From this time, the recovery of Venetia, though slow, was gradual.  She experienced no relapse, and in a few weeks quitted her bed.  She was rather surprised at her altered appearance when it first met her glance in the mirror, but scarcely made any observation on the loss of her locks.  During this interval, the mind of Venetia had been quite dormant; the rage of the fever, and the violent remedies to which it had been necessary to have recourse, had so exhausted her, that she had not energy enough to think.  All that she felt was a strange indefinite conviction that some occurrence had taken place with which her memory could not grapple.  But as her strength returned, and as she gradually resumed her usual health, by proportionate though almost invisible degrees her memory returned to her, and her intelligence.  She clearly recollected and comprehended what had taken place.  She recalled the past, compared incidents, weighed circumstances, sifted and balanced the impressions that now crowded upon her consciousness.  It is difficult to describe each link in the metaphysical chain which at length connected the mind of Venetia Herbert with her actual experience and precise situation.  It was, however, at length perfect, and gradually formed as she sat in an invalid chair, apparently listless, not yet venturing on any occupation, or occasionally amused for a moment by her mother reading to her.  But when her mind had thus resumed its natural tone, and in time its accustomed vigour, the past demanded all her solicitude.  At length the mystery of her birth was revealed to her.  She was the daughter of Marmion Herbert; and who was Marmion Herbert?  The portrait rose before her.  How distinct was the form, how definite the countenance!  No common personage was Marmion Herbert, even had he not won his wife, and celebrated his daughter in such witching strains.  Genius was stamped on his lofty brow, and spoke in his brilliant eye; nobility was in all his form.  This chivalric poet was her father.  She had read, she had dreamed of such beings, she had never seen them.  If she quitted the solitude in which she lived, would she see men like her father?  No other could ever satisfy her imagination; all beneath that standard would rank but as imperfect creations in her fancy.  And this father, he was dead.  No doubt.  Ah! was there indeed no doubt?  Eager as was her curiosity on this all-absorbing subject, Venetia could never summon courage to speak upon it to her mother.  Her first disobedience, or rather her first deception of her mother, in reference to this very subject, had brought, and brought so swiftly on its retributive wings, such disastrous consequences, that any allusion to Lady Annabel was restrained by a species of superstitious fear, against which Venetia could not contend.  Then her father was either dead or living.  That was certain.  If dead, it was clear that his memory, however cherished by his relict, was associated with feelings too keen to