The letter fell from my hands and I looked at it in blank astonishment too great for words.

Sir Barnard Trevelyan!  Crown Anstey!  Why, the last time I ever heard those names my mother sat talking to me about this proud, stately cousin of my father—­cousin who had never noticed either him or us by word or by look.  I was curious, and asked many questions about him.  She told me he had married some great lady, the daughter of a duke, and that he had two sons—­Miles, the eldest, and Cecil.  I remembered having heard of Cecil’s death, but never dreamed that it could affect me.

Moreland & Paine!  I knew the firm very well; they had large offices in Lincoln’s Inn, and bore a high reputation.  Suddenly my heart stood still.  Why, of course, it was a jest—­a sorry jest of one of my fellow clerks.  There they were, looking at me with eager, wondering eyes—­of course it was a jest.  My heart almost ceased to beat, and I caught my breath with something like a sob.

They should not laugh at me; they should not read what was passing in my mind.

I put the letter calmly and deliberately in my pocket and opened my ledger.  I fancied they looked disappointed.  Ah! it was but a jest; I would not think of it.

I worked hard until the dinner hour, and then asked permission to absent myself for a time.  Dinner was not in my thoughts, but I went quickly as I could walk to the office of Moreland & Paine.

CHAPTER II.

Mr. Paine was not in.  Mr. Moreland was in his office.  I went up the stairs, trembling, fearful of being abused for stupidity in taking the least notice of such a letter.

Mr. Moreland looked up when the clerk announced my name—­looked up, bowed and positively rose from his seat.  I took the letter from my pocket.

“I received this this morning, but, believing it to be a jest played upon me, I have not mentioned it.  I have called to ask you if you know anything of it.”

He took the letter from me with a strange smile.

“I wrote it myself last evening,” he said, and I looked at him bewildered.

Good heaven! it was all true.  To this moment I do not know how I bore the shock.  I remember falling into a chair, Mr. Moreland standing over me with a glass of something in his hand, which he forced me to drink.

“Your fortune has a strange effect upon you,” he said, kindly.

“I cannot believe it!” I cried, clasping his hand.  “I cannot realize it!  I have been working so hard—­so hard for one single sovereign—­and now, you say, I am rich!”

“Now, most certainly,” he replied, “you are Sir Edgar Trevelyan, master of Crown Anstey and a rent roll of ten thousand a year.”

I am not ashamed to confess that when I heard that I bowed my head on my hands and cried like a child.

“You have borne bad fortune better than this,” said Mr. Moreland; and then I remember telling him, in incoherent words, how poor we had been and how Clare was fading away for want of the nourishment and good support I was utterly unable to find for her.