But, judging from Lady Heath’s gracious manner and the attention which she bestowed upon all her guests alike, there was not one among the company whom she did not regard in the most friendly way. She was simply charming; her bearing and all her observances of etiquette were faultless, and once, during the meal, Lady Royalston bent and whispered in her mother’s ear: “This is the woman whom Lady Linton scorned as unfit to mate with a Heath! This is the woman whom we lent our aid to ruin! Mamma, we ought to go down on our knees to her and her lovely daughter whom we have so wronged.” “For Heaven’s sake, Sadie, do not add to my torture,” returned Mrs. Farnum, with pale lips. “Remember it was all for you—I knew that you loved——” “That will do, mamma; we will never open that grave again,” returned Lady Royalston, losing some of her own color, “but I would give much to be able to have Lady Heath for my friend, and I am impressed that we shall never be bidden to Heathdale again.” After dinner, an hour or more was spent in social intercourse, during which something of Sir William’s and Lady Heath’s story was divulged. The baronet had insisted upon this, for Virgie’s sake. “She is my own daughter, and I must claim her as such before the whole world,” he said, so as much as he deemed advisable to relate, without publicly compromising any one who had been instrumental in causing the misunderstanding between himself and his wife, he told to his friends. It was also announced at the same time that Mr. Hamilton, the baronet’s ward, had won the baronet’s beautiful daughter, and that there would be another wedding about Easter. When Lady Linton heard this she looked around for Lillian, but she had quietly withdrawn from the company directly after dinner, and did not make her appearance again. The evening was over at last, and the guests dispersed, pronouncing Lady Heath “delightful,” and predicting a happy future for the master of Heathdale after the romantic trials of his youth and the sorrow of his later years. When Mrs. Farnum and her daughter took leave of Sir William and his bride, the baronet simply bowed to them without offering his hand, saying, with the least possible but unmistakable emphasis: “Good-by, Mrs. Farnum; adieu, Lady Royalston.” And both knew that all the past had been explained, and they had received their final _congé_. Lady Royalston’s prediction had been verified. When the last guest had departed, Sir William turned to his sister, his face stern and cold. “Miriam,” he said, in a tone that made her shiver, “at last I have found my Virgie, my mountain maid whom I have loved all my life long. But what of the lost years of the past?—the sorrow, the loneliness, and misunderstanding? What of the hatred and treachery that produced it all?” Every word fell upon Lady Linton’s heart as if it had been a blow from a hammer.