iage, followed by the latter on horseback. As for the Friends, they
went home in a state of bewilderment.

Alice Donnelly, with her brother Henry and Joel Bradbury, returned
on foot. The two former remembered O'Neil, and, although they had not
witnessed his first interview with their father, they knew enough of the
family history to surmise his errand. Joel was silent and troubled.

"Alice, I hope it doesn't mean that we are going back, don't you?" said
Henry.

"Yes," she answered, and said no more.

They took a foot-path across the fields, and reached the farm-house
at the same time with the first party. As they opened the door Sylvia
descended the staircase dressed in a rich shimmering brocade, with
a necklace of amethysts around her throat. To their eyes, so long
accustomed to the absence of positive color, she was completely
dazzling. There was a new color on her cheeks, and her eyes seemed
larger and brighter. She made a stately courtesy, and held open the
parlor door.

"Welcome, Lord Henry Dunleigh, of Dunleigh Castle!" she cried; "welcome,
Lady Dunleigh!"

Her father kissed her on the forehead. "Now give us back our memories,
Sylvia!" he said, exultingly.

Susan Donnelly sank into a chair, overcome by the mixed emotions of the
moment.

"Come in, my faithful Jack! Unpack thy portmanteau of news, for I
see thou art bursting to show it; let us have every thing from
the beginning. Wife, it's a little too much for thee, coming so
unexpectedly. Set out the wine, Alice!"

The decanter was placed upon the table. O'Neil filled a tumbler to the
brim, lifted it high, made two or three hoarse efforts to speak, and
then walked away to the window, where he drank in silence. This little
incident touched the family more than the announcement of their good
fortune. Henry Donnelly's feverish exultation subsided: he sat down with
a grave, thoughtful face, while his wife wept quietly beside him. Sylvia
stood waiting with an abstracted air; Alice removed her mother's bonnet
and shawl; and Henry and Joel, seated together at the farther end of the
room, looked on in silent anticipation.

O'Neil's story was long, and frequently interrupted. He had been Lord
Dunleigh's steward in better days, as his father had been to the old
lord, and was bound to the family by the closest ties of interest
and affection. When the estates became so encumbered that either an
immediate change or a catastrophe was inevitable, he had been taken