Mrs Mordington had a brother who had been many years in India, and having returned to Britain, he took up his residence in Ayrshire. Being a widower, and without children, he sent for his sister and her daughter to reside with him. They remained as the inmates of his roof for more than ten years, and during that period she heard nothing of her lost son. But her brother, who was now an old man, died, leaving to her his property; and, regarding the place where her husband's bones lay as her home, she returned to Tweedmouth. There, however, she had not been long, when disease fell, as a withering blight, on the cheeks of her remaining child. Year followed year, and, as the leaves dropped from the trees, her daughter seemed ready to drop into the grave. Over her face consumption's fitful rainbow spread its beautiful but deadly streaks; and, though the widow now possessed affluence, she knew not happiness. Her son was not, and her fair daughter was withering before her, as a flower on which the cankerworm had fixed its teeth. Yet, long the maiden lingered, until her aged mother almost hoped that they would go down into the grave together.
Eighteen years had passed since the festival which had proved fatal to the early promise and the fond prospects of George Mordington. Margaret's day had again come round, and the neighbours of the widow, with their children and friends around them, held a holiday. A slow and unwieldy vehicle, which was then the only land conveyance between Berwick and London, stopped in the village. A sunburned stranger alighted from it, and as he left the coach, a young maiden crossed his path. She seemed to be seventeen or eighteen years of age, and was dressed in a mourning-gown, with a white sarcenet hood over her head, being in the dress of one who was inviting guests to a funeral.
"Maiden," said the stranger, accosting her, "can you inform me where Mrs Mordington resides?"
"Yes, sir," she replied; "I am bidding for the funeral."
"For what funeral?" he exclaimed, eagerly.
"For her daughter's, sir," answered the maiden.
"My sister—my poor sister!" cried the stranger, clasping his hands together.
"Your sister!" said she, inquiringly gazing in his face, and throwing back her hood as she spoke.
"Heaven!" he exclaimed, and starting back; "your name, maiden—your name!" But he added, "I need not ask it; it is written on your features. Your mother's name is Marion?"
"It is," replied the astonished and half-terrified girl.