may be somebody else. We may all be somebody else. I'm somebody else.
I'll be hanged if I'm myself. To my dying day I don't expect to
understand this. Don't try to explain it, I beg. If you do I shall go
mad. The only thing I do understand just now is this, that our friend
Mrs. Hart is very weak, and needs rest, and rest she shall
accordingly have. Come," he continued, turning to her; "you will have
time to-morrow to see them again. Take a little rest now. You have
called me your friend several times to-day. I claim a friend's
privilege. You must lie down by yourself, if it's only for half an
hour. Don't refuse me. I'd do as much for you."

Obed's manner showed that same tender compassion which he had already
evinced. Mrs. Hart complied with his request. She rose and took his
arm.

"Tell me one thing plainly," said Obed, as Mrs. Hart stood up. "Who
are these? Is not this Mr. Windham, and is not this Miss Lorton? If
not, who are they? That's fair, I think. I don't want to be in the
dark amidst such universal light."

"Is it possible that you don't know?" said Mrs. Hart, wonderingly.
"Why should they conceal it from you? These are my dearest
children--my friends--the ones dear to my heart. Oh, my friend, _you_
will understand me. This is Lord Chetwynde, _son of the Earl of
Chetwynde_, and this girl is Zillah, daughter of Neville
Pomeroy--Lady Chetwynde--his wife."

"God in heaven!" exclaimed Obed Chute. "Is this so, or are you mad,
and are they mad?"

"I do not know what you mean," said Mrs. Hart. "I have spoken the
truth. It is so."

Obed said not another word, but led her out of the room, with his
strong brain in a state of bewilderment greater than ever, and
surpassing any thing that he had known before.

Lord Chetwynde was left alone with Zillah, holding her hand, to which
he still clung--though Zillah in her deep embarrassment tried to
withdraw it--and looking at her with eagerness yet perplexity.

"Great Heaven!" he cried. "Do you understand this? Oh, my love! my
own! my darling! What is the meaning of it all?"

"I don't know," stammered Zillah, in confusion. "Don't you know?"

"It's a mockery. It's her delirium," cried Lord Chetwynde,
passionately. "Some tantalizing demon has put this into her wandering
mind. But oh! my dearest, something must be true; at least you knew
her before."

"Yes," said Zillah.

"Where?" cried Lord Chetwynde.

"At Chetwynde Castle," said Zillah, faintly.

"At Chetwynde