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And now I have told of the joyful news which has so wonderfully altered the current of my life, and restored me to youth and happiness, I must relate another incident which happened, indeed, two months prior to it in point of time, but which I record after it, because the other is so infinitely more important to myself, and, indeed, filled my heart, to the exclusion of all else. And yet, until I received the news of Percy's recovery—I had almost written resurrection, for to me it is indeed a coming back from the grave—I had, from the time the event happened, thought a great deal about it. Not, indeed, that I attached, or do attach, the slightest importance to it, as far as regards myself; but it has brought back to my mind all the circumstances connected with the series of efforts which we made to find the will of Mr. Harmer, from six to seven years ago, and which terminated in the death of the unfortunate Robert Gregory. This research, so long abandoned, has now, strangely enough, been once again taken in hand; and this time even more methodically and determinately than at any of our former attempts, and that by the very person whose conduct indirectly caused the original loss of the will—Sophy Gregory.

It was about a month after my return from my visit to London, that I was in the parlour alone, when Hannah came in and said that a person wished to speak to me.

"Do you know who it is, Hannah?"

"No, miss. She is a servant, I should say, by her looks."

"Did she ask for me, or for Mrs. Mapleside?"

"For you, miss, special."

"Very well, Hannah, then show her in."

And Hannah accordingly ushered my visitor into the room. She was a woman of apparently three or four and thirty, and was paler, I think, than any person I ever saw. Not the pallor produced by illness, although that may have had something to do with it; but a complete absence of colour, such as may be caused by some wearing anxiety, or some very great and sudden shock; her eyes, too, had a strange unnatural look, which, coupled with her unusual paleness, gave her a very strange appearance; indeed, it struck me at once that there was something wrong with her mind, and had not Hannah closed the door as soon as she had shown her in, I should certainly have told her to remain in the room with us. I had not the least recollection of having seen her face before, and waited in silence for her to address me, but as she did not, I said:—

"Did I understand that you wished to speak to me? my name is Miss Ashleigh."

"Then you have no recollection of me?" she asked.

The instant she spoke I recognized her voice: it was Sophy.

"Sophy!" I almost cried out.

"Yes, indeed, Agnes, it is Sophy."

I was very much shocked at the terrible change which seven years had made in her. My poor friend what must she have suffered, what had my grief and sorrow been to hers? We had both lost those we loved best in the world, but I had no painful or shameful circumstances in the death of my lover, as there had been in the death of her husband. Percy had died honourably, in the field of battle; Robert had fallen, shot as a burglar by a woman's hand; beside, I was not alone in the world, I had my brother Harry, and my dear Polly, and Ada, and many kind and sympathizing friends. Sophy was quite alone. Truly my own sufferings seemed but small in my eyes when I thought of hers, and I was very much moved by pity and tenderness for my old friend, as I thought of what she had gone through. All these thoughts rushed through me, as I embraced her with almost more than the warmth of my old affection for her; for it seemed to me that the sorrow which we both suffered was an additional tie between us. It was some time before we were composed enough to speak, or rather before I was; for she, although she had responded to my embrace, and was evidently glad to see me, was plainly in a state of too great tension of mind to find relief as I did in tears.

When I came to look at her face more quietly, I was still puzzled by it. It was not so much that it was changed and aged, as that there was something which seemed to me to be quite different, to what I remembered: what it was I could not for some time make out. At last I exclaimed,—

"Why, Sophy, you have put on a black wig and dyed your eyebrows. They were quite fair before, and now they are black."

"It was only last night that I did so," she said quietly. "I did not wish to be recognized down here for a very particular reason, which I will tell you presently."

Now I knew what the change in Sophy's face was, I could recall it, and saw that the alteration in her was not really so great as I had imagined. She certainly looked many years older than she was, but it was the black hair and eyebrows which gave the pale and unnatural appearance to her face, which had so struck me when she first entered the room.

"And now, Sophy," I said, "tell me all about yourself; where have you been living, and how have you been getting on all this time, and what are your plans for the future? Your little child, too, Sophy? What has become of it? You have not lost it, have you?"

"No, Agnes," Sophy said quietly, "I have not lost Jamie, and he is a very good, dear little fellow; but I have left him now for some time, and so I would rather talk of something else. And now I will give you the history of my life, as nearly as I can, from the time I went away from here."

But although Sophy had thus volunteered me this information, it was some little time before she could begin the sad narrative of her early married days. And yet she was not agitated as she told it—she seemed rather cold and strange; and I think the very manner which would have repelled other people drew me towards her. I had felt so much the same; I was still so quiet and old from my great loss, that I saw in that abstracted air of hers, and the impassive tone in which she spoke of times when she must have suffered so deeply, that she, like me, had had so great a grief, that nothing again would ever move her from her quiet self-possession. And yet I fancied afterwards that it was not exactly so, for it was upon a point in the future that all her thoughts and energies were centered, while all mine were buried in the past.

But by degrees Sophy told me all her history, from the date of her elopement up to the present time. She did not, at that time, enter into all the details of her life, but she has done so in the two visits she has paid me since she came down. As much of her history as is at all important in itself—more especially as having any reference to my own story,—particularly their life in London when first married, and the events prior to Robert's coming down to try and recover the will, I have told at some length. The rest of her tale I have had to relate very briefly; and I have now written it out in chapters, and arranged them with my own story, as well as I could, according to the date at which the various events took place, so that our two stories may be read in their proper order.

When Sophy had finished her tale, she told me that she had left her boy in London, and had come down to devote herself to the task she had so long had before her.

"What is this task, Sophy?" I asked. "You have alluded to it several times in the course of your story. What is it?"

"I am resolved, Agnes," Sophy said quietly, "for my boy's sake, and for yours, to find Mr. Harmer's missing will."

"Oh no, no Sophy!" I said, frightened at the thought, "pray give up all thought of it. That will has proved a curse to us all. It has cost one life if not two already, it has ruined your happiness and mine. Oh, Sophy! if it still exist let it lie where it is, it will do none of us any good now."

"I must find it," Sophy continued, quite unmoved; "you have tried together and failed; your sister tried alone, but without success; Robert tried, and died in the attempt; it is my turn now, if it costs me, too, my life. I ought to have tried first of all, for through my sin it was that the will was lost. Had I not deceived and left him, my grandfather would have lived perhaps for years, the will would have been handed back to the lawyer, and we should all have been happy. I lost it Agnes, and I will find it. From the day when I heard how Robert died, this has been the one purpose of my life. I will find that will, I will make my son a rich man yet, I will atone to you all, as far as I can, for the grief and loss I have caused you. I have thought it all over, Agnes, till my brain seemed to be on fire with it."

And Sophy's eyes looked so strange and wild, that I really thought, and think still, that her brain has a little turned by long thinking upon this subject. I saw at once that it would be worse than useless to endeavour to dissuade her from what I feel is a perfectly hopeless attempt. After a pause I said, "Well, Sophy, tell me at least what your plan is, and in any way in which I can give you assistance without mixing myself up in your project, I will do so. But I must tell you at once that I will take no active part in it whatever, because in the first place after the time which has now elapsed, I question much whether I should feel justified in acting even as I acted when the loss of the will was a recent event; in the next place, one life has already been lost in the search, indeed I may say two, and I consider all has been attempted which could be done, and lastly, I believe the search to be perfectly hopeless. But in any way in which I can help you without taking an active part, I will do so, not with any hope of finding the will, but for our old friendship's sake.

"I do not know at present," said Sophy quietly, "that I require any assistance, but there is one point which you may be able to inform me, and on which depends very much the method in which I shall set about my work. The only question I have to ask, Agnes, is does Miss Harmer's confessor live in the house with her, or in the priest's house in the village?"

"Just as before, Sophy, in the village. One would have thought that it would have been far more convenient for him to have lived at the house. But Miss Harmer, who I hear is just as obstinate at eighty as ever she was, insists on making no change, but on doing as has always been done. Ever since her sister's death her maid sleeps in the room with her, and the other servants in the room immediately adjoining, instead of in the servants' quarter, at the end of the house as they used to do. But now what else can I do to help you?"

"Nothing," Sophy said, "what you have told me is exactly what I have hoped and wished, although I was afraid it would not be so. Had it been otherwise, I had arranged other methods of going to work; but the one which I shall now try—and I look upon its success as nearly certain—could not have been carried out unless the confessor had lived as before. Now I see that every thing is in my favour. Do you know, Agnes, I have every minute detail arranged in my mind. It was for that I went to Italy. It was necessary that I should be able to speak the language like a native, and I can do so. I wanted to see the Bishop of Ravenna, and I saw him. So you see I am getting on already;" and she gave a laugh that made me feel quite uncomfortable, it was so wild and strange.

"The Bishop of Ravenna," I said, "I seem to have heard that name before; oh, I remember! it is the man that Miss Harmer telegraphed the news of her brother's death to."

"It is, Agnes, and that is why I went to see him. Do you know I have copied out every word, in the letters that you and your papa wrote to me, which is in any way related to the will, and have learnt them by heart."

"But what are you going to do first Sophy?"

"You think no one will know me?"

"I am quite sure they will not; even I, knowing who you are, and what you have done to yourself can hardly see any resemblance between your face now, and what it was then."

"I intend, Agnes, to go as servant to the priest."

"You, Sophy, as a servant! You must not think of such a thing. There are so many, many things against it. Oh, pray give it all up Sophy! Even supposing that you go through all this without detection, what nearer will you be to the will, as his servant, than as you are now?" I argued and pleaded, but neither argument nor entreaty had the slightest effect upon her. Her mind was so entirely fixed upon her plan, that she hardly even paid attention to what I said, and soon after took her leave.

I have seen her two or three times since, but shall say nothing of it here, more than that she is still engaged upon her hopeless task. When she gives it up, and goes out, as I suppose she will eventually to Australia, I will write down the particulars.

I believe she is on this point rather out of her mind, and I do hope the poor thing will not do anything wild, and get into mischief.

At the time she first came down I had not heard of Percy being alive, and consequently I had really, putting aside that I knew it to be utterly hopeless, hardly any interest at all in the search. Now, that he is alive, I should of course, for his sake, like to recover the money, but I know I might as well wish to come into possession of a snug estate in the moon. No good can come of this madcap scheme, and I only hope that there may be no harm. I shall wait with great anxiety to see if she gets found out, and to ascertain what plan she proposes to herself for finding out where the will is concealed; for that she fancies she has an idea, which will enable her to do so, is certain; if it seems likely to get her into any danger, I must, for her own sake, poor thing, take some step or other to prevent her carrying on schemes which might end, as her husband's did, fatally for her.