauty, the little giant at the smithy to whom her foot rung “like siller bells,” the old woman who remembered her face “like a May morning,” rushed into Cosmo’s memory as though they had been present by his side. He cried out again with a vehement self-assurance and certainty, “You are Mary of Melmar!” He kissed her hand as if it had been the hand of a queen--he forgot all his previous trouble and sympathy--he had found her! _his_ search had not been made in vain. “I am Mary Huntley, the daughter of Melmar,” said the old lady, with her beautiful smile. “Yes, my child, it is true--I left my father and my home for the sake of my poor Jean. Ah, he was very fond of me! I am not sorry; but you sought me?--did you seek me?--that is strange, that is kind; I know not why you should seek me. My child, do not bring me into any more trouble--tell me why you sought for _me_?” “I sought you as my father sought you!” cried Cosmo; “as he charged us all to seek you when he died. I sought you, because you have been wronged. Come home with me, madame. I thank God for Huntley that he never had it!--I knew I should find you! It is not for any trouble. It is because Melmar--Melmar itself--your father’s house--is yours!” “Melmar--my father’s house--where my Desirée is now?--nay, my friend, you dream,” said the old lady, trying to smile, yet growing pale; she did not comprehend it--she returned upon what he said about his father; she was touched to tears to think that Norlaw had sought for her--that she had not been forgotten--that he himself, a young champion, had come even here with the thought of finding her;--but Melmar, Melmar, her father’s house! The old Mary of Melmar, who had fled from that house and been disinherited, could not receive this strange idea--Melmar! the word died on her lip as the voice of Marie called her from an inner chamber. She rose with the promptness of habit, resuming her tender mother-smile, and answering without a pause. She only waved her hand to Cosmo as the boy left her to her immediate duties. It was not wonderful that she found it difficult to take up the thread of connection between that life in which she herself had been an only child, and this in which she was Marie’s nursing Mother. They were strangely unlike indeed.