The duke sat alone in his sumptuous library, whose windows overlooked the luxuriant garden, then in its fullest bloom and fragrance. The windows were open, admitting the fine, fresh air of summer, perfumed with the aroma of numberless flowers, and musical with the songs of many birds. The duke sat in a comfortable reading-chair, with an open book on its rotary ledge. He was not reading. The charm of external nature, appealing equally to sense and sentiment, won him from his mental task, and soothed him into a delicious reverie, during which he sat simply resting, breathing, gazing, luxuriating in the lovely life around him. In the midst of this clear sky a thunderbolt fell. A discreet footman rapped softly, and being told to enter, glided into the room, bearing a card upon a tiny silver tray, which he brought to his master. The duke took it, languidly glanced at it, knit his brows, and took up his reading-glass and examined it closely. No! his eyes had not deceived him. The card bore the name: ARCHBALD A. J. SCOTT. "Who brought this?" inquired the duke. "A young gentleman, sir," respectfully answered the footman. "Where is he?" "I showed him into the blue reception room, your grace." The duke paused a moment, gazing at the card, and then abruptly demanded: "What is the young man like?" "Most genteel, your grace; most like our young lord, and about his age, and dressed in the deepest mourning, your grace; and most particular anxious to see your grace." "I do not know the boy at all; do not know where he came from, nor what he wants; but he bears the family name, and looks like Arondelle," mused the duke, gazing at the card and knitting his brow. "I will see the young man. Show him up here," at length he said, abruptly. The footman bowed and withdrew. A few moments passed and the footman re-entered and announced: "Mr. Scott," and withdrew. The duke wheeled his chair around and looked at the visitor, who stood just within the door, bowing profoundly. The newcomer was a youth of about fifteen years of age, tall, slight and elegant in form; fair, blue-eyed and light-haired in complexion; refined, graceful and self possessed in manner; and faultlessly dressed in deep mourning; but! how amazingly like the duke's own son, the young Marquis of Arondelle. The duke's short survey of his visitor seemed so satisfactory that he arose and advanced to meet him, saying kindly: "You wished particularly to see me, I understand, young gentleman. In what manner can I serve you?" The youth bowed again with the deepest deference, and said: "Thanks, your grace. I bring you a letter of introduction." "Sit down, young sir, sit down, and give me your letter," said the duke, pointing to a chair, and resuming his own seat. "Good Heaven, how like this boy's voice was to the voice of the young Marquis of Arondelle! Who could he be?" mused the duke, as he sat and waited the issue.