The manuscript, that is to reveal the mystery of my parentage, is in my hand.

The hour is come, when without violating the commands of the dead, I may claim it as my own, and remove the hermetic seal which death has stamped.

Where else could I read it?
My own room, once so serenely quiet, was no longer a sanctuary,--for Margaret Melville dashed through the house, swinging open the doors as abruptly as a March wind, and her laugh filled every nook and corner of the capacious mansion.

How could I unseal the sacred history of my mother's sorrows within the sound of that loud, echoing ha, ha?
I could not; so I stole away to a spot, where sacred silence has set up its everlasting throne.

The sun had not yet gone down, but the shadows of the willows lengthened on the grass.