WHO may imagine and depict the emotions of Lady de Ermstein on being presented with her long-lost son—that son whose loss was breaking her heart? Like one in a dream she heard the glad revelation, and beheld him with her eyes, and could even trace the features of the lost child; and, overpowered by the intensity of her feelings, she swooned away at his feet.

But the swoon was brief, and she awoke to happiness unalloyed. Throwing herself upon his breast, she wept in the fulness of her joy, and fervently gave thanks to Heaven for so eminent a blessing.

And from three hearts ascended bursts of gratitude to that over-ruling Providence, which, in omniscient wisdom, watches over and regulates human affairs. A blessing is intensified by the outpouring of a grateful soul. That very gratitude is a blessing in itself. Men whose minds are bound down and engrossed by the world may speak of this and that fortunate accident, and how well their efforts succeeded, and how skilfully they seized the all-important moment of Fortune; but a higher hand rules all things, and to that hand—the cause, and not the means—are all gifts to be assigned.

Thus had the outlaw discovered, at the eleventh hour, the secret of his birth. For years he had fondly cherished the conviction that he was descended from some noble line, and the whole effort of his life had been untiringly devoted to the discovery of his parentage. He had had his hours of deep depression and wild despair. As the clouds seemed to gather more thick and black around him, he often thought that they would never be dispelled; but always some hope cheered him on, and in that hope he was not deceived. And now there could be no obstacle to his union with the fair Eleanor; her hand he would instantly gain.

All the forenoon was spent by the parents and their son in the recital, by the latter, of the long and troubled history of his life. He detailed each incident; his love for Eleanor; his expulsion from Hawksglen; his union with the outlaws; his desperate adventures. The parents heard the singular narration with feelings of deep sorrow.

“I could fervently thank Elliot for having protected your infancy,” said Sir Dacre; “but my gratitude is destroyed by his cruel expulsion of you at a time when your destiny might have become darker than it has been. It was a hardhearted, almost atrocious deed. Had he no thought that he would plunge you into despair?”

“It was not strictly an expulsion,” answered the youth, “for I abandoned the castle to escape his reproaches and the insolence of his wife.”

“That does not diminish his cruelty in my eyes,” replied Sir Dacre. “What knight of honour and feeling would have so made unhappy and wretched the life of an orphan youth who had no other protector? Elliot has my gratitude for his care of your infancy; but my scorn and hatred for the unmanly violence which made you what you have been. And because you loved his daughter, too! It was a crime for the son of De Ermstein to love the daughter of a paltry Scottish chief!”

“But you should consider, husband, that Elliot had no knowledge of Stephen’s birth,” said the lady.

“No; he looked upon him as a beggar,” rejoined De Ermstein. “Had he known my son’s rank he would have strained every nerve, and employed every resource, fair or foul, to bring about an alliance which would ennoble his name. But he will eagerly seek such alliance now. Let him but hear this day’s news, and I may have a daughter-in-law from Hawksglen to-morrow.”

“I do not lay every blame upon Elliot’s head,” said Stephen, “for, had not his lady urged him on to hate me, I would never have left his house. He repents his errors, and would atone for them were it in his power. But, whatever his errors may be, let us never forget that he brought me up from infancy as if I had been his own. Thrown upon his mercy as a nameless, as an abandoned child, he cherished me with a bounty, a care, and an affection which have no bounds.”

“You amply repaid all that bounty and care and affection,” said the knight, “by defending him against inevitable downfall. Nevertheless, I will not mar our felicity by harbouring hatred against him. But I pray you to think no more of his daughter.”

Stephen was prepared for this. But he was firm in his devotion to Eleanor; his heart never wavered from the fair object of its early choice. He told his father of that maiden’s gentleness; that she had plighted her faith to him; that her love had known no change even in the depths of his degradation; that he would never forsake her; that he would make her his bride. Rather than that his vows should be slighted and broken, he would abandon the happiness which had come upon him.

The old knight’s pride was wounded. There were many ladies in merry England, he said, of ancient name and high fortune, from amongst whom his son could choose a bride. But his son was inflexible. His mother joined him, and Sir Dacre’s pride and wounded feelings at length gave way.

The castle was now filled with festivity, and a proud day it now was to him who had been so recently in the most dismal despair.