woman whom he had
rescued and his friend Windham; but now he saw his protege, Miss
Lorton, recognized by her as her dearest friend, and called by the
most loving names--with an affection, too, which was fully returned
by the one whom she thus addressed. What to think or to say he knew
not. Of all the mysteries of which he had ever heard none equaled
this, and it seemed to become more complicated every instant. He was
at once perplexed by this insoluble problem, and vexed because it was
insoluble. To his calm and straightforward mind nothing was so
aggravating as a puzzle which could not be explained. He abhorred all
mysteries. Yet here he found one full before him which baffled his
utmost powers of comprehension--one, too, in which he himself was
intermixed, and in which he saw Mrs. Hart and Windham and Miss Lorton
all equally involved, and what was worse, equally in the dark.

But if Obed's bewilderment was great, what can be said of that which
filled the mind of Lord Chetwynde? He saw his old nurse, whom
he so deeply and even so passionately loved, turning away from
himself to clasp in her arms, and to greet with the fondest
affection, that beautiful girl who was dearer to him than any thing
else in life. Mrs. Hart knew Miss Lorton! Above all, he was struck by
the name which she gave her. She called her "Zillah!" More than this,
she mentioned Chetwynde! She reproached this girl for running away
from Chetwynde Castle! And to all this Miss Lorton said nothing, but
accepted these fond reproaches in such a way that she made it seem as
though she herself must once in very deed have lived in Chetwynde
Castle, and fled from it. Mrs. Hart called her "Zillah!" To whom did
that strange name belong? To one, and to one alone. That one was the
daughter of General Pomeroy, whom he had married, and who was now his
wife. That one he hated with a hate which no feeling of duty and no
bond of gratitude could either lessen or overcome. Was he not
married? Had he not seen that wife of his a thousand times? Had he
not associated with her at Chetwynde Castle, at Lausanne, on the
road, and in Florence? What madness, what mockery was this? It would
seem as though Mrs. Hart had mistaken Miss Lorton for that detested
wife who stood between him and his love. But how could such a mistake
be made? True, the complexion of each was dark, and the hair of each
was black, and the forms and figures were not unlike; but the
features were widely differe