When he found that he must go, he insisted on carrying off the child; and the Begum was as resolute against it.  Then Mrs. Mackie, eager to expedite little Stuart in her escape, went to the princess, told her how that, in anticipation of this day, she had changed the children, and got great rewards for thus restoring to the mother her own offspring.

The remainder of that old Scotch nurse’s very prosy tale may be left to be imagined:  for all that was essential has been stated:  and the documents in proof of all were these—­

First:  The marriage certificates of James Stuart and Ami di Romagna, duly attested, both in the Protestant and Romanist forms.

Secondly:  Divers letters to Lieutenant Stewart from his friends at Glenmuir; others to Mrs. Stuart, from her father, the old Marquis di Romagna, at Naples:  several trinkets, locks of hair, the wedding-ring, &c.

Thirdly:  A grant written in the Hindoostanee character, from the Begum Dowlia, promising the pension of thirty rupees a month to Jeanie Mackie, for having so cleverly preserved to her the child:  together with a regular judicial acknowledgement, both from several of Tracy’s own sepoys, and from the Begum herself, that the girl, whom Captain Tracy was so fond of, was, to the best of their belief, Amy Stuart.

Fourthly:  A miniature of Mrs. James Stuart, exactly portraying the features of her daughter—­this bright, beautiful, dark-eyed face—­our own beloved Emily Warren.

And to all that accumulated evidence, Jeanie Mackie bore her living testimony; clearly, unhesitatingly, and well assured, in the face of God and man.

Doubt was at an end; fear was at an end; hope was come, and joy.  Happy were the lovers, happy Jeanie Mackie, but happiest of all appeared the general himself.  For now she might be his daughter indeed, sweet Emmy Tracy still, dear Charles’s loving wife.  And he blessed them as they knelt, and gave them to each other; well-rewarded children of affection, who had prayed in their distress!

CHAPTER XXVIII.

JULIAN TURNS UP:  AND THERE’S AN END OF MRS. TRACY.

THERE is a muddy sort of sand-bank, acting as a delta to the Mullet, just where it spreads from deep to shallow, and falls into the sea.  Strange wild fowl abound there, coming from the upper clouds in flocks; and at high water, very little else but rushes can be seen, to testify its sub-marine existence.

A knot of fishermen, idling on the beach, have noticed an uncommon flight of Royston crows gathered at the island, with the object, as it would appear, of battening on a dead porpoise, or some such body, just discernible among the rushes.  Stop—­that black heap may be kegs of whiskey;—­where’s the glass?

Every one looked:  it warn’t barrels—­and it warn’t a porpoise:  what was it, then? they had universally nothing on earth to do, so they pushed off in company to see.