Lord Hope felt that his inhospitable expulsion of her brother, and the cruel conversation that had followed it, was the cause of this nervous depression, and his heart smote him. With the letter open in his hand he went up to her chair, and bending over it, kissed Rachael on the forehead.
A smile broke over those gloomy features; the heavy eyes lighted up; she lifted her face to his.
"Oh, you do love me—you do love me!"
"My poor Rachael! how can you permit words that sprang out of the gloomy memories which Hepworth brought to trouble you so? Come, smile again, for I have good news for you—for us all."
"Good news! Is Hepworth coming back?"
"Forget Hepworth just now, and read that."
Lady Hope took the letter and read it through. When she gave it back, her face was radiant.
"At last—at last!" she exclaimed. "Oh, Norton, this will lift me to my proper place by your side. Now, now I will make you proud of me! These patricians shall learn that all great gifts do not spring from birth—that genius has a nobility which can match that given by kings."
Rachael started up in her excitement, flung the shawl away, and stood a priestess where she had just cowered like a wounded animal.
"Now we shall be all the world to each other, and walk through this proud life of yours, fairly mated. Great Heavens! after a night like the last, who could have expected such a morning? But Clara, you will let her go?"