"Her brother!" and Margaretta turned as pale as death; "what do you know of Philip Mornington?"
"He is my friend—my dearest, most valued friend."
"Thank God he is alive!"
"And likely to live," said I, leading her to a chair; for we had been standing during our long conversation in the deep recess of the library window. "Margaret, will you be offended if I ask you one question?"
"Not in the least, cousin."
"And will you answer me with your usual candour?"
"Why should you doubt it, Geoffrey?" said she, trembling with agitation.
"Do you love Philip Mornington?"
"I do, Geoffrey—I have loved him from a child, but not in the way you mean—not such love as a girl feels for her lover. I could not think of him for one moment as my husband. No, it is a strange interest I feel in his destiny: I feel as if he were a part of me, as if I had a natural right to love him. He is so like my father, only milder and less impetuous, that I have thought it possible that he might be his natural son—and if so, my brother."
What a relief was this declaration to my mind. I could not for a moment doubt its sincerity, and I rejoiced that the dear tender-hearted creature before me, was not likely to wreck her peace in loving one whom she could not wed. Yet, that she did love some one I felt certain; and though I dared not prosecute the inquiry, it was a problem that I was very anxious to solve.