"Similar to this!" she repeated with surprise. "Good Heavens, this is the miniature that was found with Louise! Tell me, I entreat you, Sir Henry, how it came into your possession; or if you know aught which could develope the mystery of her birth?"
At that moment Louise entered, and the Marchioness continued—"St. Ursule, my child, come hither. You are in the highest degree interested in the present subject. Sir Henry Corbet has brought this miniature, and inquires for a child who some years back was left at the gates of St. Ursule, in Rennes."
The colour fled the interesting face of Louise at this account: with a trembling hand she took the miniature, and compared it with that she constantly wore; the resemblance was exact. "Oh, Sir Henry!" she exclaimed; "tell me, I conjure you, whence this picture? You seek a child—say, do you know my parents, or the reason of their cruel desertion of me in my infancy?"
"Cruel desertion indeed!" said Sir Henry; "arising from shame to acknowledge their offspring! But no longer shall you be a dependent! My heart claimed you the moment I beheld you; and a view of your mother's picture, last night, but confirmed my suspicion, that you were—my sister!"
He clasped her in his arms in an affectionate embrace, unresisted by Louise; who, surprised and bewildered at the unexpected claim, was for some moments incapable of speaking.
"Your sister!" exclaimed the Captain and the Marchioness. "Good God! Sir Henry, by what strange circumstances?"
"Seek not an explanation, now," said Sir Henry, "which must expose the frailties of a parent. The time is approaching, when every action must be revealed; but till then, spare me—spare Louise!"
Louise now disengaged herself from the arms of Sir Henry, and, throwing herself into those of the Marchioness, cried—"Oh, Madam, congratulate your Louise; she is no longer the child of desertion: she has found a relation—she has found a brother!"
The Marchioness embraced her affectionately; and Sir Henry then presented her to the Captain and Frederick, as his sister.
"And will not you too participate in the happiness of this moment?" said the smiling Louise, advancing to Harland; who had witnessed the discovery with sensations of horror rather than surprise. Roused from his torpor by this address, he regarded her a moment, then, wildly dashing his forehead, exclaimed—"By Heavens, my brain is on fire!" and ran precipitately out of the room. This incoherent behaviour of Harland repressed the joy arising in the bosom of Louise: she looked round as entreating an explanation.