"My name is Henry Daubrey," said the boy.
"Daubrey" thought Eugene; "can that the her maiden name? I almost forgot. Ellwood was the name he gave her." He hesitated; then, turning to the lady, remarked, in a somewhat embarrassed manner: "Judging by these paintings, madam, I should imagine you, like myself, are almost a stranger here. These are no country daubs."
"Mamma did these herself," explained the boy. The lady signed to the boy to be silent. "She had not lived there always;" she said.
"Pardon my impertinence, madam," said Eugene, "but this young lad's features so strikingly resemble those of a friend I have lately lost, that I can but fancy he must be in some way related to him."
"What was your friend's name?"
"The Duke of Durimond."
The lady turned alarmingly pale, as she faltered forth, "And is the Duke of Durimond is dead?"
"He died in my arms, about four months ago."
There was a long pause, which no one seemed inclined to break. At length Eugene resumed: "The duke's life, latterly, puzzled many. He married, left his wife suddenly, went abroad, fell ill, for upward of two years suffered greatly, even tortures occasionally, which tortures he endured with the patience of a martyr, being even thankful for his sufferings. He died in the sentiments of the most perfect contrition, immediately after receiving the Holy Viaticum."
"The Viaticum! Was the duke a Catholic?"