"To this neighborhood!" exclaimed Lord Hope. "Where? where?"
"My lord, up to this time you have only the word of an old woman, who has suffered under great reproach for all this. I know that the identity of a nobleman's child and the transfer of a great inheritance cannot be so proven. But here is the letter, which Lady Hope gave to me, and another that she wrote to you on the day of her death. Poor, poor lady! She was very sad that morning, and would undertake the letter at once. God seemed to warn her of what would happen in the next twenty-four hours."
Lord Hope took the papers which the old woman handed to him, and there, in the presence of the dead, gathered a confirmation of all Mrs. Yates had told him.
The paper had grown yellow since it was blotted with the tears of a woman he had once loved. No wonder it shook his hand as he read.
"And this girl, my daughter, where is she?" he cried, with a passionate outburst of grief.
The girl known as Lady Clara came out from the shadows of the window curtains, and made an effort to draw Caroline with her; but she shrank back and stood alone, trembling violently.
"Papa!"
"Oh, my poor, poor child! How will you bear this?" cried Lord Hope.
"Trust me, dear, dear papa—for I will call you so. Nothing can break my heart, if you and mamma Rachael will love me yet; for the rest, I am glad, so glad, that I am no longer a lady, and am left without a guinea. This is to be really free!"
"Ah, poor child, how can we ever part with you?"