The letter that contained these remarks, with the other information connected with it, the professor despatched on the same night on which it was written; and, having done this, awaited with what composure and fortitude he could command, the dreadful explosion of aristocratic wrath and indignation, which, he had no doubt, would speedily follow. Leaving matters in this extraordinary position in the house of Professor Lockerby we shall shift the scene, for a moment, to the Countess Dowager of Wistonbury's sitting apartment in Oxton Hall; and we shall choose the moment when her favourite footman, Jacob Asterley, has entered her presence, after his return from a call at the post-office in the neighbouring village; the time being the second day after the occurrence just previously related--namely, the despatch to Oxton Hall of Professor Lockerby's letter. 'Well, Jacob, any letters for me to-day?' said the countess, on the entrance of that worthy official. 'One, my lady, from Scotland,' replied the servant, deferentially, and, at the same time, opening the bag in which the letters were usually carried to and from the post-house. 'Ah! from the earl,' said the countess. 'No, my lady, I rather think not. The address is not in his lordship's handwriting.' 'Oh! the good Professor Lockerby,' said the countess, contemplating for a moment the address of the letter in question, which was now in her ladyship's hands. 'I hope nothing unpleasant has occurred to my son.' And while she spoke, she hurriedly broke the seal, and, in the next instant, was intently engaged in perusing the intelligence which it had secured from the prying curiosity of parties whom it did not concern. It would take a much abler pen than that now employed in tracing these lines, to convey anything like an adequate idea of the mingled expression of amazement, indignation, and grief exhibited on the countenance, and in every act and attitude of the proud Countess of Wistonbury, on reading the story of her son's degradation. The flush of haughty resentment was succeeded by the sudden paleness of despair; and in frequent alternation did these strong expressions of varied feeling flit across the fine countenance--still fine, although it had looked on fifty summers--of the heart-stricken mother, as she proceeded in her perusal of the fatal document. On completing the perusal, the countess threw herself in silent distraction on a sofa, and, still holding the open letter in her hand, sank into a maze of wild and wandering thoughts. These, however, seemed at length to concentrate in one decisive and sudden resolution. Starting from the reclining posture into which she had thrown herself, she advanced towards the bell-pull, rung furiously, and, when the servant entered to know what were her commands--