"No. How strangely you speak! Tell me! Who are you?"
"Meg, Meg! whom do I resemble?"
"Sir Alurde," said she, quickly. Then, with a sudden light breaking in on her mind, "Then he was your ancestor?"
"Ah, you have guessed my secret. Yes, Meg, my real name is Francis Breel."
"Lord Ardleigh!"
"Precisely. And you, my dearest, who took poor Dan for his own worth, will be Lady Ardleigh of Farbis Court."
[CHAPTER XXVII.]
THE THIRD LETTER TO A LONDON FRIEND.
Dear Jack,
If this letter is wild, and incoherent, and rhapsodical, be sparing of your astonishment and blame. A scribe in my state of mind is not responsible for his epistles. Therefore be patient and read this letter carefully, for herein you will find a reason for these excuses. If you do not find my explanation all-sufficient, then you are not the sympathetic friend I took you for. What, indeed, is the use of friendship if it does not encourage and sympathize and congratulate? Were you in love--which you are not, judging from your cynical letters--I would patiently listen to your maunderings, so hearken to mine. If you wonder at this preamble learn the reason in three sentences. I love her! She loves me! We are engaged. Here I consider you have an ample explanation.