"Our work-room," said Lady Montfort, with a warm cheerful smile, and yet Lionel could see that tears were in her eyes--" mine and my dear pupil's. Yes, that harp is hers. Is he still fond of music--I mean Mr. Darrell?" "Yes, though he does not care for it in crowds; but he can listen for hours to Fairthorn's flute. You remember Mr. Fairthorn?" "Ay, I remember him," answered Lady Montfort softly. "Mr. Darrell then likes his music, still?" Lionel here uttered an exclamation of more than surprise. He had turned to examine the water-colour sketch--a rustic inn, a honeysuckle arbour, a river in front; a boat yonder--just begun. "I know the spot!" he cried. "Did you make the sketch of it?" "I? no; it is hers--my pupil's--my adopted child's." Lionel's dark eyes turned to Lady Montfort's wistfully, inquiringly; they asked what his lips could not presume to ask. "Your adopted child--what is she?--who?" As if answering to the eyes, Lady Montfort said: "Wait here a moment; I will go for her." She left him, descended the stairs into the garden, joined George Morley and his companion; took aside the former, whispered him, then drawing the arm of the latter within her own, led her back into the room, while George Morley remained in the garden, throwing himself on a bench, and gazing on the stars as they now came forth, fast and frequent, though one by one. CHAPTER XXV. "Quem Fors dierum cunque dabit Lucro appone."--HORAT. Lionel stood, expectant, in the centre of the room, and as the two female forms entered, the lights were full upon their faces. That younger face --it is she--it is she, the unforgotten--the long-lost. Instinctively, as if no years had rolled between--as if she were still the little child, he the boy who had coveted such a sister--he sprang forward and opened his arms, and as suddenly halted, dropped the arms to, his side, blushing, confused, abashed. She! that vagrant child!--she! that form so elegant--that great peeress's pupil--adopted daughter, she the poor wandering Sophy! She!--impossible! But her eyes, at first downcast, are now fixed on him. She, too, starts --not forward, but in recoil; she, too, raises her arms, not to open, but to press them to her breast; and she, too, as suddenly checks an impulse, and stands, like him, blushing, confused, abashed. "Yes," said Caroline Montfort, drawing Sophy nearer to her breast, "yes, you will both forgive me for the surprise. Yes, you do see before you, grown up to become the pride of those who cherish her, that Sophy who--" "Sophy!" cried Lionel advancing; "it is so, then! I knew you were no stroller's grandchild." Sophy drew up: "I am, I am his grandchild, and as proud to be so as I was then." "Pardon me, pardon me; I meant to say that he too was not what be seemed. You forgive me," extending his hand, and Sophy's soft hand fell into his forgivingly.