“Where, where is she?” asked Brandon, wildly.
“In a convent at London.”
At this moment Despard entered.
“Is this true?” asked Brandon, with a deeper agitation than had ever yet been seen in him—“my sister, is it true that she is not dead?”
“It is true. I should have told you,” said Despard, “but other thoughts drove it from my mind, and I forgot that you might be ignorant.”
“How is it possible? I was at Quebec myself. I have sought over the world after my relatives—”
“I will tell you,” said Despard.
He sat down and began to tell the story of Edith’s voyage and all that Langhetti had done, down to the time of his rescue of her from death. The recital filled Brandon with such deep amazement that he had not a word to say. He listened like one stupefied.
“Thank God!” he cried at last when it was ended; “thank God, I am spared this last anguish; I am freed from the thought which for years has been most intolerable. The memories that remain are bitter enough, but they are not so terrible as this. But I must see her. I must find her. Where is she?”
“Make yourself easy on that score,” said Despard, calmly. “She will be here to-morrow or the day after. I have written to Langhetti’s sister; she will come, and will bring your sister with her.”