I saw by the eager looks of my wife that she was panting to hear the secret which she suspected Dungowan had been telling; and as there appeared no reason why her curiosity should not be gratified, I mentioned to Jocelyn himself that it had much interested me, and that I could not sufficiently admire the providential accident by which he had discovered his relations, requesting him to tell the story to Mrs. Corbet himself.

I did this for two reasons; first, because I was sure he would relate it in the briefest terms and the most beautiful manner; and secondly, because I was half persuaded in my own mind, that Dungowan had told it to me alone under an apprehension of the irrelevant interruptions he would have otherwise been obliged to endure, had Mrs. Corbet been present. Nor was I disappointed in Jocelyn's narration; it was perfect—every word in its proper place, and each sentence, for elegant completeness, a pearl.

“The pure and precious pearls of splendid thought.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Corbet, when he had concluded, “I do think we shall soon have matter for a novel in three volumes of our own;” and laughingly added, “Who ever thought that I would be a heroine, and live in a midnight turret in America?”