bewildered.

Good heaven! it was all true. To this moment I do not know how I bore
the shock. I remember falling into a chair, Mr. Moreland standing over
me with a glass of something in his hand, which he forced me to drink.

"Your fortune has a strange effect upon you," he said, kindly.

"I cannot believe it!" I cried, clasping his hand. "I cannot realize it!
I have been working so hard--so hard for one single sovereign--and now,
you say, I am rich!"

"Now, most certainly," he replied, "you are Sir Edgar Trevelyan, master
of Crown Anstey and a rent roll of ten thousand a year."

I am not ashamed to confess that when I heard that I bowed my head on my
hands and cried like a child.

"You have borne bad fortune better than this," said Mr. Moreland; and
then I remember telling him, in incoherent words, how poor we had been
and how Clare was fading away for want of the nourishment and good
support I was utterly unable to find for her.

After a time I became calmer and listened while he told me of the death
of the stately Sir Barnard and his eldest son. They had gone away
together on a trip to Italy. Miles Trevelyan was very fond of pictures,
and his father had given him permission to buy what he pleased for the
great picture gallery at Crown Anstey.

They went together to Florence, where a fearful epidemic was raging.