A few moments passed and the footman re-entered and announced: 

“Mr. Scott,” and withdrew.

The duke wheeled his chair around and looked at the visitor, who stood just within the door, bowing profoundly.

The newcomer was a youth of about fifteen years of age, tall, slight and elegant in form; fair, blue-eyed and light-haired in complexion; refined, graceful and self possessed in manner; and faultlessly dressed in deep mourning; but! how amazingly like the duke’s own son, the young Marquis of Arondelle.

The duke’s short survey of his visitor seemed so satisfactory that he arose and advanced to meet him, saying kindly: 

“You wished particularly to see me, I understand, young gentleman.  In what manner can I serve you?”

The youth bowed again with the deepest deference, and said: 

“Thanks, your grace.  I bring you a letter of introduction.”

“Sit down, young sir, sit down, and give me your letter,” said the duke, pointing to a chair, and resuming his own seat.  “Good Heaven, how like this boy’s voice was to the voice of the young Marquis of Arondelle!  Who could he be?” mused the duke, as he sat and waited the issue.

The youth seated himself as directed, and seemed to hesitate, as if respectfully referring to his host’s convenience.

“Your letter of introduction, now, if you please, young sir,” said the duke, at length.

“Thanks; your grace.  It’s from my mother.  She—­” Here the boy’s voice faltered and broke down; but he soon, recovered it and resumed:  “She wrote it on her death-bed—­on the very day she died.  Here it is, your grace.”

The duke took the letter and held it gravely in his fingers while he gazed upon the orphaned boy with sympathy and compassion in every lineament of his fine face, saying, slowly and seriously: 

“Ah! that is very, very sad.  You have lost your mother, my boy; and if I judge correctly from the circumstance of your coming to me, you have lost your father also.  I hope, however, I am wrong.”

“Your grace is right.  I have lost my father also.  I lost him first, so long ago that I have no memory of him.  I have no relatives at all.  That is the reason why my dear mother, on her death-bed, gave me that letter of introduction to your grace, who used to know her, so that I might not be without friends as well as without relatives,” modestly replied the youth.

“Ah!  I see!  I see!  And she wrote this letter on her death-bed, which gives it a grave importance.  I must therefore pay the more respect to it.  The wishes of the dying should be considered sacred,” said the duke, as he adjusted his glass and looked at the letter, wondering who the writer could be and what claims she could possibly have on him; but feeling too kindly toward the orphan-boy to let such thought betray itself.

He scrutinized the handwriting of the letter.  He could not recognize the faint, scratchy, uncertain characters as anything he had ever seen before.  After all, the whole thing might be an imposture, and he himself an exceedingly great dupe, to suffer his feelings to be enlisted by a perfect stranger, merely because that stranger happened to be a counterpart of his own idolized boy Arondelle.