undisguisedly, and had been brought to the point
of an offer of marriage by the discovery of
the picture, as narrated by my wife; that
she had accepted him provisionally, and on
the condition that I should be satisfied with
her conduct in the whole matter, and gave
an unhesitating consent, "without which,"
she concluded in the French tongue, "I cannot
expect, dear father, in anything to prosper."

I was very much affected by these scenes,
as may be imagined, and arranged for the
interview on the next day with Mr. Hartley.
I explained to him the exact condition in
which Jenny was placed; how it was
unknown to us whether she was of high or
humble origin, or even legitimate or illegitimate;
but that, having first adopted her and
taken her from her former protectress, and
afterwards brought her up in all respects as
my own child, I considered myself bound to give
her the same dowry—not a large one—as if
she were so. He thanked me warmly, as
though he had expected nothing of this sort,
and indeed his love for Jenny was very
strong, and quite disinterested, I am sure.
The day for their marriage was not fixed, but
it was understood that it should take place
soon.

Some weeks after this time, on the
fourteenth of May—as I remember well, for it
happened to be the day on which we received
marriage cards from my wife's relative Lord
Bactsares; and my wife, Hesther, and myself,
had been to visit Gertrude at my sister
Annie's house (who had, I regret to say, taken
such a dislike to Jenny by this time, as to beg
she might not be brought within her doors).
On our return I found my Ward wishing to
speak with me. "My dear father," said she
when we were alone together in my study,
"See here!" she took from her pocket a
case of tiny jewels, necklace, brooch, and
armlets, of exquisite workmanship, and
comprising almost every precious stone in
harmonious combination. "These were mine,"
she continued, "when I was almost an
infant;" the tears came into her eyes, and a
flush crossed her cheeks while she regarded
the still dimly remembered trinkets. "They
were left for me by a little boy, months ago,
at your door, without any sort of explanation;
I did not know whether to tell you or not.
I feared lest it might be some cruel hoax,
but to-day he came again with these few
papers." (I found afterwards that Jenny
unintentionally miss-dated this, as the papers
were left on the previous afternoon it seems.)
They were documents in the French language,
setting forth the whole particulars of Jenny's
previous history, and affording ample proof
of her birth.

She was the only child of noble and
wealthy parents in the south of France;
the count and countess Delamotte; proud,
insolent, bitter-hearted—so it was written
—yet loved their daughter to distraction.
They treated their servants (very unusual
with French people) as though they were
slaves, animals, dirt beneath their feet.
Jeannette Lotteau was the nurse: Jeannette
whose name their child has borne all its life
long, was once struck, beaten upon the
cheek, by madame in her passion. The scar
was not great, but it has taken twenty years
to heal: now, however, that the countess was
in London (an extract from a newspaper was
here given, announcing the arrival at a
certain fashionable hotel of the count and
countess Delamotte) let her at last
discover her lost one, late teacher at a Pension,
now a dependent in the house of a heretic
priest; it would be good for her.

Jenny begged me to say nothing of this
till I was certain of the truth of the whole
affair; but, for my own part, I felt pretty
sure upon the point; and, when I took my
way with my adopted child on the next
morning to the hotel, it was with intense
curiosity to look upon her real parents. I
left dear Jenny, palpitating, in a room
downstairs, while I went up to the apartment
occupied by the count and countess. It was
one of the finest in that gorgeous mansion,
a large drawing-room, magnificently
furnished; at one end of it, upon an ottoman,
lounged a gentleman with a newspaper; and,
at the other end, in an arm-chair reclined
madame. It was late in the spring-time,
but a brisk fire was burning in the grate,
and she seemed to have every need of it.
She did not rise at my entrance, and her
husband only lifted his head up languidly,
and demanded, in a voice strangely at
variance with his words, "To what happy
chance he was thus deeply indebted for the
honour of my presence?" I don't know
whether he was practising the superpoliteness
of his countrymen, or whether he was
sneering.

"I come," answered I, in such French as I
could command, "not without reason, sir. It
is possible that I may have been misinformed,
and be mistaken; but, I think that I bring
some intelligence which will affect you both,
very, very deeply."

A little lifting of the lady's pencilled eyebrows,
a scarcely perceptible shrug of the
count's shoulders were the only replies.

"You had a servant once called Jeannette
Lotteau, had you not?"

A sharp inarticulate cry of rage burst from
the count, the lady rose swiftly from her
seat, and stood before me in an instant, white
but without trembling—so like, so like my
ward!

"And my child, sir, what of her? Name
of Heaven, speak!"

"She has been with me, madame, for
years as my adopted daughter. She is well;
she is even now under this very roof!"

That was in substance the whole of what
passed between us. I left the two, at once,
alone with their new-found offspring. I
returned home and told my family all that