ell you all," as he pointed to
Quackinboss, for a faintish sick sensation crept over his frame, and he
shook like one in the cold stage of an ague. The American, however, gave
a very calm and connected narrative of their first meeting with Mrs.
Penthony Morris and her supposed daughter at Lucca; how that lady, from
a chance acquaintance with the Heatbcotes, had established an intimacy,
and then a friendship there.

"Describe her to me,--tell me something of her appearance," burst in the
old man with impatience; for as his mind followed the long-sought-for
"trail," his eagerness became beyond his power of control. "Blue eyes,
that might be mistaken for black, or dark hazel, had she not? and the
longest of eyelashes, the mouth full and pouting, but the chin sharply
turned, and firm-looking? Am I right?"

"That are you, and teeth as reg'lar as a row of soldiers."

"Her foot, too, was perfect. It had been modelled scores of times by
sculptors, and there were casts of it with a Roman sandal, or naked on a
plantain-leaf, in her drawing-room. You've seen her foot?"

"It was a grand foot! I _have_ seen it," said the American; "and if I
was one as liked monarchy, I 'd say it might have done for a queen to
stand on in front of a throne."

"What was her voice like?" asked the old man, eagerly.

"Low and soft, with almost a tremor in it when she asked some trifling
favor," said Alfred, now speaking for the first time.

"Herself,--her very self. I know her well, by _that!_" cried the old
man, triumphantly. "I carried those trembling accents in my memory for
many and many a day. Go on, and tell me more of her. Who was this same
Morris,--when, how, and where were they married?"

"We never knew; none of us ever saw him. Some said he was living, and
in China or India. Some called her a widow. The girl Clara was called
hers--"

"No. Clara was Hawke's. She most have been Hawke's daughter by his first
wife, the niece of this Winthrop."

"She's the great heiress, then," broke in Quackinboss; "she's to have
Peddar's Clearings, and the whole of that track beside Grove's River.
There ain't such another fortune in all Ohio."

"And this was poor Clara's secret," said Alfred to Quackinboss, in a
whisper, "when she said, 'I only know that I am an orphan, and that my
name is not Clara Morris.'"

"Do _you_ think, then, sir, that such a rogue as that fellow Trover went
out all the way to the Western States to make out that gal's right t