nt; the large, soft, loving eyes of Miss
Lorton were not like those gleaming, fiery orbs that he had seen in
the woman whom he thought his wife; and the expression of the face in
each was as unlike as possible. Could Mrs. Hart be in a delirium? She
must be mad! But then the worst of it was, that if she were mad Miss
Lorton must be mad also.

"Where am I?" said Mrs. Hart, rousing herself, and breaking in upon
Lord Chetwynde's thoughts. "It seems to me that I have suddenly
escaped from a hell, where I have been living, and have come into
heaven. Where am I? How is it that I find myself among those whom I
hold most dear? Oh, my old friend! my savior! my benefactor! tell me,
are you really a living being?"

"Nothing shorter," replied Obed, solemnly, "to the best of my
knowledge and belief, though at the present moment I feel inclined to
doubt it."

"My boy, give me your hand. Do I really hold it? Am I not dreaming?"

"No, my dear old nurse. I am really alive, and you are alive, and I
am really your boy--your Guy--though hang me if I understand all
this!"

"Zillah, my sweet child, give me your hand too. You have become
reconciled to him, then. I see how it is. Ah! how dear you are to one
another! My God! what blessedness is this! And yet I thought that you
had fled from him, and left him forever. But he found you. You are
reunited once more."

She placed Zillah's hand in Lord Chetwynde's, and Lord Chetwynde held
it closely, firmly, in a passionate grasp, not knowing what all this
meant, yet in his vehement love willing to take blindly all that
might be given to him, even though it came to him through the
delirium of his old nurse. He held it tightly, though Zillah in a
kind of terror tried to withdraw it. He held it, for something told
him in the midst of his bewilderment that it was his.

Tears flowed from Mrs. Hart's eyes. There was a deep silence around.
At last Obed Chute spoke.

"My Christian friends," said he, "it's been my lot and my privilege
to attend the theatre in my youthful days, and I've often seen what
they call _situations_; but of all the onparalleled situations that
were ever put upon the boards, from '76 down to '59, I'll be hanged
if this isn't the greatest, the grandest, and the most bewildering.
I'm floored. I give up. Henceforth Obed Chute exists no longer. He is
dead. Hic jacet. In memoriam. E pluribus unum. You may be Mr.
Windham, and you, my child, may be Miss Lorton, or you may not. You