Miss T. Oh, strange chance! Oh, unheard-of coincidence! Married! And to whom?
Min. Oh, to the dearest love—My cousin, Mr. Cheviot Hill. Perhaps you know the name?
Miss T. I have heard of the Cheviot Hills, somewhere. Happy—strangely happy girl! You, at least, know your husband’s name.
Min. Oh yes, it’s on all his pocket-handkerchiefs.
Miss T. It is much to know. I do not know mine.
Min. Have you forgotten it?
Miss T. No; I never knew it. It is a dark mystery. It may not be unfathomed. It is buried in the fathomless gulf of the Eternal Past. There let it lie.
Min. Oh, tell me all about it, dear.
Miss T. It is a lurid tale. Three months since I fled from a hated one, who was to have married me. He pursued me. I confided my distress to a young and wealthy stranger. Acting on his advice, I declared myself to be his wife; he declared himself to be my husband. We were parted immediately afterwards, and we have never met since. But this took place in Scotland; and by the law of that remarkable country we are man and wife, though I didn’t know it at the time.
Min. What fun!