"Helen, daughter of Iain MacAonghais, to her son Philip, on his tenth birthday, at the Tower of Craigrollo."
"This is the writing of my grandmother, the daughter of John, the son of Angus of Strathdee! She had been reared by her aunt, who was a nun in a Lowland convent, and, after the storm of the Reformation, had retired to her father's house, where she dwelt in the strictest seclusion, and practising every austerity and rule of her order, had reached a wondrous age, and, outliving all her contemporaries, died only a short time before my embarkation for Denmark. The Count of Carlstein is my long missing uncle, Philip—Oh, Ernestine, I am your cousin!"
I exclaimed all this with one breath; threw an arm around her, and kissed her forehead. A sudden light—a gleam of pleasure and astonishment—flashed in the eyes of Ernestine.
"My cousin!—you—are we cousins? Oh, it is impossible!"
"You are my dear cousin. Oh, Ernestine! my sweet little heart, how I shall love you!"
"Good Heaven—how strange! In one day I lose my father and find a kinsman!"
"Now, have I not a right to be your guardian—and Ian, too! And Gabrielle—oh, I must kiss that little fairy! Ian—Ian! Hallo!" I exclaimed, throwing my bonnet into the air; "M'Farquhar—come hither—we are all cousins!"
"It is a miracle!" said Ernestine.
"Believe me, dear Ernestine," said I, tenderly; "love works more miracles than all the saints in your Roman calendar."