"With all my heart, sir," cried the honest steward; "and after
Wednesday you will, I trust, assume your rightful name."

"Certainly," replied Clarence; "since I am no longer 'the Disowned.'"

Leaving Clarence now for a brief while to renew his acquaintance with
the scenes of his childhood, and to offer the tribute of his filial
tears to the ashes of a father whose injustice had been but "the
stinging of a heart the world had stung," we return to some old
acquaintances in the various conduct of our drama.




CHAPTER LXXII.

Upon his couch the veiled Mokanna lay.--The Veiled Prophet.

The autumn sun broke through an apartment in a villa in the
neighbourhood of London, furnished with the most prodigal yet not
tasteless attention to luxury and show, within which, beside a table
strewed with newspapers, letters, and accounts, lay Richard Crauford,
extended carelessly upon a sofa which might almost have contented the
Sybarite who quarrelled with a rose-leaf. At his elbow was a bottle
half emptied and a wineglass just filled. An expression of triumph
and enjoyment was visible upon his handsome but usually inexpressive
countenance.

"Well," said he, taking up a newspaper, "let us read this paragraph