"Well, Miss Watling," she cried, still panting, "the mystery's all out at last. Dorothy Chance is Lord Wilton's own daughter! and that poor beggar woman, as you was used to call her, was no other than Alice Knight, rich old Mrs. Knight's daughter, whom the Earl's good mother adopted, and he married unbeknown to her."
"I'll not believe a word of it!" said Nancy, resolutely.
"Why, woman, it's all here in the paper," and Mrs. Lane tapped the important document significantly, "and as true as gospel. Do you suppose the Earl would allow the newspapers to meddle with his private affairs? Don't you hear the bells ringing; and if you come down to the village with me, you'll see all the flags a flying, and them who has no flags, puts out o' their windows quilts and hankerchers. Oh, it's true, true, and I be right glad on it. I allers did think Dorothy Chance a fine girl."
"I wonder how her ladyship bears her new dignity?" said Miss Watling, waspishly.
"As meek as a lamb," returned Mrs. Lane.
"How the old man will fret and fume that Gilbert did not marry her. It serves him right, at any rate."
"How money do make people turn about," continued Mrs. Lane. "It was only this time last year that I heard you praise old Rushmere for turning Dorothy out o' doors. Before another week is over, you will be boasting of her acquaintance.
"Good morning, Nancy, I can't stay longer. The butcher has promised to give me a cast in his cart, as far as Barfords. I know Jane Barford will be glad of any good that happens to Dorothy."
And off went the little bustling woman to spread the glad tidings in every house she passed.