“Yes, master, I have brought a letter from Walter Margrove.”
Ian took the letter and went over to the window seat on the far side of the room to read it.
“Wilfred,” thought Aline; “Wilfred”; it had a familiar sound before, when Ian used the name on the road:—and he came from Kirkoswald,—there was too a tale to be told as Ian had said,—and Ian himself had been using an assumed name. Could it by any chance be the boy of little Joan’s sad story?
He held out his hand bashfully, and bent his head. As Aline took it he said;—“I humbly crave your pardon, but I believe now I know who you are.”
Aline blushed and then she said quietly, “You have probably guessed rightly. Whom do you think I am?”
He looked at her for a moment. How could there possibly be any doubt; there could not be two such beautiful people in the world; and he had heard Walter and Andrew, besides Ian, allude to her unparalleled loveliness. “You are Mistress Gillespie,” he said, and bowed awkwardly.
Aline smiled sadly. “Yes,” she said, “I am and I believe I have just discovered who you are. Your name is not really Ackroyd, is it?”
“Yes, Mistress, it is,” he answered.
Aline looked baffled, but he continued,—“However, I have never been known as Ackroyd, as I lived with an Aunt whose name was Johnstone.”
“I thought so,” she replied softly. “Come sit over here, for I have a sorrowful tale for you.”