This had been satisfactorily proved to him by the said Sarah Somerton, who had changed the said persons when they were infants; and the likeness of the late beloved testator’s wife bore testimony to the truth thereof.

But though the testator was fully satisfied of this, and though he acknowledged the person known as the said Amy Somerton to be his lawful child, his will had been drawn in such a way that its validity and legal weight should not simply rest upon this; but certain checks and explanations and provisions were made, the result being that the person hitherto known as Amy Somerton should be his heiress, and henceforth take the name of Tallant.

To this lady he left the whole of his real and personal estates, furniture, plate, linen, and moneys of all descriptions, banked or funded.

This was set forth in a deed of great length, dealing as it did with an estate which could so well afford long clauses on many sheets of parchment.

Property of the value of five hundred a year was left to Phœbe Somerton; a legacy of 2000l. to her father, and numerous small legacies to servants and others.

The name of Richard Tallant was not mentioned in any way, and that gentleman resolved to dispute the validity of the will.

He told the lawyer that he would file a bill in Chancery the very next day. The lawyer smiled and said he had no objection.

This was the report which Luke Somerton gave to his wife.

“And so justice is done,” said Mrs. Somerton. “Thank God!”

The lawyer had discreetly prepared the two girls for what was to come, so that the extraordinary revelation and the great change might not come upon them so suddenly as to be dangerous.

The whole truth, when it was disclosed to them, changed all those feelings of estrangement which had lately been engendered by Amy’s desperate conduct.

In a moment Phœbe, with all the nobleness of her nature, felt Amy’s wrongs; and Amy’s heart overflowed with gratitude to Phœbe, and with love and sympathy.

“Sister, dear, dear sister!” Amy exclaimed, folding Phœbe in her arms, and sobbing aloud.

Phœbe hid her face in Amy’s neck, with a hundred strange emotions agitating her.

And then they sat together hand in hand, each occupied with her own thoughts; each too much under the influence of the change which had come to pass, to have any very clear thoughts about it.

Phœbe had all along mourned for Mr. Tallant with all the sorrow of a daughter; she had often felt, as my readers know, that all her love was not reciprocated, but she knew how much her mother had been loved, and how deeply her loss had affected him, and she loved him as a daughter and would continue to do so.

She could not for the moment bring herself to look upon Mrs. Somerton as her mother: she had always admired Luke, and had spent many an hour talking to him amongst the poultry and the sheep, and in the corn-fields. It was no degradation to be the daughter of such a man as Luke Somerton, and none, perhaps, for that matter, to be the daughter of his wife; but it was a great change—too great for Phœbe to comprehend it thus far. Her first thought had been for Amy, and Amy’s first thought had been for Phœbe.

But in a few short hours Phœbe’s highly-wrought sensibilities began to reflect back upon her the true meaning of the change in her position. She was only a visitor here. She had enjoyed many privileges in this house, and many advantages; she was thankful for them, but they had not been hers by right, and now they were hers no longer in any sense.

She would go home. Something like a shudder came over her as she said this to herself in her own room, and she rebuked herself for it, and knelt down and prayed, thanking God for all his mercies, and earnestly soliciting His guidance and protection.

What a sweet, fair face it was, turned upwards in supplication; the deep blue beseeching eyes, the half-opened lips, the pale cheeks, the round, arched neck, the long wavy hair thrown back: what more beautiful picture than such a woman kneeling in prayer?

How different was Amy’s occupation. Pacing to and fro in her room, and looking at herself now and then in the long mirrors which adorned the wardrobes, she was torn by contending feelings, too varied for peace, too strong for aught else, at that moment, but walking.

She was overcome by her advancement. Lately we have seen how high her ambition had soared; we have seen how she had changed, how she had marked out a new line of action, how she had set her heart on something almost beyond the romantic dreams of mere ambition.

Her love for Lionel Hammerton—her deep, mad love had been trampled on, and she had risen a new being, with all the pride of her dead mother beating in every vein, with a sense of insult and wrong far beyond what she had a right to feel, far beyond the measure of Hammerton’s offence.

The appearance of Earl Verner at Barton Hall that day had given a new tone to her life. He had appeared at the very moment when decision seemed wavering; he had come upon her like an interpretation of her own thoughts, as if Fate said, “Here is your opportunity;” and then it was that she determined to play for high stakes, even at the risk of ridicule and failure.

And now that she stood on the hill top, and had only, she knew, to raise her finger and beckon, she was bewildered. Lord Verner had called at Barton Hall twice since that memorable meeting, and had on the second occasion evinced marked admiration of Amy, such as could not be mistaken, notwithstanding that he knew her position, for he had signified as much.

If even her lowly birth and her poverty had not scared Earl Verner away, she knew well enough that her wealth would only enhance her beauty and attractions.

What delicious revenge to marry Lionel’s brother, and to make the chance of a coronet for him all the more remote!

And yet, how she had loved this man! How fervently, how fondly? Did he know how much? She asked herself the question, and then blushed at the remembrance of a hundred little acts in which she had disclosed it to him.

Had he encouraged her love? She asked herself that question, too; and then she recalled softly whispered compliments, and delicately hinted regrets that society should not welcome beauty into its ranks without requiring that it should be backed with ancestry. And above all, she remembered a time when he told her a simple narrative, how the brother of a noble earl had loved a beautiful maiden, a farmer’s daughter, and how when he had made a name beyond that which mere rank could give, he came back and married her; and how, upon that occasion, he had kissed her and pressed her hand, and left her bathed in tears of joy and fear.

And yet, without a word he had left her; without even telling her that he loved her; not even giving her the consolation of hope. She had been too confiding, weak, silly, and he had treated her accordingly: he should see how Amy Tallant would requite him.

She was walking to and fro, with her earnest eyes looking out into the new, strange future, when a servant brought her the card of Mr. Arthur Phillips.

“Tell him I will see him. Show him into the library.”

Arthur began to apologise for calling at such a time, but Amy silenced him at once by telling him she had desired to see him; and, full of her own purposes and feelings, she said:—

“Have you heard from Lionel Hammerton?”

“I have,” said Arthur.

“Pray excuse me if I appear inquisitive or rude. I have ample reasons for going a little beyond what may seem courteous under the circumstances. Does he mention me in his letter?”

“He does not,” said Arthur, quietly.

“Have you heard from him more than once?”

“Only once,” said Arthur.

“Does he mention Barton Hall? Pray, be plain with me: on your honour, as a gentleman?”

“Yes, he does,” said Arthur.

“How? does he send any message?”

“He desires to be remembered to Miss Tallant.”

“Meaning Phœbe, of course?”

“Yes,” said Arthur.

“And he does not refer to me in any way?”

“No,” said Arthur.

“Did you see him before he left England?”

“I did.”

“Did he take leave of you? did he bid you good-bye?”

“He did,” said Arthur.

“Pray pardon me, Mr. Phillips; I assure you these questions are of great moment—they concern the happiness of more than one person.”

Miss Tallant was greatly excited.

“Did he mention me to you upon that occasion?”

“Really, Miss Somerton—Miss Tallant—I beg your pardon,” said Arthur; “but you must not expect me to go into our private conversations.”

“I do, sir; I command—I entreat,” she added, in supplicating accents, “did he charge you with any message to me?”

“He did not,” said Arthur.

“Did he speak of me, sir—did he speak of me—in what way did he speak of me?”

“Really,” said Arthur, in an expostulating manner.

“Suppose you were my brother, sir, and suppose I loved that man, your friend; did he speak of me in such a way as you would wish for the man to speak whom your sister loved? You see I am plain with you—be you honest with me; Yes or no.”

“I must decline to answer,” said Arthur.

“And you profess to be in love; nay, you need not start. Do you think I do not know your secret? Do you think I do not know how many sleepless nights you have spent; how you have been tossed between hope and fear; how you have cursed your lot, and consoled yourself with poetic dreams, and the voice of her you love? I tell you my happiness and all my hopes are at stake. I know well enough—my own instincts tell me that he did but trifle with my love, and your silence only confirms it. Now that wealth falls in to fill up the scale and weigh down the balance, I should despise myself if I accepted compromise; for I very nearly hate him as it is; but I seek for full satisfaction. I will ask you but one more question. Did he speak of me before he left England as you would speak to a friend who had your confidence concerning Phœbe?”

“No, he did not,” said Arthur, earnestly.

“Thank you,” said Amy, “thank you, Mr. Phillips, sincerely; and now may I beg that you never repeat what has passed in this conversation?”

“You may rely upon me,” said Arthur.

Amy put out her hand, and said good-bye, and left the artist wondering at her extraordinary conduct.