Godfrey.
Give me your hand.
You are God's noblest work, an honest man;
True to the witness your own spirit bears;
And so does every man's, would they but hear
And follow as you do—that worth is won,
And not inherited. 'Tis circumstance
That makes the difference in our mortal lot;
And Providence arranges this at will.
How kind the lot that gives you Isabelle!
Judge.
My son! my son! may you be worthy of her,
And love her alway. Know she is the one
That, in your boyhood, was your "little wife!"
The Isabelle De Vere we mourned as dead.
You stand amazed; but all shall be explained.
Henry Bolton.
Oh, let me go and tell her!
Godfrey.
I'll go with you:
And, as we go, will make the mystery plain.
Judge.
And bring her here. Order the carriage, Henry,
And bring her home with you. Tell her I long
To fold her to my heart and call her daughter.
[Exit Young Bolton and Godfrey.