that never left the narrator's face.

"This friend had met with misfortune after flying from the doomed
village with the surviving sister. They had waited long for letters, had
written, and, when no answer came, had been delayed by illness and
poverty from reaching England. At this time the child was born, and the
friend, urged by the wife and his own interest, came here, learned that
Sir Richard was married, and hurried to him in much distress. We can
imagine the grief and horror of the unhappy man. In that interview the
friend promised to leave all to Sir Richard, to preserve the secret till
some means of relief could be found; and with this promise he returned,
to guard and comfort the forsaken wife. Sir Richard wrote the truth to
Lady Trevlyn, meaning to kill himself, as the only way of escape from
the terrible situation between two women, both so beloved, both so
innocently wronged. The pistol lay ready, but death came without its
aid, and Sir Richard was spared the sin of suicide."

Paul paused for breath, but Lady Trevlyn motioned him to go on, still
sitting rigid and white as the marble image near her.

"The friend only lived to reach home and tell the story. It killed the
wife, and she died, imploring the old priest to see her child righted
and its father's name secured to it. He promised; but he was poor, the
child was a frail baby, and he waited. Years passed, and when the child
was old enough to ask for its parents and demand its due, the proofs of
the marriage were lost, and nothing remained but a ring, a bit of
writing, and the name. The priest was very old, had neither friends,
money, nor proofs to help him; but I was strong and hopeful, and though
a mere boy I resolved to do the work. I made my way to England, to
Trevlyn Hall, and by various stratagems (among which, I am ashamed to