“But that was after I had trodden on her pride, when she thought herself worse than poor. Now you go to her with my full consent. I will call upon her, and urge your case, if that is needful. Go, my boy—go now. I shall not be at rest till your fate is settled.” Astonished, bewildered, and like a man in a dream, Ivon Lambert went to his own room. Was his step-mother in her right mind? Had she placed him in a condition to approach Eva once more, now that she was an heiress? If so, mercenary motives could not be imputed to him. Yes, yes, there was yet a chance of such happiness as he had given up in despair. CHAPTER LXIX. THE TRUTH. Another ring brought a servant to the front door, where a gentleman with a package in his hand, stood waiting. The man reached out his hand for the parcel, but in its place, received a card, with directions to carry it at once to his mistress. There was no question about Mrs. Lambert’s being at home; no seeming doubt that she might refuse herself; all of which was strange; but the servant did not think of that till long afterward, for obedience seemed natural to that voice of quiet command. “My lady will see you in her own room—walk this way,” said the man, returning promptly, after delivering his message. He ushered the stranger up stairs with great deference, and opened the door with a bow, altogether forgetting the package which the man carried. Mrs. Lambert was struggling to compose herself; but she had been greatly excited, and every nerve in her frame quivered. She tried to speak, but the effort only brought tears into her eyes. Ross did not take the hand held out to him with such timid hesitation; but laid his bundle on a chair, then turned a sternly agitated face upon the trembling woman. “Elizabeth, I have come to ask you a question.” “I will answer it, Herman! There is nothing you can ask that I will not reply to. But first,—do not misunderstand me; I ask it for—for the sake of my step-son. Answer the one question that I asked you.—Is that girl, I mean Eva Laurence, anything to you?” “Anything to me—and you ask this? Yes, everything!” “You love her, then?” “Yes, better than my own soul.” “But—but you cannot marry her. It would be——” The woman’s lips turned deadly white, and what she might have said died upon them. “Marry her! Woman, I wonder the heart does not sicken in your bosom at the thought.” “It does! it does! Then you never thought of it. I had not wronged you so deeply that you meditated that awful blow, that wicked, wicked crime.” “I never thought of it, Elizabeth!” The woman clasped her hands, and a wild sob heaved her bosom. “Still you loved her! Ah, me! it was only the impediment! If I were dead, now!”