Itt 
 
 VICTORY 
 
 BY 
 
 MRJGIORGIE SH
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 By MRS. 6EOR6IE SHELDON.
 
 Geoffrey's Victory; 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE DOUBLE DECEPTION. 
 
 BY 
 
 MRS. G-EOBG-IE SHELDON, 
 
 AUTHOB OP 
 "STELLA ROSEVELT," "TlNA," "EDRIE's LEGACY," "WlTCH HAZEL," 
 
 "MAX," "RUBY'S REWARD," "VIRGIE'S INHERITANCE," 
 "Two KEYS," "THRICE WEDDED," "A TRUE 
 ARISTOCRAT," "TRIXY," "THAT 
 DOWDY," "SIBYL'S IN 
 FLUENCE," ETC. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 STREET & SMITH, Publishers, 
 
 1 81 Fulton Street.
 
 Entered according to Act of Con press, in the year 1888, 
 
 Br STKEKT & SMITH, 
 Jntbe Office of the Librariau of Congress, at WaHkiiigton, D. CL
 
 GEOFFREY'S VICTORY. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A STRANGE ADVENTURE. " 
 
 It was a beautiful winter night. The sky was brilliant 
 with millions of beautiful stars that glowed and scintil 
 lated as if conscious that their light had never before 
 penetrated an atmosphere so rarefied and pure. The 
 earth was covered with a glaring coat of ice above newly 
 fallen snow. 
 
 Trees and shrubs bent low and gracefully beneath 
 the weight of icy jewels which adorned every twig and 
 branch. 
 
 Every roof and spire, chimney and turret, gleamed like 
 frosted silver beneath the star-lit heavens, while the over 
 hanging eaves below were -fringed with myriads of glis 
 tening points that seemed like pendulous diamonds, catch 
 ing and refracting every ray of light from the glittering 
 vault above and the gas-lit streets beneath. 
 
 But it was a night, too, of intense cold. Never within 
 the remembrance of its oldest inhabitant had the mercury 
 fallen so low in the city of Boston, as on this nineteenth 
 of January, 185 . 
 
 So severe was the weather that nearly every street was 
 deserted at an early hour of the evening; scarcely a 
 pedestrian was to be soen at nine o'clock, and the bril 
 liantly lighted thoroughfares had a lonely and desolate 
 appearance without thnir accustomed flow of life and 
 humanity. The luckless policemen, who alone paraded
 
 6 A STRANGE ADVENTURE, 
 
 the slippery sidewalks on their round of duty, would nowr 
 and then slink into sheltered nooks and door-ways for a 
 brief respite Irom. the stinging, frosty air, where they 
 would vainly strive to excite a better circulation by the 
 active swinging of arms and the vigorous stamping of 
 feet. 
 
 Even the horse-cars and omnibuses were scantily pa 
 tronized, while the poor drivers, mutfled to their eye 
 brows in fur coats and comforters, seemed like dark, 
 grim specters, devoid of life and motion, save for the 
 breath that issued from their mouths and nostrils, and, 
 congealing, formed iu frozen globules among their 
 beards. 
 
 At ten o'clock on this bitter night, Thomas Turner, M. 
 D., was arranging his office preparatory to retiring, and 
 feeling profoundly thankful that he had no patients who 
 demanded his attention, and believing, too, that no ona 
 would venture forth to call him, when, to his annoyance 
 and dismay, his bell suddenly rang a clanging and im 
 perative peal. 
 
 With a shiver of dread at the thought of having to 
 leave the warmth and comfort of his home, to face the 
 fearful cold, yet Avith a premonition that the summons 
 would result in something out of the ordinary course of 
 events, he laid down the case of instruments that he had 
 been carefully arranging, and went to answer the call. 
 
 He found a lad of perhaps fifteen years standing outside 
 the door. 
 
 Without a word he thrust a card into the physician's 
 hand. 
 
 "Come in, boy ! come in," said the doctor, pitying the 
 poor fellow, whose teeth were chattering at such a rate it 
 was doubtful whether he could have spoken if he wished.. 
 
 He obeyed the invitation with alacrity, however, and 
 made directly for the radiator, toward which Dr. Turner 
 pointed, telling him to "go and warm himself." 
 
 The physician then stepped beneath the hall light to 
 examine the card he had received. 
 
 It proved to be the business card of a first-class, though 
 small, hotel in the city, and on the blank side of it there 
 had been hastily written these words : 
 
 "Come at once to the House. An urgent case demands your 
 
 immediate attention. A. FAYSON, Clerk." 
 
 Dr. Turner frowned, and hung his head in thought for 
 a moment.
 
 A STRANGE ADVEXTURE. 7 
 
 He had had a hard day ; he was very weary, and would 
 have hesitated about answering a strange call even in 
 mild weather, and the temptation to send the boy and his 
 card to some one else, and remain in the genial warmth of 
 his own home, was very strong. 
 
 Still, the man was conscientious. The summons was 
 urgent, and it might be a case of life and death. Perhaps 
 the delay of sending to some other physician might re 
 sult in the loss of a human life. 
 
 This thought decided him. 
 
 He turned quickly on his heel and passed down the 
 ball to his office, remarking to the waiting messenger as 
 he went : 
 
 "Wait here. I will be ready to return with you in a 
 few moments." 
 
 He looked into his medicine case to see that he had 
 everything that he Avlshed, wrapped himself in a long 
 ulster with an ample cape, drew a fur cap down over his 
 ears, and a pair of seal-skin gloves upon his hands, and 
 then went forth with his youthful guide to face the pene 
 trating air of this bitterly co'd night. 
 
 When he reached the ---- House, he was conducted 
 directly to a handsome suite of rooms in the third story, 
 and ushered into the presence of a magnificenth r beautiful 
 woman, who was reclining upon a luxurious couch. 
 
 Dr. Turner had never seen a lovelier woman. She was, 
 apparently, about twenty-one or twenty-two years of age. 
 Her hair was very dark, almost black ; her eyes were 
 also very dark, with straight, beautiful brows. 
 
 She was deathly pale the pillow on which she lay was 
 scarcely whiter but her complexion was faultless, her 
 skin as fine and smooth as an infant's, while her features 
 were remarkable for their delicacy and loveliness. 
 
 Beside her, in a low rocker, and holding one fair white 
 hand in both her own, there sat another woman, some 
 two or three yenrs older, but scarcely less beautiful. ;il- 
 though of a different type, and looking anxious and dis- 
 
 A few direct inquiries enabled the physician to com 
 prehend the nature of the case, after which he rapidly 
 wrote a few lines upon a card, and, ringing fora servant, 
 dispatched it to the clerk below. 
 
 An hour later a middle-aged woman, of respectable and 
 motherly appearance, was conducted to the sick-room, 
 and when morning broke there was still another presence 
 in that chamber a tiny baby girl, with rings cf golden
 
 8 A STRANGE ADVENTURE. 
 
 brown hair clustering about her little head, with eyes of 
 heaven's own blue, and delicate patrician features, which, 
 however, wero not like those of her mother, who lay pale 
 and weak among her pillows, and who, strange to say, 
 had betrayed no sign of joy or maternal love at the com 
 ing of the little stranger. 
 
 Three weeks previous two ladies had arrived, late one 
 evening, at the House, where the younger had regis 
 tered as "Mrs. E. E. Marston and maid." 
 
 The clerk, as he read the entry, had glanced with aston 
 ishment at the lovely blonde who had been thus desig 
 nated as "maid," for her manner and bearing were every 
 whit as stately, cultivated, and prepossessing as that of 
 her supposed mistress. 
 
 Both ladies spoke French and German, as well as Eng 
 lish, fluently, and it was impossible to determine to what 
 nationality they belonged. The younger seemed almost 
 like a Spanish beauty of high degree, while her com 
 panion had mo^e the appearance of an Anglo-Saxon. 
 
 Both were richly and fashionably attired, and evidently 
 belonged to the wealthy class, for Mrs. Marston wore 
 jewels of the purest water in the richest of settings. Sho 
 selected the most elegant suite of rooms that were un 
 occupied, and orlered all meals to be served in her private 
 parlor; consequently but very little was seen or known 
 of either mistress or maid after their arrival, although 
 th 1 " very fact of their so closely secluding themselves 
 served to excite a good deal of curiosity on the part of 
 the other inmates of the house. 
 
 After the birth of Mrs. Marston's little daughter, Dr. 
 Turner made his usual number of visits to see that his 
 patient was doing well, and then he discontinued them, 
 although his curiosity and interest were so excited re 
 garding the mysterious woman and her attendant that 
 he would have been glad of an excuse to attend her even 
 longer. 
 
 Three weeks passed, and he was considering the pro 
 priety of presenting his bill, since the lady was a stranger 
 in the city, and would doubtless leave as soon as she 
 could do so with safety to herself and her child, when, 
 one morning, he received a note from Mrs. Marston, re 
 questing him to cnll upon her o,t his earliest convenience. 
 
 That evening found him knocking at her door, his heart 
 beating with something of excitement, and with a sense 
 of constraint upon him such as he had never before ex 
 perienced.
 
 A 8TRANG3 ADVENTURE. 9 
 
 "The maid" admitted him, a dainty flush tinging her 
 fair cheek as she encountered his earnest glance, and he 
 thought her more heautiful than ever, while he was firmly 
 convinced that she was in reality no servant, but con 
 nected by some tie of blood to the woman whom she pro 
 fessed to serve, although there was no resemblance be 
 tween them. 
 
 Mrs. Marston arose to receive him as he entered. 
 
 He iiad never seen her dressed until now, and he was 
 almost bewildered by her brilliant beauty. 
 
 She was tall, with a symmetrical figure. She was queenly 
 and self-possessed in her carriage, and betrayed in every 
 movement the well-bred lady, accustomed to the very 
 best of society. 
 
 She was dressed in a heavy black silk, which fitted her 
 perfectly, and fell ia graceful folds around her splendid 
 form. 
 
 She wore no colors, and might have been in mourning, 
 judging from the simplicity of her dress, and she might 
 not he could not determine. Her only ornaments were 
 several rings of great value, and an elegant brooch, 
 which fastened the rich lace, fine as a cobweb, about her 
 throat. 
 
 "I am very glad to see you, Dr. Turner," she said, 
 graciously, as she extended her white, jeweled hand to 
 him ; "and I thank you for responding: so promptly to my 
 request. Nellie, please bring that rocker for the gentle 
 man," she concluded, indicating a willow chair in another 
 portion of the room. 
 
 The maid obeyed, and then quietly withdrew. 
 
 "You are looking remarkably well, Mrs. Marston," Dr. 
 Turner observed, hardly able to believe that she could be 
 the same woman who had been so pale and wan when 
 he had first seen her. 
 
 Her complexion was almost dazzling in its purity, while 
 the flush on her cheek told of perfect health and a vigor 
 ous constitution. 
 
 "I am very well, thank you," she responded, some 
 what coldly, as if her physical condition were not a ques 
 tion that, she cared to discuss with him "so well that I 
 am contemplating leaving Boston by the end of another 
 week, and I have asked you to come to me in order that 
 I may consult you upon a matter of great importance. 
 But first, do you think I shall run any risk in traveling 
 by that time?" 
 
 "If any one else had asked me thai, I should have said
 
 10 A STRANGE ADVENTURE. 
 
 at once, 'Impossible!' " returned the physician, smiling. 
 "But you have so rapidly recuperated that I should not 
 fear a change so much for you as for many others. It 
 depends somewhat, however, upon where you are going." 
 
 Mrs. Marston flushed slightty at this, but, after an in 
 stant of hesitation, she said, composedly : 
 
 "Oh, I intend to go to a warmer climate. I shall prob 
 ably spend the rest of the winter in the South.' 1 
 
 "Then I think you may go with perfect safety, if you 
 are quite sure you teel well and strong." 
 
 "As to that, I never felt more vigorous in mv life ; 
 but- 
 
 The lody bent her shapely head in thought, a shadow 
 of perplexity and doubt crossing her beautiful face. 
 
 "Perhaps you fear to take the little one; the weather 
 is rather severe for a tender infant," suggested the doc 
 tor. 
 
 "Oh, no. I do not intend to take the child at all," re 
 turned the mother, quickly, a nervous tremor running 
 through her frame as she spoke. 
 
 "You do not intend to take your child with you? 1 ' re 
 peated the physician, astonished, while he searched the 
 downcast face before him with a suspicious loos. 
 
 "No ; and that was what I wished to consul*- with you 
 about," replied Mrs. Marston, shifting uneasily for an in 
 stant beneath his glance. 
 
 Then she lifted her head proudly and met his eyes with 
 calm hauteur. 
 
 "You wish to leave it out to nurse, perhaps, and desire 
 me to suggest some proper person," observed Dr. Turner, 
 trying to explain her conduct thus. 
 
 "No," answered the lady, coldly. "I wished to ask if 
 you could recommend some institution in the city where 
 I could put her, and where she would receive proper 
 care.' 1 
 
 Dr. Turner regarded the woman with amazement. 
 
 "Institution, madame ! What kind of an institution?" 
 he asked, aghast. 
 
 "Some public institution, or some home for homeless 
 children," she answered, not a muscle of her beautiful 
 face moving. 
 
 "I really do not comprehend you," the physician said, 
 almost ready to believe that he was in the presence of a 
 lunatic, for surely no mother in her right mind could 
 think of abandoning her child in such a heartless way. 
 
 "Indeed, I thought I made an explicit statement," re-
 
 A MONSTROUS PROPOSITION. 11 
 
 marked Mrs. Marston, haughtily. "However the child is 
 not to go with me. There are reasons imperative reasons 
 that compel me to dispose of her 
 
 "Abandon her, do you mean ?" questioned the physician, 
 sternly. 
 
 The lady shrugged her shapely shoulders and made an 
 impatient gesture, as if the subject and object were alike 
 distasteful to her. 
 
 "If you choose to put it in that disagreeable way, I 
 suppose I shall have to accept the term," she replied, 
 coldly. "But you have not answered my question. Do 
 you know of a home for orphans where she would be re 
 ceived and where I might safely leave her? I would make 
 it an object for any such institution to take her." 
 
 CHAPTER. II. 
 
 A MONSTROUS PROPOSITION. 
 
 Dr. Turner did not immediately reply. 
 
 He was so indignant, so overcome by the startling and 
 unnatural proposition that he was rendered speechless. 
 
 The knowledge that this woman, so beautiful and 
 gifted, and who had, to all appearance, unlimited wealth 
 at her command, should desire to cast her offspring 
 adrift upon the world, coldly throwing her upon the in 
 different care of strangers, was simply horrible to him. 
 
 The mystery, which, from the first, he had instinctively 
 recognized as attaching itself to this woman, was thicken 
 ing about her. 
 
 There must, he thought, be some terrible secret con 
 nected with her life, which she was anxious and bound 
 to conceal, or she never could have contemplated such an 
 unfeeling act, and he could think of but one contingency 
 that would compel her to adopt such extreme measures. 
 
 "Madame," he at last said, and speaking with dignified 
 reserve, "I cannot refrain from expressing my surprise 
 at your startling and I am compelled to say it heart 
 less proposal. It would be a most unnatural a most rep 
 rehensible proceeding. My whole nature recoils at the 
 mere mention of it, and I can think of but one reason 
 that would seem to make it necessary for you to abandon 
 your child in the way you propose." 
 
 The physician paused a moment, as if in doubt as to 
 the propriety of saying more. 
 
 "Well, and what may that be?" briefly demanded his
 
 12 A MONSTROUS PROPOSITION. 
 
 companion, in a tone that should have warned him not to 
 give expression to his thought. 
 
 "Perhaps your little one has come into the world un 
 protected by the tie of wedlock, and therefore you desire 
 to conceal from every one the evidence of 
 
 She checked the words upon his lips with an imperious 
 gesture. 
 
 A vivid crimson rushed to her brow, suffused her neck, 
 and seemed to extend to the very tips of her fingers; 
 then the color as quickly receded, leaving her patrician 
 face ghastly pale. 
 
 She threw up her proud head with a movement of ex-^ 
 quisite grace ; an angry fire leaped into her dusky eyes;" 
 an expression of scorn curled her beautiful lips. 
 
 " How dare you say such a thing to me ?" she demanded, 
 in a passionate tone that had a thrill of pain in it as well. 
 "But for your former kindness to me, I would never par 
 don you ! You have a suspicion that I am not a married 
 woman." 
 
 "I could think of no other excuse for what you pro 
 posed regarding your child," replied the physician, meet 
 ing her flashing glance calmly, and with a note of con 
 tempt in his voice, although he half regretted having 
 spoken as he had. 
 
 He believed even now that she was acting a part. 
 
 She saw it, and again her face flamed scarlet. 
 
 Then she drew from the third finder of her left hand a 
 superb solitaire diamond ring, and passed it to him. 
 
 "Examine that if you please," she commanded, briefly 
 and icily. 
 
 He took it, and upon its inner surface found engraved 
 in tiny characters, " C. to E. Sept. 10th, 185 . Omnia 
 Vincit Amor." 
 
 It had evidently been given to her in September of the 
 previous year 
 
 "An engagement ring," be remarked, as he passed it 
 back to her with an air that plainly said : "That proves 
 nothing to your advantage." 
 
 Madame bowed and then quietly but proudly drew from 
 the same finger a massive circlet of gold which she also 
 handed to him. 
 
 A dusky red surged to the physician's brow as he re 
 ceived it and realized what he had done. He felt as if he 
 had offered the fair woman an unpnrdonable insult. 
 
 This ring was marked C. 8. to E. B., Paris, March ISfh, 
 185."
 
 A MONSTROUS PROPOSITION. 13 
 
 Both circlets proved an honorable engagement and a 
 lawful marriage, the latter occurring some seven months 
 subsequent to the former, and Dr. Turner felt that ho had 
 got himself into a very unpleasant predicament. 
 
 "I beg your pardon, madame," he said, with visible con 
 fusion, but in a grave, respectful tone; "but your very 
 extraordinary proposition must be my apology for my 
 unjurat and offensive suspicion." 
 
 For a moment the lady regarded him gravely, but with 
 a little gleam of triumph in her dark eyes ; then with a 
 shrug of her shapely shoulders, she replied : 
 
 "Perhaps it was but natural ; let it pass. I became a 
 lawful wife, as you have seen, nearly a year ago, and 
 my child has had honorable birth : but, for reasons 
 which I cannot explain to you, I can never acknowledge 
 her, and it becomes necessary for me to make some other 
 provision for her." 
 
 "But it is such an unnatural thing to do," persisted the 
 doctor, with a deprecating gesture. 
 
 "Granted; but it cannot be helped," replied the 
 mother, firmly, an inflexible purpose written on her fait 
 young face. 
 
 "Allow me to inquire if your husband is living?" Dr. 
 Turner asked, after a moment of silence. 
 
 "Excuse me; I cannot answer that question," replied 
 his companion with pale, compressed lips. 
 
 "Ah! there has b-sen some trouble and a separation, 
 perhaps," thought the doctor ; then he asked : 
 
 "Do you think that he would uphold you in thus sacri 
 ficing your little one his little one, to your selfish pur 
 pose to abandon her, as you propose, to the doubtful 
 charity of a cold world." 
 
 An icy shiver seemed to run throughout the woman's 
 frame at this. She shifted uneasily in her chair, her 
 white lids quivered, her hands were locked in a rigid, 
 painful clasp. 
 
 "I tell you there are circumstances which make it ab 
 solutely necessary for me to give her away," she said, in 
 a strained, unnatural voice, after an evident effort at 
 self control. "My husband would is as helpless in the 
 matter as myself." 
 
 "I can conceive of no circumstances which should make 
 the well-beincr of your child. of secondary importance, es 
 pecially since you have assured me that you are a lawful 
 wife, and it is evident that you have abundant means at 
 your command. She is your own flesh and blood, and it
 
 14 A MONSTROUS PROPOSITION. 
 
 becomes your duty, as a mother, to give her a mother's 
 love and care. I care not what fancied or real obstacle 
 stands in the way, it should be resolutely swept aside 
 for the sake of both duty and humanity," Dr. Turner 
 argued, with impressive earnestness. 
 
 " You simply do not know anything about the matter, 
 eir," retorted his patient, with an angry flash in her 
 eyes, "and, if you please, we will not discuss that point 
 any further." 
 
 Dr. Turner bowed a cold assent ; then, as he returned 
 the wedding-ring, which he had retained until now, he re 
 marked : 
 
 "The name you have given here does not correspond 
 with your husband's initials upon this ring." 
 
 The lady's lips curled in a little scornful smile. 
 
 " Did you imagine that I would use my true name in 
 such a venture as this ?" she asked. "But that is neither 
 here nor there," she added, with an impatient toss of her 
 head. "Do you know of any institution in this city where 
 my child would be received ?" 
 
 "No: there is no public institution that would so far 
 countenance your conduct as to open its doors to her, and 
 I would not designate it if there were. Such places are 
 for children who have no parents, or for those whose 
 parents are too poor to care for them," the physician in 
 dignantly replied. 
 
 Then, after a short pause, he continued, with great 
 earnestness : 
 
 " Let me make one last appeal to you, madame. You 
 have given birth to a lovely little daughter, who bids fair 
 to be a child of whom any parent might well be proud. 
 It would be a continual delight to watch her grow and 
 develop into womanhood, and she would no doubt be of 
 the greatest, comfort to you years hence, when you begin 
 to descend the hill of life. Keep your child, Mrs. Marston, 
 do not cast her off upon the doubtful care of strangers, to 
 become you know not what in the future. Love and 
 cherish her, nourish her innocence and purity, and do 
 not, I beseech you, commit the irreparable wrong which 
 you are contemplating." 
 
 The woman before him threw out her white jeweled 
 hands in a spasmodic gesture in which impatience, pain, 
 and anger were commingled. 
 
 "Spare your importunities, Dr. Turner," she said, 
 ecolly, " for I assure you it is only a waste of breath and 
 sentiment on your part."
 
 A MONSTROUS PROPOSITION. 15 
 
 "Have you no love for your innocent babe ?" he de 
 manded, sternly. 
 
 " I have not dared I will not allow myself to become at 
 tached to her." was the low, constrained reply. 
 
 "Have you no pity, then., that you thrust her thus re 
 morselessly from your sheltering care?" 
 
 " I should become an object far more pitiable if I should 
 keep her with me," returned the incomprehensible 
 mother. 
 
 "I cannot understand it. Poor child! poor child!" 
 sighed the sympathetic and perplexed physician. 
 
 "Doctor," said his companion, with a sudden start, her 
 face lighting with eagerness, "have you children of your 
 own?" 
 
 "No, rnadame. I should consider myself blessed, in 
 deed, if I had," he sighed. 
 
 "Then will you adopt my daughter? I can assure you 
 that there is not the slightest taint upon her parentage, 
 and it is only the force of hard, obstinate circumstances 
 that compels me to give her up. Your sympathies seem 
 to have been enlisted for her. I am sure you are a good 
 man, and I know that she would find a kind parent in 
 you." 
 
 The man flushed, and tears rose to his eyes at this ap 
 peal. 
 
 "Mrs. Marston," he said, sadly, "if your child had 
 been born six months earlier, and you had asked me this 
 question at that time, I should have answered you with 
 eagerness in the affirmative ; but she who would have 
 given the little one a mother's care is no longer in my 
 home. She died five months ago this very day, and I 
 have no one else in my family to whom I could commit 
 the babe." 
 
 "Then what shall I do?" murmured the woman, with 
 knitted brows and sternly compressed lips. 
 
 "I can think only of one alternative that I should be 
 willing to suggest," replied the doctor. 
 
 "What is that?" she demanded, eagerly. 
 
 "Advertise for some young couple to adopt the child. 
 You will then have an opportunity to select a permanent 
 home for her, and escape the anxiety which her uncer 
 tain fate in a charitable institution would entail upon 
 you. I should suppose the mere thought of it would be 
 torture to you." 
 
 "It is," replied the mother, with a quick, indrawn 
 breath, while a nervous shiver ran over her. "I will do
 
 16 A MONSTROUS PROPOSITION. 
 
 it," she added, the look of care vanishing from her face, 
 which had now become to the high-minded physician 
 more like the face of a beautiful fiend than that of a ten 
 der-hearted woman. " I will advertise in the Transcript 
 to-morrow morning, and will offer the sum of rive hun 
 dred dollars to any respectable couple who will take the 
 babe and promise to rear and educate her as their own. I 
 wonder why I did not think of that plan myself," she 
 concluded, with a sigh of relief. 
 
 44 1 should propose omitting the reward from the adver 
 tisement," observed the doctor, with a slight curl of his 
 lips. 
 
 "Why so?" 
 
 "Because in that case you would be sure that whoever 
 applied for her was actuated by a real desire to have the 
 little one ; while, if money were offered, cupidity might 
 be the main object in the application." 
 
 "Perhaps you are right," Mrs. Marston observed, 
 thoughtfully ; "and yet I believe I shall offer it. I shall, 
 at all events, give that amount to whoever adopts the 
 child." 
 
 She then adroitly changed the subject, plying the phy 
 sician with numerous questions regarding Boston, its at 
 tractions and advantages, and so effectually led his mind 
 in another direction, charming him with her rare con 
 versational gifts, her evident culture and familiarity 
 with both America and Europe, that he spent a delightful 
 hour with her, and temporarily forgot the contempt and 
 repulsion which he had previously entertained for her. 
 
 When the clock upon the mantel struck four, he started 
 up in surprise, at which a sly smile curved his fair en 
 tertainer's red lips, for she knew that she had held him 
 by the magic of her fascinations, as she had meant to do. 
 
 But she arose also, and cordially extended her hand to 
 him at parting, while she remarked, smilingly : 
 
 "I have neglected a very important item of business, 
 and came very near forgetting it altogether. If you have, 
 with you, the bill for your services to me, I shall be very 
 happy to settle it." 
 
 Dr. Turner flushed, and began to search his pockets, 
 without appearing to notice the proffered hand. 
 
 At length he drew a Blip of paper from his diary, and 
 handed it to her. 
 
 She smiled again as she noticed the figures upon it ; but 
 unlocking a drawer in the table near which they were 
 standing, she took from it an elegant purse, in which
 
 A XON8TROU8 PROPOSITION. 17 
 
 there appeared to be a plentiful supply of both gold nnd 
 paper money. 
 
 She selected a bill and extended it to him. 
 " I am not able to change that for you, madame," ho 
 said, as ha glanced at it and saw that it was a hundred- 
 dollar note. 
 
 "I do not wish it changed. Please take it. Even then 
 I shall feel that I am deeply indebted to you," she re 
 turned, with an earnestness such as she had not betrayed 
 before during the interview. 
 
 Again the dusky red rushed to the doctor's temples. 
 "If it is not convenient for you to hand me just the 
 amount of my bill, you can send me a check for the sum 
 later," he said, coldly. 
 
 She bit her lips with mortification, and then tears 
 rushed into her eyes. 
 
 "Oh, it is perfectly convenient. Excuse me ; I did not 
 intend to offend you, but I am truly grateful for the kind 
 attention you have bestowed upon me, and I shall always 
 entertain friendly memories of you." 
 
 Dr. Turner returned a courteous bow for the promise 
 of "friendly memories," but remarked, briefly : 
 
 "I have but done my duty as a physician, madams. " 
 An angry flush mounted to her brow as she counted 
 five golden eagles from her purse and laid them in hia 
 hand. 
 
 "I know," she said, "that you think I am a heartless 
 monster in woman's form ; but you would not, I am sure, 
 if you could understand the strait that I am in." 
 Another bow was his only reply to this. 
 He could not gainsay her statement regarding his es 
 timate of her character, and he would not presume to in 
 quire further into the mystery sui'rounding her. 
 
 "I should be glad to retain your good opinion," she re 
 sumed, with a slight, deprecating gesture, "for you have 
 been a good friend to me in my necessity, but a stern fate 
 compels me to forego that. I trust, however, that I 
 shall see you again before I leave your city." 
 
 And she again extended her hand to him in farewell. 
 "If you need mo if I can serve you in any way, com 
 mand me," Dr. Turner returned, politely, but with an em 
 phasis which plainly indicated that he should not volun 
 tarily seek her society. 
 
 He bowed again, but barely touched the hand held out 
 to him, and then went his way, wondering what mys 
 terious circumstance, or combination of circumstances,
 
 18 THE LITTLE STRANQEK ADOPTED. 
 
 could have forced this beautiful and gifted woman to 
 abandon her child thus at the very beginning of its life. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE LITTLE STRANGER ADOPTED. 
 
 The next morning there appeared an advertisement in 
 the Boston Transcript, offering five hundred dollars to 
 suitable pai ties who would adopt a female in taut, and 
 stating tiiat applications were to be made by letter, ad 
 dressed to the office of the paper. 
 
 Of course a great many answers were received, for 
 there were hosts of people who would agres to almost 
 anything for five hundred dollars, while there were 
 others who were really anxious to adopt the little baby 
 girl that was to be so strangely thrown upon the world. 
 
 One alone out of these many epistles pleased Mrs. 
 Marston. It was written in a clear, elegant hand, signed 
 "August and Alice Damon." 
 
 It was from a young couple, and stated that only a 
 month previous they had lost their own little daughter 
 a babe of few weeks and their hearts were so sore 
 over their loss, their home so lonely and sad, that they 
 would gladly take a little one to fill, as far as might be 
 possible, the place of their lost darling, and if the child 
 in question pleased them and there was nothing objec 
 tionable connected with her birth or antecedents, they 
 would gladly adopt her without the payment of the 
 premium that had been offered. 
 
 Mrs. Marston, after reading this communication, imme 
 diately dashed off a note asking the young people to call 
 upon her at their earliest convenience in case they were 
 at liberty to do so, the next morning at ten o'clock ; she 
 would reserve that hour for them. 
 
 Promptly at that time a young gentleman and lady of 
 prepossessing appearance were ushered into Mrs. Mars- 
 ton's private parlor, and one glance into their kind and 
 intelligent faces convinced her that shfi had found the 
 right parties to whom to intrust her child. 
 
 "Mr. and Mrs. Damon," Mrs. Marston said, graciously 
 receiving them, and glancing at the cards that had been 
 sent up before them to announce their arrival, "I am very 
 much pleased to meet you."
 
 THE LITTLE STRANGER ADOPTED. 19 - 
 
 She invited them to be seated, and then entered at once 
 the object of their visit. 
 
 "I have appointed an interview with you in preference 
 to ail other applicants," she said, "because of the real 
 interest and feeling evinced in your letter to me. But 
 before we decide upon the matter under consideration, I 
 would like to know sometbiiig about you and your pros 
 pects for the future." 
 
 Mr. August Damon, a fine-looking young man of per 
 haps twenty-five years, frankly informed the lady that 
 their home was in Boston ; that he was a clerk in a large 
 wholesale boot and shoe house ; his salary was a fair one, 
 and there was a prospect that he might become a me.ii her 
 of the firm at no very distant date, if all went well with 
 the business. He said that both he and his wife were 
 very fond of children, and had been almost heart-broken 
 over the loss of their own child. They had resolved, if 
 they could find one to whom their hearts turned, to 
 adopt another, and bestow upon it. as far as might be, 
 the love and care that the^r own child would have re 
 ceived if it had lived. They had seen her advertisement 
 in the Transcript, and had determined to respond to it, 
 hoping thus to succeed in their object. 
 
 "Nothing could be better," Mrs. Marston eagerly said, 
 in reply. u This is just the opportunity that I desire. I 
 feel sure that you will give my little one the kindest 
 care, and I shall relinquish her to you most willingly. 
 I shall expect you will do by her exactly as you 
 would have done by your own ; that you will give her 
 your name, educate her, and give her such advantages as 
 your means will allow. This must be your part in our 
 contract, while mine will be to renounce all claim upon 
 her, and make over to you the amount which I specified 
 in my advertisement." 
 
 August Damon never once took his eyes from the face 
 of that proud, beautiful woman while she was speaking. 
 They burned with a strange fire, an indignant flush 
 mantled his cheek, and an expression of contempt curled 
 his fine lips. 
 
 His wife viewed the apparently heartless mother with 
 speechless wonder, her eyes fastened upon her in a sort 
 of horrible fascination. 
 
 Her sweet, delicate face was colorless as the snowy 
 ruffle about her white neck, and she trembled visibly as 
 she listened to her abrupt and apparently unfeeling dis 
 posal of a human soul.
 
 20 THE LITTLE STRAXQER ADOPTED. 
 
 There was an awkward pause after Mrs. Marston con 
 cluded, and she seemed to become suddenly conscious of 
 the very unpleasant impression which lier strange words 
 and proceedings had produced upon her visitors, and a 
 rush of vivid color mantled her cheeks. 
 
 iihe could not fail to realize that her guests were well- 
 bred, even cultivated people ; the stamp of true gentility 
 was upon them, and it was extremely galling to her 
 haughty spirit to ieel that they had been weighing her in 
 the balance of their own refined and noble natures, and 
 had found her sadly wanting in all thos gentler qualities 
 and attributes which naturally belong to a woman, and 
 especially to a mother. 
 
 But she was impatient of all restraint and discomfort. 
 She threw off the feeling with the usual shrug of her 
 shapely shoulders, and raising her handsome head with a 
 haughty air she continued, somewhat imperiously : 
 
 '' Do you accede to the conditions that I have mentioned ; 
 and you, madarne?" turning her great dark eyes full upon 
 the gentle but shocked wite. 
 
 "Oh, how can you bear to part thus with your little 
 one, the darling whose pulses are throbbing with your 
 own life-blood?" exclaimed sweet Alice Damon, tears 
 starting: to her earnest, gray-blue eyes, her delicate lips 
 trembling with emotion. 
 
 "That is a question that I cannot allow myself to con 
 sider," responded Mrs. Marston, with a peculiar gesture 
 of her jeweled hands, which might have meant either 
 pain or repugnance, "neither can I enter into any ex 
 planation upon that point; the fact remains, T must part 
 with her, and it is my wish to make the best possible pro 
 vision for her." 
 
 "We should be glad to see the child, madam," Mr. 
 Damon gravely remarked. 
 
 "Of course. I will have her brought in immediately ;" 
 and Mrs. Marston arose to ring a bell. 
 
 A moment later a portly matron entered the room 
 bearing in her arms a lovely babe about a month old, ar 
 rayed in a richly embrodiered robe, and wrapped in the 
 softest and whitest of flannels 
 
 Alice Damon uttered an eager cry, in which the ten- 
 derest mother-love and the keenest pain were blended, as 
 she caught sight of the beautiful child who recalled so 
 vividly her own lost treasure. 
 
 Starting from her seat she glided swiftly over the soft 
 carpet, and the next moment the tiny creature was
 
 THE LITTLE STRANGER ADOPTED. 21 
 
 clasped close to her aching heart, while a scb burst from 
 her us she pressed her quivering lips to its velvet cheek. 
 Then she turned to her husband with ii still in her arms. 
 
 "Oh, August, she is lovely !" she murmured, in husky, 
 unsteady tones. "And, dear, my heart longs for her!" 
 
 Mr. Damon stood looking down upon the two for a mo 
 ment, while he seemed struggling with some deep emo 
 tion. 
 
 He took one of the little soft hands that lay outside 
 the heavily wrought blanket tenderly in his own, and 
 bent for a nearer view of the small face. 
 
 "Her eyes are blue," he said, under his breath. 
 
 "Yes, like our own darling's. Oh, August, we will take 
 her, will we not?" pleaded his wife, eagerly. 
 
 A look of fondest love leaped into his eyes as they met 
 hers, but he did not reply to her just then. 
 
 He turned again to Mrs. Marston. 
 
 "I have an important question vrhich I feel it neces- 
 earj to ask you?" he began. 
 
 "In a moment," he returned, and signed to the nurse 
 to withdraw. 
 
 "Now, if you please," she added, as the door closed 
 after the woman. 
 
 "Is your child legitimate ? If you can assure me of that, 
 and that nothing of dishonor can ever touch her in the 
 future, and that, as far as you know, she inherits no 
 taint of insanity or incurable disease, I see no reason 
 why we should not accede to your conditions and adopt 
 the babe as our own." 
 
 Mrs. Marston's face had grown crimson during this 
 speech, and her eyes flamed with anger. 
 
 Twice that week she had been ol-liged to meet this 
 humiliating suspicion, and it was more than her proud 
 spirit could endure. 
 
 "Do you presume " she began, haughtily. 
 
 "Madame," August Damon interrupted, gravely, but 
 with the utmost respect, "pray do n< I accuse me of pre 
 sumption when I have only the well-being of your own 
 child at heart. If you will but consider a moment you 
 cannot fail to realize that it is both natural and proper I 
 should wish to be assured that the child I contemplate 
 taking as my own is of honorable parentage, and with 
 no heritage of future misery hanging over her. "We shrill, 
 of course, use every precaution to prevent her from ever 
 realizing that she is not our very own ; but there may 
 ouie a time when unforeseen erenti will lead her to sus-
 
 22 THE LITTLE STRANUER ADOPTED. 
 
 pect the truth, and then she will demand to be told her 
 history. I must have it in my power to tell her that no 
 story of shame, no stain, was attached to her birth." 
 
 The gentleman's tone was firm but courteous, and the 
 proud woman before him realized a pride as deep-seated 
 as her own, and that she had no common character to 
 deal with. 
 
 He had a perfect right to ask her these questions, she 
 knew, and she was bound to answer them in all sincer- 
 ity. 
 
 The anger died out of her eyes ; the color left her face, 
 and there was more humility in her manner than she had 
 before displayed, as she rpelied : 
 
 "Mr. Damon, I assure you that you need never fear 
 even a breath against the fair fame or parentage of my 
 child. I was legally marriod to a noble, high-minded 
 gentleman, on the 15th of last March, although the cere 
 mony was not performed in this country. More I cannot 
 tell you regarding my private history. As to the little 
 one's constitution, she inherits no taint of disease or 
 imnfcil trouble that I am aware of. T have always en 
 joyed vigorous health, as my physique at the present 
 time ought to prove to you. 
 
 "I know," she continued, after a moment of thoughtful 
 silence, "that the giving away of my child, when to all 
 appearance there is no necessity for such an unusual act, 
 appears like a monstrous proceeding ; but I am so 
 situated that I cannot help myself; the need is impera 
 tive a relentless fate compels me to the unnatural act. I 
 can tell you nothing more ; if you see fit to adopt the 
 babe, after hearing this,, well and good ; if not. I must 
 replv to some others application, and make other ar 
 rangements for her." 
 
 "T am satisfied with what you have told me, and the 
 child shall come to us. Alice, sfoe is yours if you so wish." 
 said the young husband, turning with a fond smile to his 
 fair wife. 
 
 "I do wish it, August. I could not give her tip now. 
 See ! how content she is !" and the sweet ^womnn looked 
 lovingly down at the little face lying so peacefully upon 
 her bosom. 
 
 "You are willing to make the gift a legal one. I sup 
 pose," said Mr. Damon, turning again to Mrs. Marston, 
 who, with a look of intense relief upon her face, was 
 closely watching the young couple. 
 
 "If you mean by that that I will sign papers to ratify
 
 THE LITTLE STKAXGER ADOPTED. 23 
 
 the bond, I must say, No !" the woman replied, -with de 
 cision. 
 
 "Of what use would such papers be, "she vrent on, 
 "since I could not place my real signature upon them, 
 and the name, by which I am known to you to-day, would 
 amount to nothing, legally. I can only give her to you 
 here, now, in this informal way. Take her she is yours ; 
 and may she be a great comfort to you during your future 
 lives." 
 
 "I see," replied Mr. Damon, "papers of adoption would 
 amount to nothing ;" but, nevertheless, he did not appear 
 very well satisfied with this conclusion. 
 
 "And here is the future little Miss Damon's dowry," 
 continued Mrs. Marston, with a smile, as she took a roll 
 of bills from the same drawer whence she had paid Dr. 
 Turner, "and I cannot begin to tell you how much of 
 gratitude goes with it." 
 
 "Madame, I cannot accept your money," August Damon 
 said, flushing hotly, as he drew back from the proffered 
 bribe ; for such it seemed to him. 
 
 "I am rich ; I wish yon to have it," said the lady. 
 
 "It is the child that we want, for her own sake, not, for 
 what you offer as an inducement to adopt her," returned 
 the young man, with cligm'ty. 
 
 "But I must insist," Mrs. Marston replied. "If you 
 have no immediate use for it, put it at interest some 
 where for her, and let it accumulate for a marriage por 
 tion. You will have to name her," she resumed, with a 
 glance at the little one. "Call her whatever you wish, 
 and may she prove a real blessing to you."" 
 
 She approached Alice Damon as she spoke, laid the r^ll 
 of bills between the soft, pinlt hands of the now sleeping 
 bahp, bent over her and imprinted a light kiss upon her 
 cheek, then turning quicklv away, she bowed to the hus 
 band and wife and walked abruptly from the room. 
 
 A half-hour later the mysterious little stranerer was 
 sleeping peacefully in the daintv cradle that had once 
 held Alice Damon's namesake, while two tender, earnest 
 faces bent fondly over her, as huhsand and wife prayed 
 that she might long be spared to be a comfort and a bless 
 ing to them, and never realize the shadow that rested 
 upon her birth 
 
 The next morning, at an parly hour, Mrs. Marston and 
 
 her "maid" quietly left the House, and the city, 
 
 leaving no address, nor any clew to their destination be 
 hind them.
 
 84 A GRANGE OF RESIDENCE AND AN ADVENTURE. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A CHANGE OP RESIDENCE AND AN ADVENTURE. 
 
 Thus the stranger's cliild found a home, with loving 
 hearts and willing hands to care for hr. 
 
 But August and Alice Damon Huntress had for certain 
 reasons withheld their surname from the mother of the 
 hild they had adopted. 
 
 " I shall never put myself in the power of this woman," 
 he had said to his wife, while discussing the question. 
 "If we adopt this little one we must so arrange matters 
 that she can never be taken from us ; so that she can 
 never even be found by those who give her to us, or b 
 told that she is not our own flesh and blood." 
 
 So he had called himself August Damon, which waft the 
 truth, as far as it went, but no one in Boston knew him by 
 any other uame than Huntress, and he did not intend that 
 the mother of the little one should ever know what be 
 came of the child after it was given into his hands. 
 
 They gave her the name of Gladys, for, as Alice Hunt 
 ress said, she began to brighten and gladden their sad 
 dened hearts and lives from the moment of her coming to 
 them. 
 
 The Huntresses lived in a very quiet way, on an unpre 
 tentious street in the city of Boston. Mr. Huntress had a 
 good salary, but they were people of simple tastes, and 
 had more of a desire to lay by a snug sum for declining 
 years than to live extravagantly and make a show in the 
 world. 
 
 For several years nothing occurred either to entice or 
 drive them out of the beaten track ; then, all at once, Au 
 gust Huntress conceived a brill ; ant idea, put it in prac 
 tical use. secured a patent, and became a rich man. 
 
 No other children came to share the love and care be 
 stowed upon Glndys, and the hearts of her adopted par 
 ents were litprally bound up in her. 
 
 Every possible advantage was lavished upon her. and 
 at the age of twelve years she was a brigrht, beautiful lit 
 tle maiden with glossy brown hair, lovely dark blue eyes, 
 and regular features, and gave promise of rare beauty 
 when she should reach maturity a few years hence.
 
 A CHANGE OF RESIDENCE AND AN AD VENTURE. 25 
 
 About this time it appeared necessary for the interests 
 of the house with which Mr. Huntress was connected, 
 that he should remove to New York city. 
 
 Accordingly, the beginning of Gladys Huntress' thir 
 teenth year found the family established in a well-fur 
 nished mansion in Clinton avenue, one of the pleasantest 
 portions of Brooklyn, while Mr. Huntress' office was lo 
 cated in Dey street, New York. 
 
 Here Gladys at once entered the high school, having 
 passed her examinations most creditably, and giving 
 promise of becoming a brilliant scholar. 
 
 She dearly loved study, and asserted that as soon as 
 she should complete the high-school course, she should 
 " make papa send her to Vassar for another four years, to 
 finish her off." 
 
 And now there occurred an incident destined to have a 
 wonderful influence on the young girl's whole future life. 
 
 One afternoon in May, after school was over for the day, 
 Gladys persuaded her mother to allow their coachman to 
 drive her over to New York to meet and bring her father 
 home to dinner. 
 
 She had not, as yet, ever been allowed to go out alone 
 in this way ; but Mrs. Huntress could not accompany her 
 that day, having an important engagement with some 
 friends ; but she knew her driver was perfectly trust 
 worthy, he was very fond of the young girl, and she was 
 sure that no harm could befall her, so the desired permis 
 sion was given, and the youthful maiden drove off in high 
 glee, and full of importance at being permitted to go by 
 herself to the prreat metropolis. 
 
 The Fulton Ferry was safely crossed, and the carriage 
 was rolling slowly up toward Broadway, when Gladys' 
 attention was arrested by a group of street gamins, who 
 had surrounded a boy whom they appeared to be jeering 
 and tormenting in n, cruel manner, and who seemed com 
 pletely dazed by his position, and greatly distressed by 
 the ill-treatment to which he was subjected. 
 
 HP was a peculiar looking boy, having a slender though 
 perfect form, a delicate, rather aristocratic face, and a 
 finely shaped head, crowned with masses of light, waving 
 hair, in which there were rich tints of gold and brown. 
 
 He was very pale and his full, large blue eyes had a 
 etrange expression in their depths half wild, half pa 
 thetic which went straight to our young heroine's heart. 
 
 He was neatly but plainly clad, though his garment! 
 bad become somewhat disarranged by the rude handling
 
 26 A CHANGE Ot RESIDENCE AND AN ADVENTURE. 
 
 of his tormentors, and he was making ineffectual efforts 
 to recover a very good-looking straw hat that had been 
 snatched from his head and was being ruthlessly tossed 
 about by the vicious gamins, who were triumphing in his 
 distress with a sort of fiendish joy. 
 
 "John, what are they doing to that poor boy?" Gladys 
 asked, leaning forward, and speaking to the coachman. 
 
 "They're a set of imps, miss, and as usual up to some 
 of their infernal tricks," replied the man. "It looks to me 
 as if the lad is half-foolish, and they're making game of 
 him." 
 
 "It is a shame," cried the little lady, flushing indig 
 nantly. "See what a nice-looking boy he is so different 
 from those coarse, rude children. Stop John, and let us 
 help him to get away from them." 
 
 "Indeed miss, I can't; it wouldn't be at all proper," re 
 turned the dignified driver. "It's the business of the po 
 lice to look after such cases, not for a young lady in your 
 position." 
 
 At this instant a mischievous ragamuffin seized the 
 strange lad by the hair, giving it such a savage pull that 
 he cried out with fright and pain, while a shout of mock 
 ing delight rang out from the motley crew about him. 
 
 Gladys Huntress sprang ut> in her carriage, an angry 
 flush surging over her pretty face. 
 
 "John, stop !" she cried, imperiously. "Stop !" she re 
 peated, laying her gloved hand upon his arm, with a 
 touch which he involuntarily obeyed, and, drawing his 
 reins, his well-trained horses came to a stand close beside 
 the group we have described. 
 
 "Boys, what are yon doing? Let him alone. Aren't you 
 ashamed to torment a boy who is weaker than your 
 selves?" the young girl exclaimed, in a tone of authority 
 and scorn which for a moment arrested their cruel sport, 
 while they gazed open-mouthed with astonishment at the 
 elegant equipage and its fair occupant, who had so nobly 
 espoused the cause of their luckless victim. 
 But it was only for a moment. 
 
 Everybody knows what lawless creatures the street 
 urchins of New York are, and the next instant a derisive 
 shout rent the air at this strange and unlooked-for inter 
 ference. 
 
 " Hi !" cried one, who appeared to be the leader in the 
 fray. " Mr. Chalkface must be some prince in disguise, 
 and 'ere comes the princess with 'er coach and span to the 
 rescue."
 
 A CHANGE OF RESIDENCE AND AN ADVENTURE. 27 
 
 Another shout more deafening than the preceding one 
 rent the air at this sarcastic speech, and Gladys shrank 
 back \vitn a look of disgust on ner young face. 
 
 "Pretty little Miss Uppercrust," the young rascal inso 
 lently resumed, encouraged by the applause around him. 
 "I guess it 1 !! take more'n you and your fine feathers to 
 squelch Nick Tower. See 'ere now, how d'ye like that?" 
 wherewith he gave the poor boy a brutal punch in the 
 ribs which elicited a shriek of agony from him. 
 
 Gladys' eyes blazed wrathfully. For a moment she 
 gazed straight into the face of the impudent urchin, her 
 beautiful lips quivering with contempt, while every eye 
 was fixed upon her with wonder and curiosity. 
 
 It was a new departure for a young and delicate girl to 
 face them like that. It was their experience to have every 
 one ot the better class shrink from them in disgust, and 
 get out of their way as soon as possible. 
 
 Gladys saw that their attention was all concentrated 
 upon her, and that the boy, upon whom they had been 
 venting their malice, was for the time unheeded. 
 
 She saw, too, that he was stealthily edging his way to 
 ward the carriage, and a sudden bright thought flashed 
 into her mind. 
 
 She bent forward as if to speak again, and the interest 
 deepened on those youthful faces beneath her. 
 
 Quick as a flash she turned the handle of the carriage 
 door, threw it open, and with a significant gesture, she 
 cried out, in clear, ringing tones : 
 
 "Come here, boy, quick ! quick !" 
 
 The lad needed no second bidding. 
 
 With one bound he was outside the circle of his tor 
 mentors ; another brought him to the side of the carriage, 
 and the next instant he had sprung within the vehicle, 
 where he sank panting and trembling upon a rug at the 
 young lady's feet. 
 
 The door was immediately shut and fastened. Gladys' 
 face was glowing with triumph over the success of her 
 ruse, while, at an authoritative chirrup from the coach 
 man, who, sooth to say, had keenly enjoyed the spirited 
 and courageous attitude assumed by his young mistress 
 in defense of the persecuted boy, the horses started on, 
 leaving the group of gamins speechless and spell-bound 
 with amazement at this unexpected master-stroke. 
 
 It was only for a minute, however ; the next rage, at 
 having been outwitted by a girl, and that one of the hated 
 favorites of fortune, superseded their astonishment,
 
 28 A CHANGE OF RESIDENCE AND AN ADVEA'TUltK 
 
 a succession of frantic yells burst upon their ears, while 
 as witn one mind they stooped to gather mud from the 
 gutter, rolled it into balls, and then sent their filthy mis 
 siles flying after the receding carriage and its occu 
 pants. 
 
 Gladys did not pay the slightest heed to this attack, 
 though one vile mass came plump against her pretty sun 
 shade where it adhered for a moment and then rolled into 
 the street, but leaving an unsightly stain where it had 
 Struck upon the rich, glossy silk. 
 
 The irate little wrenches would have followed up their 
 assault had not a policeman suddenly made his appear 
 ance upon the scene, when they took to their heels, scat 
 tering and disappearing around a corner, like a flock of 
 frightened sheep, quicker than it has taken to relate the 
 occurrence. 
 
 Gladys gave a sigh of relief as the noise and pelting 
 ceased, and then she turned her attention to the luckless 
 wait whom she had befriended in his hour of need. 
 
 "Get up, boy," she said, kindly, "they cannot hurt you 
 now." 
 
 But as he still crouched, trembling and frightened, at 
 her feet, she turned to the coachman and said : 
 
 "John, help him up, he is too frightened to move." 
 
 "Come, my lad, you've nothing to fear now," the driver 
 remarked, encouragingly, and reaching over the back of 
 his seat he took the boy by the arm and lifted him from 
 the floor, placing him opposite his young mistress. 
 
 He glared wildly about him at first, but as his eyes fell 
 upon Glad 3*8' sympathetic face the fear faded from them, 
 and he seemed reassured. 
 
 Then all at once he put his hand to his head in a dis 
 tressed way, and called out : 
 
 "M'ha! m'ha!" 
 
 "What does he mean, John? Can they have hurt him, 
 do you think?" Gladys asked, looking perplexed, and re 
 garding the boy's blank, though beautiful, face with anx 
 iety. 
 
 "I don't know, miss ; perhaps it's his hat he's troubled 
 about." 
 
 The lad turned quickly at the word hat, nodded hig 
 head emphatically, and showed two rows of white, hand 
 some teeth in a broad, satisfied pmile. 
 
 "M'ha ! m'ha !" he repeated, and then there followed a 
 lot of gibberish that was wholly unintelligible to his list 
 eners.
 
 A CHANGE OF RESIDENCE AND AN ADVENTURE. 29 
 
 "How strangely he appears!" Gladys exclaimed, re 
 garding him curiously. 
 
 "He do, indeed, miss. The poor chap is an idiot, or I'm 
 much mistaken." 
 
 "An idiot ! Oh, how dreadful ! Poor boy," cried GlaJys, 
 pityingly. Then she added, soothingly: "Never mind 
 your hat, papa shall buy you another." 
 
 The young stranger nodded contentedly, as if he under 
 stood ner, while his great blue eyes were fixed earnestly 
 and confidingly on her face. 
 
 " What is your name and where do you live?" contin 
 ued the young girl, wondering what she should do with 
 him now that she had rescued him from his persecutors, 
 if he could not tell where he belonged. 
 
 The only answer to this query was a senseless smile, 
 accompanied by a low crooning sound of contentment. 
 
 "Oh, dear ! can't you talk at all? What is your name? 
 you must tell me or I shall not know where to take you," 
 said Gladys, beginning to look greatly disturbed, and 
 wondering what would be the result of this strange ad 
 venture. 
 
 The boy reached out a white, slender hand and touched 
 the girl caressingly on the cheek, at the same time mak 
 ing a sound indicative of pleasure and admiration, but 
 uttering no intelligible word. 
 
 It was evident that he was not only simple-minded, but 
 that there must be some paralysis of the vocal organs as 
 well, that prevented his talking. 
 
 A flush sprang to the young girl's face, and a strange 
 thrill pervaded her at the touch of thoso delicate fingers. 
 
 "He is the most beautiful boy I ever saw," she said, 
 "but, oh ! how dreadful for him not to know anything ! I 
 wonder who he is, John !" 
 
 "I'm sure I can't say, miss," repleid the man, looking 
 perplexed and somewhat annoyed. 
 
 "How old do you think he nan be?" 
 
 John gave a long look at the young stranger. 
 
 "He's small of his age, miss, but I reckon he must be 
 older than yourself." 
 
 "Older than I! Oh! I do not think that can be possi 
 ble," Gladys exclaimed, attentively studying the strangely 
 attractive yet vacant countenance before her. 
 
 "What shall wo do with him, John?" she inquired, 
 after a moment of thoughtful silence. 
 
 "I think we'd best take him straight to the office, tell 
 the master all about him, and he'll settle the matter."
 
 30 A QUA VE CONS UL TA TI029. 
 
 "Yes, I believe that will be the best plan," Gladys re 
 turned, looking greatly relieved. "Papa will know just 
 what to do. But," bending forward and laying her hand 
 on the boy's arm to attract his attention more fully, while 
 she spoke slowly and very distinctly, "can't you tell me 
 where you live, boy? Do try, and then we can take you 
 directly to your home." 
 
 The lad looked up with a most confiding smile at her, 
 gently took her hand from his arm, clasped it tenderly in 
 both his own, and murmured, in an exceedingly rich and 
 mellow tone, some strange sounds. 
 
 "Oh, how sorry lam for him !" Gladys said, with start 
 ing tears: "I wonder if he has any father or mother, 
 brothers or sisters. It would break my heart to have a 
 lovely brother like this, and not have him know any 
 thing. Hurry on, John, please ; I am anxious to know 
 what papa can do for him." 
 
 CHAPTEE V. 
 
 A GRAVE CONSULTATION. 
 
 Arriving at Mr. Huntress' office in Dey street, Gladys 
 alighted, bidding John detain the boy in the carriage un 
 til she could bring her father. 
 
 She ran lightly up the stairs, and found that gentleman 
 just on the point of leaving to return home, but evidently 
 very much pleased to have his daughter come for him. 
 
 She related what had occurred on her way over to the 
 city, and he listened attentively to her story ; but his 
 face grew grave as she proceeded, for he was so fond and 
 careful of her, that he could not endure the thought of 
 her running into any danger. 
 
 "I fear you have been unwise, my darling, in taking 
 this boy into the carriage with you," he said, drawing her 
 fondly toward him, and bending down to kiss the bright, 
 eager face upturned to him. "He may have come from 
 some fever-infested locality ; you should have given him 
 into the care of a policeman." 
 
 "But, papa, there was no policeman near at the time, 
 and the poor boy was so frightened and distressed I hadn't 
 the heart to make him get out of the carriage, at least un 
 til we could get beyond the reach of those rude boys. I 
 supposed, of course, he would tell us where he lived, so
 
 A OKA VE CONS UL TA TION. 31 
 
 that we could take him home, but we could not under 
 stand a word that he said." 
 
 " Perhaps he is some foreigner, " suggested Mr. Hunt 
 ress. 
 
 " No, I think not, for he seemed to know what we said 
 to him. He isn't like thoae other boys he looks as if he 
 must belong to very nice, respectable people. His clothes 
 are very plain, but as clean as can be even his hands 
 and nails are as white and cloan as mine, which is not 
 usual in a boy, you know. Come and see him, papa. I 
 know you will pity him," pleaded Gladys, with a very 
 sweet and sympathetic face. 
 
 She slipped her hand within her father's arm and drew 
 him with gentle force out of his office and down the stairs 
 to the carriage, where John sat, looking a trifle anxious 
 and as if he feared a reproof for allowing a strange child 
 in his master's elegant equipage with his idolized 
 daughter. > 
 
 Mr. Huntress was struck with the refined, even aristo 
 cratic appearance of the boy the moment his eyes fell 
 upon him. 
 
 He instantly recognized the wonderful beauty of his 
 face, remarked the shape and color of his eyes, which, 
 had they been lighted by the fire of intelligence, would 
 have been his chief charm. His frame was slight, but he 
 was finely formed, with shapely hands and feet. His 
 head was rather massive for his body and of that square 
 structure, with a broad, full brow and an unusual height 
 above the ears, which generally proclaims a large brain 
 and rare intellectual capacity, and yet he was unmistak 
 ably an idiot ! one look into those blank, expressionless 
 eyes but too plainly told that. 
 
 M>\ Huntress entered the carriage, after assisting 
 Gladys to her seat, and spoke kindly and cheerfully to 
 the boy. 
 
 He made no answer, but fixed his great eyes earnestly 
 upon the gentleman's face while he shrank close to Gladys, 
 as if he instinctively realized that she was his stanch 
 friend, and would protect him against all evil. 
 
 " I do not wonder that you were interested in him, 
 Gladys," said Mr. Huntress, regarding the stranger 
 gravely, "he is peculiarly winning in appearance, though 
 evidently very simple in mind.'' 
 
 "Do you suppose he was always so, papa" GJcdyi 
 asked. 
 
 "It does not seem possible, for, aside from tl:;.; vnti it
 
 33 A GRAVE CONSULTATION. 
 
 look in his eyes, his face has a wonderfully intelligent 
 expression, especially when it is in repose. Can't you 
 make him say anything?" 
 
 "No, sir; he tries to talk, but I cannot understand 
 what he means." 
 
 "Ask him a question, Gladys," said her father. 
 
 "Boy, you have lost your hat would you like a new 
 one?" the young girl questioned. 
 
 "M'ha! m'ha !" he instantly answered, putting his 
 hand to his head, thus showing as before that he had 
 comprehended something of what was said to him. 
 
 Mr. Huntress' face lighted. 
 
 "Try something else,'" he commanded. 
 
 " Where do you live, boy ?" Gladys inquired. 
 
 This query, like the previous one, only elicited a per 
 fect storm of unintelligible pounds. 
 
 " Do you wish to go home to your friends?" Gladys con 
 tinued, making another effort. 
 
 But the only response was a short, sharp ejaculation of 
 pain, while the lad seized her hand and laid his cheek 
 affectionately against it, looking appealingly into her 
 face, as if thus to signify that he did not wish to leave 
 her. 
 
 "I cannot understand him at all, papa, only it seems 
 as if he wishes to stay with me," said Gladys, with a sigh. 
 
 Mr. Huntress thought a moment, then he turned to the 
 coachman and said : 
 
 "Drive home, John." 
 
 "Oh, papa, are you going to take him home with us?" 
 cried Gladys, eagerly. 
 
 "Yes; for to-night. I find myself strangely interested 
 in him, and I have not the heart to turn him adrift upon 
 the street. He evidently belongs to a good family, and 
 has probably strayed from home and got lost. We will 
 care for him until we can learn who his friends are, and 
 can return him to them," Mr. Huntress replied, and they 
 then proceeded directly home with their strange protege, 
 where Mrs. Huntress received them with considerable 
 aurprisa, although her sympathies were also soon enlisted 
 in behalf of their charge, and she bestowed the kindest 
 of care and attention upon the unfortunate waif so singu 
 larly thrown into her family. 
 
 Mr. Huntress caused an advertisement to be inserted 
 in the papers the next morning, inquiring for the friends 
 of the wanderer. 
 
 But a week passed and he received not one word in re-
 
 A GRAVE CONSULTATION. 33 
 
 ply, and thus his identity remained a profound mystery. 
 
 Meantime, the object of these inquiries was so docile 
 and tractable, so affectionate in his manner toward 
 every member of the household ; ho was so trustful, 
 appearing to recognize instinctively that they were kind 
 friends ; he was so exceptionally nice about his person 
 and habits, and so gentle in his manner, that they all be 
 came greatly attached to him, and they felt more and 
 more convinced that he belonged to some family of good 
 blood and high position, in spite of the very com 
 mon clothing which he wore, and his imbecile condi 
 tion. 
 
 There vras nothing about him to give the least clew to 
 his identity. Every article he had on was thoroughly 
 examined to try to find some name ; every pocket was 
 searched with the same purpose, and at last Mr. Huntress 
 began to believe that he must hare been brought from a 
 distance to New York by some person or persons, and 
 there willfully deserted for some secret reason, with the 
 hope, perhaps, that the authorities would care for him 
 and have him sent to some institution for weak-minded, 
 people. 
 
 This view of the affair made him very indignant toward 
 the supposed perpetrato r s of the deed, and tenfold more 
 tender toward the unfortunate victim of such an in 
 human transaction, and one day, upon returning from 
 his business in New York, he was accompanied by one of 
 the most skillful physicians in the city. 
 
 To him the pitiable but interesting innocent was sub 
 mitted for examination. 
 
 The noted M. D. at once became absorbed in and enthus 
 iastic over the peculiar case. 
 
 "He would be a remarkable boy but for the torpidity 
 of his intellect," he asserted. " He was not born so. Hia 
 present condition was caused either by some acute dis 
 ease of the brain, or by some injury to it the latter, 
 most probably." 
 
 "Possibly a great wrong has been perpetrated, and he 
 has been deserted in this mysterious way to conceal the 
 deed," suggested Mr. Huntress, gravely. 
 
 "I should not be at all surprised." returned the physi 
 cian. "He may be t,h heir to some 1 '\rsro property, and 
 jealousy has brought him to this pass. Everything about 
 him. save his idiocy, betrays that he came of a refined 
 parentage. His physical condition is sound, although he 
 is not fully developed as he should be, but that is owing
 
 34 A GRAVE CONSULTATION. 
 
 undoubtedly, to his mental incapacity. He is evidently 
 about fifteen years of age." 
 
 All this was the result of but a superficial examination. 
 A more critical one confirmed one of the doctor's the 
 ories : there proved to be a depression of the skull which 
 must have been caused by some accident to or violent 
 blow upon the head. 
 
 "It was done a number of years ago," the learned ian 
 affirmed, "and that produced a paralysis of the brain 
 and also of the nerves that control his organs of speech. 
 
 "Is there any help for him can he be restored ?" Mr. 
 Huntress inquired, eagerly. 
 
 "Possibly, by an operation ; but it would be attended 
 with considerable risk." 
 
 " Would the risk be so great, that were the boy your 
 own son, you would hesitate to attempt it ?" 
 
 "No; I should have it done at once. Still, the trouble 
 is of such long standing that I could not answer for the 
 success of the operation in restoring the boy to his nor 
 mal condition, even should he survive the shock to his 
 system ; and yet " 
 
 "Well ?" almost impatiently questioned Mr. Huntress. 
 He was becoming greatly excited over the matter. 
 
 Somehow a conviction had taken possession of his 
 heart that such an operation would result favorably, and 
 he longed to have his hopes confirmed. 
 
 "It would be a great triumph of science if the trial 
 could be made, and he should have his reasoning powers 
 restored," returned the physician, gravely. 
 
 " Would he be able to talk ? Would his power of speech 
 be regained ?" 
 
 "Yes, I believe so. I suspect that a portion of the 
 skull, which was broken at the time of his injury, is 
 pressing upon his brain, causing not only loss of memory, 
 but also a partial paralysis of the hypoglossal nerve. If 
 this pressure can be relieved, and the piece of skull lifted 
 to its place, or removed altogether, and the aperture 
 trepanned, I see no reason why he should not recover the 
 full use of all his faculties" the doctor explained. 
 
 "I wish it might be done. Doctor, I wonder if it would 
 be right for me to assume the responsibility of ordering 
 this operation to be performed, " said Mr. Huntress, 
 reflectively. 
 
 "It would be a great blessing to the boy." 
 
 "Yes ; provided all went well." 
 
 "And an otherwise inexplicable mystery might thus be
 
 A GRAVE CONSULTATION.' 35 
 
 solved ; he would doubtless be able to tell who he is, 
 an<i thus you could restore him to his friends." 
 
 "Dr. Scherz, will you share the responsibility sim 
 ply that of this matter with me?" Mr. Huntress gravely 
 asked, after thinking deeply for several moments. 
 
 "I feel rather delicate about giving you an affirmative 
 answer to that question," the physician replied, "if lam 
 expected to have charge of the case. I might be severely 
 criticised and accused or' a desire to experiment for the 
 benefit of my profession, if there should be a fatal result." 
 
 ""Yea, perhaps; but, on the other hand, you would ac 
 quire fame if the boy was restored.* 1 
 
 "Undoubtedly." And the eminent physician's eyes 
 glowed with eagerness. 
 
 "Well, the matter stands like this," said Mr. Huntress, 
 after another thoughtful pause. "I have done my best to 
 find the lad's friends, but there is evidently no one, at 
 least in Brooklyn or New York who will claim him. I 
 am unaccountably interested in him. I will not send him 
 to an insane asylum. I cannot cast him forth again upon 
 the street to wander about at the mercy of the rabble. 
 I have resolved to care for him as I would wish a son of 
 mine cared for under similar circumstances, and yet his 
 presence, in this imbecile state, is a constant pain to me. 
 What shall I do?" 
 
 "If you intend to give him a father's care, I see no rea 
 son why you should not exercise a parent's judgment 
 and authority in the matter of his possible restoration," 
 Dr .Scherz responded, thoughtfully. 
 
 "Then will yon take charge of the case and treat it as 
 your judgment and skill dictate? The expense and risk 
 shall all be mine, yours the reward and fame if a cure is 
 effected." 
 
 Dr. Scherz did not reply to this request for several 
 minutes. He appeared to be considering and reviewing 
 the matter in all its points, and evidently regarded the 
 undprtaking as one of grave responsibility and im 
 portance. 
 
 At length he looked up, and Mr. Huntress was more 
 encouraged by the expression on his pale, thoughtful 
 fare, than he had yet been over anything that he had snid 
 about the case. He felt sure that the man would act con 
 scientiously, and exert himself to the extent of his skill. 
 
 "I think I will atterrpt it." he paid, slowly. "But be 
 fore I do, T would like to consult with a friend in the pro 
 fession, and get his opinion upon the undertaking. I wiH
 
 ,i6 THE DEVELOPMENTS OF SEVEHAL YEAVS. 
 
 see you again in a few days ; meantime, do your best to 
 build up the boy's strength with a nourishing diet." 
 With this, the two men separated. 
 
 CHAPTEK VI. 
 
 THE DEVELOPMENTS OF SEVERAL TEARS. 
 
 A full week passed before Mr. Huntress heard any 
 thing further from Dr. Scherz, and it was a week of 
 anxiety and unrest for him. 
 
 At the erd of that time the physician went again to see 
 the Huntress protege, taking a noted hospital surgeon 
 with him. 
 
 After another protracted and critical examination, the 
 two gentlemen decided to undertake the operation to 
 gether. 
 
 The boy was removed to a hospital where diseases of 
 the brain were treated, and there the delicate and hazard 
 ous operation was performed. 
 
 The result proved that Dr. Scherz had thoroughly 
 understood the case that his theory was the correct one. 
 
 A severe blow upon the head, years previous, fractured' 
 the skull, a portion of which was crowded in upon the 
 brain, the pressure causing temporary paralysis and 
 idiocy, also loss of energy in the hypoglossal or lingual 
 nerve. 
 
 This piece of bone was removed, the brain relieved of 
 the unnatural pressure, and the result was both wonder 
 ful and startling. 
 
 Before the patient had fully recovered from the effects 
 of the ether which had been administered to him, memory 
 and speech both reasserted their functions by completing 
 a sentence which had evidently been interrupted at the 
 time of the accident which had deprived the boy of their 
 use. 
 
 " tell my papa !" were the words which fell upon 
 
 the ears of the startled surgeons, while the large blue 
 eyes of their patient slowly unclosed and gazed up into 
 the faces bending over him, the light of reason once more 
 gleaning in their azure depths. 
 
 "What will you tell papa?" asked Dr. Scherz, in a 
 quiet tone, while the other surgeon drew quickly out of 
 eight.
 
 TEE DEVELOPMENTS OF SEVERAL TEARS. 37 
 
 "Jack struck Margery," was the instant reply. 
 
 " Who is your papa, my boy?" 
 
 "Why, he's papa; don't you know? my good papa." 
 was the response, while a puzzled look shot over the lad's 
 pale t'aco. 
 
 Dr. Scherz knew from his manner of speech that he 
 must have been very young not more than five years of 
 age at the time of his injury, and when that great dark-' 
 ness had so suddenly enveloped him. 
 
 "Yes, your good papa," said the doctor, soothingly. 
 "Now go to sleep like a man." 
 
 "I'm Margery's little man where is Margery?" he 
 questioned, drowsily, and closing his eyes, he was soon 
 in a profound slumber. 
 
 The two physicians watched him in silence for a few 
 moments, then they looked up into each other's face ; eye 
 held eye for an instant with an eloquent glance, the next 
 their hands met in a prolonged and hearty clasp across 
 their patient, for they knew that, if all went well, they 
 had succeeded in an operation that would give them a 
 famous reputation for all time. 
 
 When the boy awoke again he called lustily for "Mar 
 gery," and a kind and motherly nurse was at once ap 
 pointed to care for him. 
 
 He seemed to know, however, that she was not "Mar 
 gery," although he appeared to take to her and was con 
 tent to have her attend him. 
 
 "Where's Jack?" he asked of Dr. Scherz, who still 
 remained with him, determined to watch him most care 
 fully. 
 
 "Jack who?" he asked. 
 
 "Why, Margery's Jack ; but he isn't good like Margery," 
 from which the physician inferred that "Jack" must have 
 been Margery's husband, and not an over kind one either. 
 
 "Oh, Jack has gone away," he anwered, carelessly. 
 "What is your name, my boy?" 
 
 "I'm Geoffrey, sir." 
 
 "Geoffrey what?" 
 
 "Why, Geoffrey Dale don't you knew ? I'm papa Dale's 
 own boy." 
 
 "Where is papa?" 
 
 "Gone away off," was the reply, accompanied by a 
 grieved look, "and he won't come again for ever so long.* 1 
 
 Dr. Sehorz would not press him further; he knew 
 that they must be patient. Memory had lain dormant for 
 so long, and the child had been so young at the time of
 
 38 THE DEVELOPMENTS OF SEVERAL YEARS. 
 
 losing it, that it was doubtful if they could ever learn 
 very much regarding his history. 
 
 Weeks passed, and Geoffrey was at last pronounced 
 well enough to return to the beautiful home awaiting 
 him in Brooklyn. 
 
 He had recovered without a single drawback. The 
 light of reason gleamed in his eyes, and he had the full 
 use of all the organs of speech. 
 
 But, although the doctors had decided that he must be 
 fully fifteen years of age, notwithstanding his growth 
 had been somewhat stunted by the effects of his injury, 
 mentally he was little better than an infant. 
 
 He talked like a child of five years, and acted like 
 one. 
 
 But very little could be learned of his previous life. 
 It was evident that he had been living with a woman 
 named Margery who, probably, was his nurse and a 
 man named Jack, possibly the woman's husband. 
 
 Margery he had loved, and he often called for her now. 
 Jack he had feared, and looked frightened whenever his 
 name was mentioned. 
 
 Of the injury which had deprived him of his memory 
 he seemed to be able to tell nothing, although he affirmed 
 that Jack had struck and tried to choke Margery, and he 
 wanted to "lick the naughty man." 
 
 Of his mother he knew absolutely nothing ; his father 
 was not much more than a name to him, although he 
 spoke of him as his "good pnpa," while he could not tell 
 anything whatever about the place where his former 
 home had been, and kneAv nothing of the circumstances of 
 his being in New York. 
 
 He was very quick to comprehend, however, now that 
 be once more had his reason, and readily adapted him 
 self to his new surroundings. 
 
 Mr. Huntress resolved to adopt him legally, and do all 
 in his power to atone for the long interval of darkness 
 and mental incapacity to which he had been so strangely 
 doomed. 
 
 Geoffrey beeran at once to regard his new friends with 
 the greatest confidence and affection, while toward Gladys 
 he manifested the most devoted love. 
 
 She, on her part, regarded him with tenderest com 
 passion and sympathy, for, in spite of his remarkable 
 beauty and natural ability, he was truly a pitiable object, 
 with the simple mind and manners of a child five years 
 of age in a body of fifteen ; for he soon began to develop
 
 THE DEVELOPMENTS OF SEVERAL TEARS. 39 
 
 rapidly, physically, after his restoration, and bade fair to 
 be. a man of splendid physique. 
 
 He was not long in realizing that he was far from be 
 ing like other boys of his age, and he began to be very 
 sensitive over the fact to grow grave and thoughtful, 
 and sometimes positively unhappy. 
 
 "Why can't I be like other boys?" he once asked of Mr. 
 Huntress, with a perplexed look on his fine face, and the 
 gentleman kindly explained that, when he had been very 
 young, some one or something must have struck him a 
 blow on the head which had injured his brain, so that for 
 years it had been the same as if sound asleep, and had 
 only just waked up again ; that his body had grown, but 
 his mind had not. 
 
 "Oh, I know," Geoffrey returned, with a startled look, 
 a new light coming into his eyes. "Jack threw a great 
 stick of wood at me." 
 
 "What made him do that?" Mr. Huntress asked, 
 eagerly. 
 
 The boy bent his head, and seemed trying to recall the 
 events of that dim past. 
 
 "He came into the kitchen with a dreadful red face," 
 he said, " and he was very ugly to Margery I can't think 
 about what. He put his hands around%her nf ck, and she 
 screamed. I ran up and struck him, and told him I'd tell 
 my papa, and that's all I know," he concluded, with a 
 sigh. 
 
 Mr. Huntress could imagine that the man was intoxi 
 cated, and being in a frenzy, he had perhaps seized a 
 stick of wood from the hearth, thrown it at the child, and 
 knocked him senseless. 
 
 " What was Jack's other name ?" he asked. 
 
 "Jack Jack " Geoffrey began, then shook his head 
 hopelessly. "I can't tell," he concluded ; and Mr. Hun 
 tress felt that it only annoyed him, and it would be use 
 less to try to find out anything definite from him, so he 
 let the matter drop. 
 
 One day, after Geoffrey had been with the family some 
 three months, he came in from the street looking flushed 
 and angry. 
 
 Seeking Gladys he besought her most piteously to teach 
 him to read. 
 
 Upon inquiring what prompted the request, she found 
 that Geoffrey had been attracted by a glaring placard 
 that had been pasted up somewhere on a building, and 
 had asked some boys what it was.
 
 40 THE DEVELOPMENTS OF SEVERAL TEARS. 
 
 This had at once betrayed his woeful ignorance, for if 
 he had even known his letters, he could at least have 
 made out something of the nature of the bill, and they 
 had tormented him unmercifully for being a simpleton. 
 
 Gladys at once procured a primer and set herself at 
 work to teach him. 
 
 He proved to be a most diligent pupil, with great per 
 severance and a wonderful power for memorizing, for in 
 a month he had mastered the whole of its contents. 
 
 Mr. Huntress was astonished at his progress, and 
 wanted to put him at once into school. 
 
 But Geoffrey, who was developing rapidly in every 
 way, shrank from the proposal, and begged his Uncle 
 August, as he had been taught to call Mr. Huntress, to 
 allow him to study at home. 
 
 "They Avill laugh at me at school, for I shall have to go 
 into classes with little boys only five or six years old," 
 he pleaded, with a crimson face. 
 
 " But you must go to school some time, and you will 
 have to begin with boys younger than yourself," Mr. 
 Huntress replied. 
 
 "Won't you keep on teaching me, Gladys?" Geoffrey 
 asked, appealingly. " I will study hard and never trouble 
 you by not having my lessons, and perhaps I can catch 
 up with big boys by and by." 
 
 Gladys said she would keep on with him. But she was 
 not allowed to do so, although she often gave him help 
 in many ways. 
 
 She had her own studies to attend to and was working 
 hard at them, therefore Mr. Huntress would not allow 
 her to tax herself any further, and so a tutor was engaged 
 to come to the house every day to attend to Master 
 Geoffrey's lessons. 
 
 The boy was true to his promise. He studied dili 
 gently, and his tutor never had occasion to utter a word 
 of complaint over ill-prepared lessons. Geoffrey seemed 
 to realize more and more how far behind other boys of 
 his own age he was, and with his pride and ambition 
 thus aroused, no task seemed too difficult to accomplish, 
 if it would only serve to help him to overtake them. 
 
 Another thing troubled him exceedingly. He had 
 learned that Gladys was two years younger than himself, 
 and yet she was nearly half through the high school, 
 while he was simply learning his alphabet. The thought 
 overwhelmed him with shame and pain. 
 
 " Gladys is a girl younger than I, and I am years and
 
 THE DEVELOPMENTS OF SEVERAL YEARS. 41 
 
 years behind her, when I should be ever so far beyond 
 her," he said one day to Mrs. Huntress, when he had be- 
 eome almost discouraged over one of his lessons, and had 
 gone to her for help and sympathy. 
 
 "But Gladys has always been at school and you have 
 not, Geoff," returned his aunt, kindly. "Go and ask her 
 to show you about these problems ; she can help you 
 much better than 1, for they are fresher in her mind." 
 
 But the proud boy had all at once grown keenly sensi 
 tive, and would not seek the young girl's aid. He pre 
 ferred to fight the battle out by himself, rather than be 
 coached by a girl younger than he was. 
 
 Of course this was the better way ; he gained in mental 
 strength and self-reliance by it, and he accomplished 
 more in three years than the ordinary school-boy would 
 in six. 
 
 Aside from his pride and sensitiveness in this respect, 
 he was ever ready and eager to be with Gladys. 
 
 Wherever she went, after school hours, he was her 
 constant and devoted attendant, and no service was too 
 hari or disagreeable to be performed for her. 
 
 And she enjoyed having him with her. He was out 
 growing the delicate, almost effeminate look which he 
 had had when he first came to them ; an air of manliness 
 and strength had taken its place, while there was a nat 
 ural gallantry and manliness about him that made him 
 a very agreeable escort. 
 
 Another year passed, and he made even more rapid 
 strides in his studies than before ; still it was a great 
 trial to him that he had only completed the studies of the 
 second year of the high school course, and Gladys was 
 ready to graduate. 
 
 He was present at her examination, and also at the ex 
 ercises of the class when it graduated, and it was evi 
 dent, from his 'flushed cheek and glittering eye, that 
 gome bitter struggle was going on within him. 
 
 He watched the beautiful girl's every movement, he 
 eagerly drank in every word that she uttered, and was 
 as proud of her as he could be, yet all the time miserably 
 conscious of his own deficiency. 
 
 That evening he shut himself within his own room 
 and fought a terrible battle out with his pride and wretch 
 edness. 
 
 "I am nineteen years old, and she is seventeen," he 
 said, bitterly. "I am two years behind her, and I should 
 be two years in advance there are four years of my life
 
 42 THE DEVELOPMENTS OF SEVERAL TEARS. 
 
 lost; no, not lost, either," be added, with sudden energy, 
 "for I will make them up, I will gain them. Can I do 
 six years work in four 2 Harder work, too, than I have 
 ever done before ? Yes, I will !" 
 
 He sat down to his table and began to look over his 
 books, making calculations as to how much ground he 
 could get over in a given time, while every few moments 
 he would consult son:ie catalogues that lay beside him. 
 
 The next morning he walked down to the Fulton Ferry 
 with Mr. Huntress, and on the way he remarked, with 
 more than hia accustomed gravity : 
 
 " Uncle August, Gladys is going to Vassar next year, 
 isn't she?" 
 
 "Yes ; she is ambitious to take an advanced course, and 
 there is no reason why she should not do so, i.f she desires. 
 
 "Will you allow me to continue my studies during the 
 summer with Mr. Riverd, and enter some institute in the 
 fall where I can advance more rapidly?'' 
 
 Mr. Huntress turned and looked searchingly into the 
 young man's flushed face, as he asked this question. 
 
 He was a tall, manly fellow of nineteen, strong and 
 stalwart of frame, his fine, massive head crowned with 
 waving hair a few shades darker than it was when we 
 first saw him ; his eyes full of fire and intelligence, his 
 whole face glowing with strength of character, and a 
 certain something which gave one an idea of great re 
 serve power, and it was no wonder that the countenance 
 of Mr. Huntress lighted with a took of pride, as he real 
 ized that, under God, he had been instrumental in giving 
 to the world this noble specimen of manhood. 
 
 Then a sudden smile broke over his face. 
 
 "Why, Geoff, are you envious of Gladys, because she 
 is going to college?" he asked, in a bantering tone. 
 
 A. deeper flush suffused the young man's handsome 
 face. Then he replied, in low but intense tones : 
 
 "I hope I am not envious of any good that comes to 
 her; 1 am more proud of her than I can express, and I 
 would not have her anything but just what she is, the 
 kindest, the smartest, and loveliest of girls ; but I can't 
 quite stand it to be so far behind her, to have her look 
 down upon me and despise me for being so ignorant." 
 
 "I do not think that Gladys would ever be guilty of 
 anything so unkind. Geoff ; she loves yon far too well for 
 that," returned Mr. Huntress, gravely, but still closely 
 watching his protege, for he could well understand the 
 pain he was suffering.
 
 THE DEVELOPMENTS OF SEVERAL YEARS. 43 
 
 Geoffrey's face kindled, and his companion could see 
 his temples throbbing as the blood coursed more quickly 
 through his veins at his words. 
 
 "Thank you, Uncle August, for assuring me of 
 Gladys' affection; but! want her respect as well," b-e 
 said, with a slight quiver in hip tone. 
 
 August Huntress started at that reply, for it betrayed a 
 great deal. 
 
 It told him that the devotion and affection which he 
 had manifested for Gladys from the first had now grown 
 into a strong, deep passion, which would either make or 
 mar his whole future, and' he was strangely moved by 
 this discovery. 
 
 How would it be with Gladys if she should discover it? 
 Would her heart respond to this wealth of love? Would 
 she ever be willing to link her fate with his? 
 
 She was far in advance of Geoffrey, mentally, but he 
 was making such rapid and resolute strides after her, 
 that, at the rate he had been gaining on her of late, it 
 could not be very long before he would reach the plane 
 on which she was standing, even if he did not distance 
 her altogether. 
 
 Well, well, it would be a romantic ending to the story 
 of their lives, he thought, if these two, so strangely 
 thrown upon his care with so much of mystery sur 
 rounding their birth and parentage, and likely always to 
 envelope them should some day unite their fates and 
 wed each other. 
 
 -But he allowed nothing of all this musing to appear ; he 
 simply said, with his accustomed kindness and genial 
 smile : 
 
 "You are worthily ambitious, Geoff, but I don't know 
 how you will stand it to apply yourself so closely all 
 summer and then go right on in the fall. I cannot 
 allow you to sacrifice your health to your love for 
 study." 
 
 "But I am well and strong as a giant ; will you let me 
 try, sir?" he pleaded, earnestly. 
 
 "Yes, indeed, with all my heart. It is a pleasure to 
 give you advantages when you improve them so eagerly. 
 I will make it an object to Mr. Rivers to remain with you 
 during the vacation, and then we can decide later where 
 you will go in the fall." 
 
 "Thank you, Uncle August, you are like a dear father 
 to me, and I could not love you better if you really were. 
 I hope some day to prove, in some tangible way, how
 
 4* GEOFFREY ENTERS COLLAGE. 
 
 grateful I am for your goodness," Geoffrey said, with 
 deep feeling. 
 
 "Tut, tut, my boy, don't burden yourself with any 
 sense of obligation. I am getting my pay as I go along, 
 in the enjoyment I get out of having a fine, manly fellow 
 like yourself in the house. I don't believe I could be 
 prouder of my own son than I am of you, and, taking us 
 all in all, I imagine there "isn't a happier family in all 
 Brooklyn than the one residing at No. Clinton ave 
 nue. Eh, Geoff ?'' 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 GEOFFREY ENTERS COLLEGE. 
 
 August Huntress and his gentle wife, Alice, deserved 
 to be happy, for they had devoted the best of their lives 
 to the work of rearing the two children who had been so 
 strangely thrown upon their care. 
 
 Of course it was but natural that their love for Gladys 
 should be deeper, stronger, and more sacred than for 
 Geoffrey, for they had taken her to their hearts as their 
 very own when she was but a tiny babe, and having had 
 no other children sent them to share their affection, their 
 every hope had long been centered in hei % . 
 
 But they felt very tenderly toward the hapless boy who 
 had first aroused their sympathy for his misfortune, and 
 subsequently won their love by his gentleness and con 
 fidence in them. 
 
 Mr. Rivers, Geoffrey's tutor, was very glad of the op 
 portunity to remain with his pupil during the summer 
 vacation, for it was simply a pleasure to teach one so 
 eager for knowledge ; while, too, being in limited circum 
 stances, he needed the pecuniary benefit accruing from 
 the arrangement. 
 
 Mr. Huntress sent them both into the country upon a 
 farm, where they could have fresh air and country liv 
 ing to strengthen their bodies, while storing their minds 
 with knowledge. 
 
 Mr. Rivers was most faithful in fulfilling his duties as 
 a tutor, while Geoffrey was indefatigable as a student. 
 He applied himself early and late ; he dug to the very 
 root of every problem and question, while he possessed 
 the power of concentration to such a degree that he got 
 over the ground much more rapidly than most students. 
 
 At the beginning of September he was pronounced
 
 GEOFFREY ENTERS COLLEGE. 45 
 
 qualified to enter a private institution for young men, 
 where the principal, after learning the circumstances 
 regarding his early misfortune and inability to study, al 
 lowed .him special privileges. 
 
 Here he remained for a year, overcoming every ob 
 stacle with an iron will and unflagging perseverance, and 
 surprising every one by his progress. 
 
 He developed in other ways also, becoming more mature 
 physically, and acquired a dignity and thoughtfulnesa 
 almost beyond his years, yet at the same time possessing 
 a peculiar gentleness and courtesy of manner that won 
 every one. 
 
 At the end of the year he was qualified to enter col 
 lege. 
 
 Mr. Huntress told him that he might remain where he 
 was if he felt the least sensitiveness about entering a 
 university ; but he was ready and eager now to take hig 
 place in the world with young men of his own age. Geof 
 frey had a consciousness within him that he could hold 
 his own anywhere, and he decided that he would go to 
 Yale. 
 
 He passed his examinations, and was received without 
 a condition, and he could not help experiencing a feeling 
 of triumph that at last he was on the "home stretch," so 
 to speak, for the goal toward which he had for years so 
 longinerly and enviously looked. 
 
 Now he was only one year behind Gladys, and he hoped 
 to be able to lessen the distance between them before he 
 was through with his course. At all events, i* his health 
 was spared, he would now have a finished education, and 
 would not need to feel that he was beneath her in point 
 of intellect. 
 
 As for Gladys herself, she was as proud as she could 
 be when Geoffrey told her of his success. 
 
 "Just to think of it," she cried, with shining ej'es and 
 flushod cheeks, though a little mischievous smile played 
 over her red lips ; "only six years ago I taught you your 
 letters, and now you are almost at the top of the ladder! 
 Oh, Geoffrey. I'm afraid you are very smart !" 
 
 "Afraid, Gladys?" 
 
 "Yes, and please don't drive your chariot too fast, even 
 now. Why, if you had had the opportunities that have 
 fallen to my lot, you would have been so far above me 
 by this time that I should never have dared so much as 
 to lift my eyes to you," the young girl returned with 
 mock humility.
 
 46 GEOFFREY ENTERS COLLEGE. 
 
 He bent and looked earnestly into her eyes. 
 
 "Gladys," he cried, under his breath, " I am sometimes 
 almost glad that I was cast adrift upon the world." 
 
 "Glad ! Why, Geoff!" she exclaimed, astonished, and 
 wondering at his intense mood. 
 
 "You think that rather an extravagant statement," he 
 said, smiling, "but if my life had run along smoothly in 
 my own home, like chat of other boys, I might never 
 have learned what mettle there was within me, and be 
 sides, I might never have known you you who have 
 been my good genius and my inspiration." 
 
 Gladys shot one startled glance up into those earnest 
 eyes looking into hers, then her own quickly dropped, 
 and a vivid scarlet shot up to her brow. 
 
 Geoffrey had never spoken like this to her before, 
 and the suppressed passion in his voice betrayed vol 
 umes. 
 
 The unexpected glimpse of his heart set her own to 
 beating with strange emotions. 
 
 She had always been fond of him in a sort of tender, 
 compassionate way, which of late had developed into 
 something of pride for his smartness, and the character 
 he exhibited ; but she had never dreamed that she could 
 ever learn to regard him other than as a dear friend or 
 brother, or that he would ever entertain but fraternal 
 affection for her. 
 
 She was strangely affected by this discovery of a 
 deeper sentiment. 
 
 Geoffrey entered Yale the first of September, and be 
 gan his four years' course there with the greatest of en 
 thusiasm. 
 
 He had been hard at work at college a little over a week 
 when, one evening, while he was deeply absorbed in the 
 preparation of the morrow's lessors, there came a quick, 
 sharp rap upon his door. 
 
 He glanced up as the door opened, and was astonished 
 to see half a dozen fellows from the sophomore class en 
 ter and station themselves at different points in the room, 
 while one, who appeared to be the leader of the company, 
 slowly advanced toward him. 
 
 In an instant it flashed upon Geoffrey that he was 
 about to be subjected to that terror of all freshmen haz 
 ing it being before the days when the practice fell into 
 such disfavor as at present. 
 
 For a moment he was indignant at this intrusion ; then 
 he said to himself :
 
 .GEOFFREY ENTERS COLLEGE. 47 
 
 "If thy ara not unreasonable I'll make the best of it, . 
 and let them have their fun." 
 
 He arose from his table and turned to meet the young 
 man approaching him, a genial smile on his handsome face. 
 
 But, as if suddenly arrested by some supernatural 
 power, both young men stopped transfixed, and gazed at 
 each other with undisguised astonishment, while expres 
 sions of wonder passed from lip to lip among those who 
 were looking on. 
 
 And it was no wonder, for those two standing in the 
 center of the room might well have been twin brothers 
 instead of utter strangers, for they appeared to be exactly 
 alike in form, and feature, and bearing. 
 
 Both were fair, with nut-broAvn hair and blue eyes. 
 Both were tall and well-developed, with a proud bearing 
 that would have made them conspicuous anywhere, al 
 though a critical observer might have noticed that Geof 
 frey was more firmly built, more muscular, perhaps ; thus 
 showing greater strength than the other. 
 
 The intruder was the first to recover himself, however, 
 and remarked, with a toss of his fine/ head and a long 
 drawn breath : 
 
 "I say, Huntress, this is downright queer! We came 
 to give you a little surprise party, and you've completely 
 taken the wind out of our sails to begin with. I could 
 almost swear that I was looking at my own reflection in 
 a glass. Who are you, anyway? Give us a history of your 
 antecedents." 
 
 "Gentlemen, you have the advantage of me," Geoffrey 
 politely returned, as he glanced from face to face. " You 
 appear to know me by name be good enough to tell me 
 whom I have the honor to entertain, then I shall be happy 
 to answer your questions." 
 
 "Well, I must say you're a cool one for a 'fresh,'" re 
 turned the other, with a light laugh, "but we can't stop 
 for formal introductions all round. Since I am master of 
 ceremonies for the evening, I will introduce myself as 
 Everet Mapleson at your service. I am a Southerner by 
 birth son of Col. William Mapleson, of ' Vue de 1'Eau,' 
 Virginia. Now, for your genealogy, young man." 
 
 Geoffrey colored. 
 
 Young Mapleson's tone was offensive in the extreme, 
 while his manner said as plainly as manner could say, "I 
 belong to one of the F. F. V's beat that record if you 
 can," and Geoffrey's first impulse was to refuse to comply 
 with his authoritative demand.
 
 48 9HE EAZBR HAZED, 
 
 But he had heard something of the indignities which 
 sophomores sometimes heaped upon unlucky freshmen, 
 and after a moment of thought he quietly replied : 
 
 "My genealogy is not a remarkable one. I am an 
 orphan, having lost my parents at a very early age, but I 
 have been reared and educated by an uncle, Mr. Hun 
 tress, of Brooklyn, New York." 
 
 "Is that so?" drawled the young Southerner, with lan 
 guid insolence. "Then it's a very singular coincidence, 
 our being the double of each other. Why, one would be 
 almost tempted to swear that the Mapleson blood flows 
 in your veins; but since my governor and I are the very 
 last of our race, that can't be possible, and it can only be 
 accounted for, I suppose, as a strange freak of nature." 
 
 Geoffrey simply bowed in reply to these remarks ; his 
 blood ^egan to boil at his visitor's assumption of superior 
 ity, and his fingers began to tingle to take him by the 
 collar and walk him out of the room. 
 
 "However," young Mapleson resumed, rubbing his 
 white hands and winking at his comrades, "we must not 
 be diverted from the object of our visit. We have called 
 upon you, Mr. Huntress, to test your powers of oratory ; 
 you will kindly favor us with a speech. Be seated, my 
 fellow sophs." 
 
 Everet Mapleson helped himself to the easiest chair in 
 the room, and waved his hand toward his companions as 
 a signal for them to do likewise. 
 
 Geoffrey saw by the expectant faces around him that 
 there would be no reprieve for him, and though he in- 
 wardly rebelled against having his privacy thus uncere 
 moniously invaded, and at being peremptorily ordered 
 about by a conceited fellow younger than himself, as 
 Mapleson evidently was, yet he knew he would get off 
 easier if he made light of his uncomfortable situation and 
 indulged their caprice, at least to a reasonable extent. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE HAZER HAZED. 
 
 Accordingly Geoffrey smiled and bowed, remarking, in 
 an off-hand way t 
 
 "I fear that my powers as orator will be somewhat dis 
 appointing to you, gentlemen ; nevertheless, I will favor 
 you to the extent of my ability."
 
 TH 3 HAZR HAZED. 49 
 
 Assuming a somewhat exaggerated attitude of dig 
 nity, he began reciting one of Cicero's orations, rendering 
 it in the original with perfect ease and fluency, while his 
 audience listened as if spell-bound to the smoothly rolling 
 sentences. 
 
 But this display did not satisfy Mapleson. He insisted 
 that Geoffrey should give a recitation in a reversed posi 
 tion the speaker standing on his head. 
 
 This proposal was received with shouts of" Shame 1" 
 "No, no !" "You are going too far, Everet !" 
 
 Geoffrey's eyes glowed with indignation, and a spot of 
 vivid scarlet settled on each cheek. He saw that the 
 young Southerner intended to degrade him. 
 
 "I think you have made a serious mistake," said Geof 
 frey, boldly approaching Everet Mapleson, "if you ex 
 pect to humiliate me. If you are sure that these gentle 
 men will not be satisfied until they see how I woura look 
 standing in a reversed attitude " 
 
 "Quite sure, ami we'll soon prove it if you don't get 
 about it," was the satirical interruption. 
 
 "Then I will give you a text from the ancient Phcedrus, 
 and at the same time gratify your friends by proxy." 
 
 Geoffrey made a sudden spring as he uttered those last 
 words, seized the young Southerner about the waist, 
 whirled him to the floor quick as a flash, and grasping 
 him by the legs, held him aloft in this reversed position 
 with a grip of iron, while he repeated, in a voice of thun 
 der, that Latin maxim : 
 
 " Scepe intereunt aliis meditantes necem. Often they 
 who plot the destruction of others become the victims of 
 their own machinations." 
 
 Then he released his hold upon the young man, politely 
 assisted him to rise to his feet, and making a profound 
 bow before him, gravely remarked : 
 
 " I think I hare satisfied all requirements. I have showm 
 your friends, if not you, how I should look standing oa 
 my head, while I have given you a quotation which may 
 prove useful to you in the future." 
 
 It had all been done so quickly and so resolutely that 
 there had scarcely been time for the others to interfere 
 had they been so disposed ; hardly time, even, for Maple- 
 son himself to resist, he had been so completely taken by 
 surprise, while every one was amazed at the wonderful 
 strength and dexterity that Geoffrey displayed. 
 
 But once more on his feet, Mapleson flew into a white 
 heat of rage.
 
 60 THE HAZER HAZED. 
 
 All his hot Southern blood was up, and he dashed at 
 Geoffrey with blazing eyes, crimson face, and with fists 
 clenched and uplifted as if to smite him to the floor. 
 
 But Geoffrey caught him by the wrists, with a grip that 
 rendered him instantly powerless, while he said, with the 
 utmost good nature : 
 
 "Mr. Mapleson, you are no match for me; I measured 
 you well before I touched you ; my muscles and sinewa 
 are like iron from long gymnastic training, so I advise 
 you not to waste your strength. I am sorry to have of 
 fended you, but this affair was none of my seeking, and 
 you tried my patience altogether too far. I have simply 
 acted in self-defense." 
 
 But Mapleson had lost his head entirely, and blustered 
 and swore in the most passionate manner, while his com 
 rades .,were so struck with admiration for Geoffrey and 
 his masterly self-control in the face of such excessive 
 provocation, that not one of them was disposed to meddle 
 in the quarrel. 
 
 " Let go ! you cold-blooded Yankee !" Everet Mapleson 
 cried, hoarsely, through his tightly locked teeth. 
 
 "I will release you, Mapleson, but you must not try the 
 same thing again," Geoffrey returned, with quiet firm 
 ness, and instantly loosed his hold upon the young man's 
 wrists. 
 
 With another violent oath, quick as a flash, and before 
 any one suspected his intention, Mapleson whipped out a 
 pistol from an inner pocket, cocked and pointed it at 
 Geoffrey. 
 
 What might have been the result no one can tell, if a 
 young man named Abbott had not dashed forward, and 
 thrown up his arm. 
 
 The next instant he had wrenched the weapon from his 
 grasp. 
 
 "Are you mad, Mapleson?" he cried; "we shall have 
 the whole faculty down upon us if you trifle with such a 
 plaything, and then there will be a fine row." 
 
 The other sophomores now gathered around and tried 
 to pacify their enraged leader, but he only grew the more 
 furious and vowed that he would yet have the Yan 
 kee's heart's blood for his insolence in laying hands upon 
 him. 
 
 "No, no, Mape, you drove him to it," interposed one; 
 "you can't blame him, and you would have done the 
 same had you been in his place." 
 
 "Who ever heard of a 'fresh' getting the upper hand
 
 A STRANGE ENCOUNTER. 51 
 
 of a half-dozen 'sophs' before?" he retorted, angrily. 
 "You're a set of cowards, every one of you." 
 
 Two of the students seized Maplesou by the arms, and 
 he was forced from the room, muttering threats of ven 
 geance as he passed out. 
 
 When Geoffrey was at length left alone, he closed and 
 locked his door, and then sat down and fell into troubled 
 thought. 
 
 He was sure that he had made a- bitter and lasting 
 enemy of the young man, and he regretted it, for Geoff rey 
 Huntress was one who loved to be at peace with all 
 mankind ; but he could only wait patiently to see how the 
 matter would end, and having reached this conclusion, 
 he resumed his interrupted studies. But he could not put 
 his mind upon them, for all at once the remarkable re 
 semblance between himself and the young Southerner be 
 gan to haunt him. 
 
 Could it be possible that any of the same blood flowed 
 in their veins? If so, how? 
 
 Why was Everet Mapleson the favored son of a proud 
 and wealthy father, while had been a poor, demented 
 outcast, abandoned in the streets of a large city and left 
 to his fate. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 A STRANGE ENCOUNTER. 
 
 Several days went by, and Geoffrey heard nothing 
 more either of or from the sophomores who had attempted 
 to haze him 
 
 Neither did he happen to meet any of them on his way 
 to or from his recitations, and he hoped that the occur 
 rence would gradually be forgotten and occasion no more 
 trouble. 
 
 He did not mention it to any one, and he bore none of 
 the actors any ill-will, for he well knew that hazing had 
 been an established custom in many colleges, and that 
 every freshman was liable to be subjected to the ordeal. 
 
 But the affair was destined to be more serious, eventu 
 ally, than he imagined an occurrence of that kind could 
 ever become. 
 
 Young Mapleson realized, as soon as his passion began 
 to cool somewhat, that he should be obliged to relinquish 
 all thoughts of retaliation for a season, for none of hia
 
 62 A STRANGE ENCOUNTER. 
 
 comrades would bear him out in any plan for revenge ; 
 but he vowed in his heart that there should yet come a 
 day of reckoning between himself and Huntress for the 
 indignity to which he had been subjected before his 
 companions. 
 
 He was furious with them for not having come to his 
 release, and he raved over the affair all the way back to 
 his room after leaving Geoffrey's. 
 
 But they made light of it, and tried to pass the whole 
 thing off as a joke. This only enraged him the more, al 
 though he began to see the wisdom of keeping still about 
 it, since he could get no sympathy from them. 
 
 Tuere is no telling what rash act he might not have 
 committed if he had been allowed to go and come as 
 usual while this fierce mood lasted. But he had wrought 
 himself into an excessive perspiration, and then going out 
 into the chill night air afterward, he had taken a violent 
 cold, and for three weeks he was confined to his room 
 with a threatened fever. 
 
 At the end of that time, although his anger had not 
 abated one whit toward Geoffrey, and he was no less de 
 termined to have his revenge, he had come to see the 
 wisdom of refraining from all rashness which might re 
 bound injuriously upon himself, and he resolved to con 
 ceal his purpose in his own breast and watch his oppor- 
 tunity to strike his foe down at some time in the future, 
 when the blow would be felt with bitter force. 
 
 So, upon recovering his usual health, he resumed his 
 studies and his intercourse with his fellow-students as if 
 nothing had occurred to ruffle him, and those who had 
 participated in the hazing of Geoffrey Huntress imagined 
 that the unpleasant affair had blown safely over and be 
 come a thing of the past. 
 
 Thus the fall and winter passed. 
 
 Meantime Gladys was winning golden opinions for her 
 self at Vassar. 
 
 Study was a perfect delight to her, consequently excel 
 lence in every department was but a natural result. 
 
 The name of Gladys Huntress became the synonym 
 for all that was learned and brilliant in her class, and 
 there was not one who did not predict that the first honor 
 should be conferred upon her at the end of the course. 
 
 No one appeared to be jealous of her, either, on ac 
 count of it, for she was a general favorite with both 
 teachers and scholars, always having a pleasant word and 
 a kiiid smile for everybody.
 
 A STRANGE ENCOUNTER. 63 
 
 During the recess, which occurred between the winter 
 and spring terms of her second year at Vassar, she was 
 in New York city for a few days with her chosen friend 
 and roommate, Addie Loring. 
 
 There was considerable shopping to be done to prepare 
 for the warm weather, dress-making to atiend to, besides 
 a gay round of social duties, and the two girls were all 
 the time in a delightful flutter of business and pleas 
 ure. 
 
 One morning, after a long siege of shopping, feeling 
 both weary and hungry, they entered an up-town cafe to 
 obtain a lunch and rest a little before going home. 
 
 At the cashier's desk near the door, as they stepped in 
 side, there stood a tall, handsome young n:an in the act 
 of paying for his dinner. 
 
 Gladys caught sight of him in an instant, and she 
 Started and flushed a vivid crimson. 
 
 Then a smile of joy illumined her whole face as ghe 
 sprang forward, and, laying her hand lightly on the 
 young man's arm, exclaimed in delighted tones : 
 
 "Why, Geoffrey, where did you drop from ? I imagined 
 you a solitary recluse at Yale, and hard at work over 
 Latin and Greek, 'to gain time' as you wrote in your last 
 letter." 
 
 The young man turned quickly as the sweet, lady-like 
 voice fell upon his ear, his whole body thrilling at that 
 light touch upon his arm, and found himself face to lace 
 with the most beautiful girl be had ever seen. 
 
 A tall, slender, perfect form, clad in a bewitching suit 
 of modest gray, stood before him. Her emJl head was 
 proudly poised on a pair of graceful shoulders, and 
 crowned with a jaunty turban of gray velvet in which 
 there gleamed a scarlet feather. The face v as delicate in 
 outline, with lovely features and a c< mplexion of pure 
 white and rose. Her eyes of dark blue were lighted with 
 surprise and gladness, her lips wreathed with a tender 
 smile of welcome which parted them just enough to re 
 veal the small, milk-white teeth between. 
 
 A look of admiration shot into the young man's eyes, 
 and then they began to gleam with an>uptnicnt. 
 
 He raised his hat with all the gallantry of which he 
 was master, and bowed low, as be replied : 
 
 "You have made a slight mistake, lady. I do not an 
 swer to the name by which you have addressed me, al 
 though I might be tempted to do so, perhaps, if I could 
 thereby secure the pleasure of your acquaintance. Allow
 
 54 A STRANGE ENCOUNTER. 
 
 me," he concluded, drawing a card from his pocket-book, 
 and respectfully presenting it to her. 
 
 At the first sound of his voice Gladys was conscious 
 that she had made a dreadful blunder, and she was in 
 stantly covered with confusion. 
 
 She knew at once that this man could not be Geoffrey, 
 and yet who was he? So like him in face and form, with 
 his very eyes and hair, and that familiar way of throw 
 ing up his head when suddenly addressed ! 
 
 "Everet Mapleson, Richmond, Virginia," she read upon 
 the card that he had given her, and instantly the startled 
 thought shot through her mind : "Can it be possible that 
 he and Geoffrey are related ?" 
 
 "I beg your pardon, Mr. Mapleson," she said, recover 
 ing herself somewhat, while she searched his face for 
 something by which she could distinguish him from Geof 
 frey. " I perceive that I have made a mistake, but you 
 so strangely resemble my Mr. Geoffrey Huntress ihat I 
 mistook you for him." 
 
 She had been about to say " my brother," but suddenly 
 checked herself, for, since Geoffrey had shown so much of 
 his heart to her and she had begun to analyze her own 
 feelings toward him, she had been very shy about calling 
 him brother. 
 
 "Ah! Mr. Geoffrey Huntress," repeated Everet Maple- 
 son, with a quick flash from his eyes, while his keen mind 
 at once made a shrewd guess, and argued therefrom that 
 this beautiful girl must be either the sister or the cousin 
 of his enemy. "I have met that gentleman, for I also am 
 a student at Yale." he continued, "and pardon my bold 
 ness I presume I now have the pleasure of meeting his 
 sistor. Miss Huntress." 
 
 "No, I am not his sister, Mr. Mapleson," Gladys re 
 plied, her color coming and going in soft, little sunrise 
 flushes, ''but we are members of the same family, and 
 I am Miss Huntress." 
 
 " Ah, yes excuse me you are cousins, I presume. 
 Huntress once told mp that he was reared by an uncle. I 
 am sorrv, upon my word," he went on, with an appealing 
 look, " if our singular resemblance has caused you any 
 annoyance to-day; pray think no more of it since it was 
 a very natural mistake. We are often addressed by each 
 other's name indeed, we are known at Yale as 'the mys 
 terious double. 1 " 
 
 All the time the young man was speaking he was closely 
 observing the young girl.
 
 A ZTRASGE ENCOUNTER. 55 
 
 He had noticed her fluctuating color when she spoke 
 of Geoffrey ; he remarked the tender inflection of her 
 voice as she uttered his name, and how eager she. had been 
 to correct his mistake in supposing them to be brother 
 and sister. 
 
 "They are cousins perhaps not first cousins, either, 
 and the girl loves him," he said to himself. "Of course 
 he returns her affection no fellow in his senses could 
 help it. I wonder how it would work if I should try my 
 own luck in this direction. I have never paid off that old 
 grudge against him, and this would be a fine way to set 
 tle it." 
 
 But Gladys, all unconscious of this secret plotting 
 against her own and Geoffrey's happiness, looked up with 
 a merry smile at his words to her, and remarked : 
 
 "The resemblance is surely very striking, although your 
 voices are unlike. I knew the moment you spoke that I 
 had made a mistake, and my apparent rudeness must 
 have been quite startling to you," she concluded, color 
 ing again as she remembered how eagerly she had ap 
 proached him and laid her hand upon his arm. 
 
 ' : ' No, indeed ; you are very hard upon yourself, Miss 
 Huntress. Believe me I shall consider the incident a most 
 fortunate circumstance if I may be allowed to consider it 
 as a formal introduction to you, and thus secure the 
 pleasure of your acquaintance." 
 
 He was so gentlemanly and affable, so refined in his 
 language and manner, that Gladys thought him very 
 agreeable, and, since he claimed to know Geoffrey, she 
 thought there could be no possible harm in receiving him 
 as an acquaintance. 
 
 Still she was not quite sure that it would be proper, 
 end this made her a little guarded in her reply. 
 
 "I am always glad to meet any of Geoffrey's friends," 
 she said, with one of her charming smiles; bur if she 
 could have known how he cringed under her words, and 
 what venomous hatred was rankling in his heart against 
 him who was her ideal of all manly excellence, she would 
 have fled from him in dismay. 
 
 But. nothing of this nor of the miserable plot which was 
 rapidly taking form in his mind appeared on the surface, 
 while before he could frame a suitable reply Gladys 
 turned quickly and drew Addie Loring to her side. Rav 
 ine: : 
 
 " Allow me to introduce my friend Miss Loring, Mr. 
 Mapleson."
 
 56 MRS. BREVORT'S RECEPTION. 
 
 He lifted his hat in acknowledgment of the presenta 
 tion while he was still inwardly chafing over that last 
 guarded speech of hers. 
 
 "She wouldn't look at me if she knew the truth," he 
 thought, "and that clever cousin will be letting it all out 
 when he learns that we have met. Never mind. I'll make 
 hay while the sun shines, and do my best to ingratiate 
 myself with her before he finds it out ; she's dusedly pretty 
 and it would suit me finely if I could cut him out." 
 
 He detained the young ladies for a few moments longer 
 for he had the power of making himself very agreeable 
 when he chose then Addie Loring pulled forth a little 
 gem of a watch and remarked, with a look of surprise : 
 
 "Gladys, dear, we promised mamma to be at home by 
 four, and it is nearly three now, while we have flowers 
 yet to get for Mrs. Brevort's reception." 
 
 Everet Mapleson's heart gave a great bound at these 
 last words, for the friends at whose house he was visit 
 ing also had cards for Mrs. Brevort's reception, and he 
 mentally resolved that he would grace that lady's elegant 
 drawing-room with his presence that evening, although 
 he and Al Vanderwater had previously planned for some 
 thing entirely different. 
 
 He took pretty Miss Loring's hint, however, begged 
 pardon for having detained them so long, then made hia 
 adieus and passed out of the cafe, while the young girls 
 moved forward to an empty table, where they chatted 
 over the strange encounter as they ate their '"-earn and 
 cake. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 MRS. BREVORT'S RECEPTION. 
 
 Gladys Huntress was very beautiful that evening when 
 she entered Mrs. Brevort's drawing-room, leaning on the 
 arm of Mrs. Loring, who was to present her to their 
 hostess, while Addie and her mother followed close 
 behind. 
 
 Her dress was blue, of elegant surah, which fell in soft, 
 graceful folds around her, its long train making her 
 most perfect figure seem almost regal. 
 
 Tt was cut. front and back, with a V shaped bodice, and 
 this was filled in with a profusion of soft filmv lno, 
 gathered close about her white throat, and fastened with 
 a string of rare, gleaming pearls.
 
 MRS. BRsroRra RECEPTION. 87 
 
 Her beautiful arms, round and as smooth as marble, 
 were also covered, but not concealed, by sleeves of lace. 
 
 Her nut-brown hair, which shone like finest satin, had 
 all been drawn up and coiled around the top of her head 
 like a gleaming coronet, while a few soft, silken rings 
 curled charmingly about her pure forehead. 
 
 There was not a flower nor an ornament about her any 
 where excepting that string of pearls, but the very sim 
 plicity of her toilet was artistic and just adapted to en 
 hance her beauty of face and form. 
 
 Everet Mapleson saw her the moment that she entered 
 the room ; indeed, he had been watching her for a half- 
 hour or more, and his eyes glowed with admiration. 
 
 " She is a hundred fold more lovely than I thought her 
 this afternoon," he said, under his breath. "I shall love 
 that girl, if I allow myself to see much of her. And why 
 not? I believe I will set myself regularly at work to win 
 her; thus I shall not only secure a, charming little wife, 
 but accomplish my revenge, also, for the indignity that I 
 have received from Tits hands." 
 
 He watched Gladys, while she was presented to the 
 hostess, and was charmed with the ease and grace of her 
 manners. 
 
 "She belongs, evidently, to a good family; she has 
 been well reared," he continued, "even my critical and 
 aristocratic mamma could not fail to be satisfied with her 
 as a daughter, although she is not particularly partial to 
 Northern women. She reminds me of some one, too. I 
 wonder who it can be? There is something strangely 
 familiar in the proud way that she carries herself." 
 
 He moved toward another portion of the room, as he 
 saw Gladys and her friends pass on, and, seeking Mrs. 
 "Vanderwater, who, by the way, was the mother of Albert 
 Van der water, Everet Mapleson's chum and especial 
 fnVnd at Yale, he asked : 
 
 "Do you know the party of people who have just en- j 
 tered that gentleman with three ladies?" 
 
 "Oh, yes; they are the Lorings. Mr. Loring is a 
 wealthy Wall stroet broker. His wife is a daughter of 
 the late Colonel Elwell, and their daughter, Miss Addfo, ?s 
 a charming voung lady, not to mention the fart that sh is 
 the only child and the heiress to a great deal of money." 
 
 "Introduce me, will you?" asked Everet, eagerly. 
 "To be sure I will ; but is it the money or the beauty 
 that attract* you most?" queried the ladv. roguishly. 
 "I will tell you later," retorted the young man, in the
 
 68 MRS. BREVORTS RECEPTION. 
 
 same vein ; "but you did not say who that young lady is 
 who accompanies them," he concluded, as it his attention 
 had but just been drawn toward her. 
 
 "No, I do not know myself; she is a stranger, but a 
 very lovely one," is she not ? Really, I do not believe there 
 is another lady in the room so beautiful. Come, I have a 
 curiosity to know who she is myself, and we will beg 
 Mrs. Loring for an introduction." 
 
 Thus Everet Mapleson managed to secure a formal in 
 troduction to the Lorings and Gladys through one of the 
 leaders of New York society. 
 
 He knew that there could be no exceptions taken to 
 any one whom Mrs. Vanderwater vouched for, and there 
 fore the young girl would have no excuse for avoiding 
 him on the score of not having been properly presented to 
 him. 
 
 But she received him very graciously, even referring in 
 a laughing way to their previous meeting earlier in the 
 day, thus showing him she would not have been the least 
 hit prudish about recognizing him, even without Mrs. 
 Vanderwater's reassuring presence. 
 
 He soon after searched out his friend Al, whom he 
 presented to Miss Loring, and then left him to be enter 
 tained by her while he devoted himself exclusively to 
 Gladys. 
 
 They danced together several times, and he managed to 
 pecure her company during supper, while afterward they 
 had a social chat in Mrs. Brevort's charming little pic 
 ture-gallery, where there were several works of rare 
 value. 
 
 But the only picture which Everet Mapleson seemed to 
 consider worthy of his regard was an exquisite face, 
 framed in lustrous brown hair, with the bluest eyes that 
 he had ever seen, and whose every expression only served 
 to wind the silken chain of his bondage, the chain of love, 
 more closely about him. 
 
 Gladys, on her part, was strangely moved by the young 
 man's presence. 
 
 He was Geoffrey a.nd yet he was not. 
 
 Several times she almost forgot herself and was on the 
 point of addressing him in the old familiar way which she 
 had always adopted toward her father's protege, and only 
 restrained herself in season to prevent herself from ap 
 pearing bold and forward. 
 
 Everet Mapleson found her eyes fixed upon him with 
 great earnestness several times, and he knew that she
 
 MRS. BREVORT'S RECEPTION. 69 
 
 was measuring him by her estimate of Geoffrey Huntress. 
 It nettled him exceedingly, for he was only too con 
 scious of hi own inferiority. 
 
 "Well, Miss Huntress, are you, like many others, try 
 ing to solve within yourself the mystery of my resem 
 blance to your cousin, that you observe me so closely," 
 he asked, with an amused smile, upon finding her gaze 
 riveted upon his face instead of the picture betore which 
 they were standing. 
 
 Gladys blushed slightly. 
 
 "I shall have to plead guilty, Mr. Mapleson," she con< 
 fessed. " I trust you will excuse me if I have appeared 
 rude, but, really, to me it seems the strangest thing im 
 aginable." 
 
 "It is, indeed," he said, and added to himself :" and 
 dusedly uncomfortable to me, too." 
 
 " I wonder if you are not in some way related," Gladys 
 said, musingly, and more to herself than to him. 
 Everet Mapleson's face darkened. 
 
 "I do not think so," he answered, curtly. "He is a 
 Northerner I was born at the South. My father is a 
 {Southern gentleman, and has always resided near Rich- 
 mon, Virginia, excepting during the war, when he was in 
 the field or camp most of the time, and a year or two 
 that he spent traveling in Europe." 
 
 Gladys was conscious of a slight feeling of resentment 
 
 toward her companion during this speech. The emphasis 
 
 which he had, perhaps unconsciously, expended upon his 
 
 personal pronouns, and the fact of his father being a 
 
 "Southern gentleman," implied a sense of superiority 
 
 which grated harshly upon her ear. 
 
 " Is your mother also a native of the South ?" she asked. 
 
 "Oh, yes ; and my mother is a most magnificent woman, 
 
 too, Miss Huntress," the young man returned, with a 
 
 kindling face. 
 
 Gadys ? heart softened a trifle toward him at this. If 
 he loved his mother like that there must be some good in 
 him, she thought. 
 
 " Have you brothers and sisters?" she inquired. 
 u No, I am the only child. I was born within a year 
 after my parents' marriage, and there have been no other 
 children." 
 
 "Do you resemble your father or mother?" 
 " My father. My mother has often told me that I am very 
 like what he was at my age ; but there is a portrait of 
 my grandfather Mapleson at home, which, but for the
 
 60 MRS. BREVORT 8 RECEPTION. 
 
 ancient style of dress, you would believe had been taken 
 for me ; tiie resemblance is every bit as striking as that 
 between Huntress and me." 
 
 "Has your father no brothers or sisters?" Gladys 
 asked. 
 
 Everet Mapleson looked surprised. 
 
 He knew ihat she was trying to account in some way 
 for Geoffrey Huntress' likeness to himself ; but, surely, 
 he thought, she must know all about her cousin's par 
 entage and their connections, and it was a little singular 
 that she should be so persistent in her inquiries regarding 
 the Mapleson genealogy. 
 
 "No, "he replied; "my father was an only son. He 
 had a sister, but she died while very young. The only 
 other connections that I know anything about were an 
 uncle who made my father his heir, and a distant cousin 
 a very eccentric sort of person. Both, however, are 
 long since dead, and both died single. The Mapleson 
 family was never a numerous one, and it is now almost 
 extinct. I see, Miss Huntress," he added, with a slight 
 smile in which Gladys thought she detected something of 
 scorn, "that you are trying to account for this resem 
 blance upon natural principles; but it is simply impos 
 sible that we are in any way connected. The fact can 
 only be attributable to a strange freak of nature." 
 
 "Possibly," Gladys returned, thoughtfully, and yet she 
 was impressed that there was more in it than Mr. Maple- 
 son appeared willing to allow. 
 
 She did not feel well enough acquainted with him to 
 speak of the mystery surrounding Geoffrey's parentage 
 and his early life. It is doubtful if she would have told 
 him, under any circumstances, because of Geoffrey's 
 sensitiveness upon the subject, still she was strangely 
 impressed by their resemblance. 
 
 The evening was one of keen enjoyment to Everet 
 Mapleson, and when at length Gladys withdrew with her 
 friends, he accompanied her to the carriage and assisted 
 her to enter. 
 
 "I have rarely enjoyed a pleasanter evening, Miss 
 Huntress, and I hope we shall meet again before I leare 
 the city," he said, as he handed her the extra wrap which 
 hung over his arm and stood a moment beside the car 
 riage door. 
 
 "Then come and call upon us, Mr. Mapleson ; the young 
 ladies will be together for a few days longer," said Mrs. 
 Loring, who had overheard this remark ; and having
 
 MARGHlY. 61 
 
 learned from some source that he belonged to one of the 
 F. F. V's, she was anxious to cultivate his acquaintance 
 for Addie's sake. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 MARGERY. 
 
 Everet Mapleson availed himself of Mrs. Loring's invi 
 tation, and called the second morning afier Mrs. Brevort's 
 reception, to pay his respects to the young ladies. 
 
 He was fortunate enough to liud them both at home, 
 and both were charmingly entertaining. 
 
 Addie Loring was a merry little body, and no one could 
 ever be dull wiien in her society. 
 
 Gladys was more reserved and dignified in her bearing, 
 but she possessed a peculiar fascination which instantly 
 attracted everybody, and, taking the two together, it 
 would have been difficult, go the world over, to have 
 found a more entertaining couple than they. 
 
 Everet Mapleson was beguiled into a call of a full hour 
 a delightful hour it was, too, to them all and looked his 
 dismay when finally, glancing at his watch, he found how 
 the time had slipped away. 
 
 Addie Loring laughed merrily, when she saw the ex 
 pression on his face, and caught his well-bred, " I had no 
 idea it was so late." 
 
 "Pray, Mr. Mapleson, do not look so disturbed," she 
 cried ; " there is no fine for such an offense, and you are 
 absolved even before confession, for this time." 
 
 vi But I have overstepped all bounds. I have been here 
 a whole hour, and this my first call, too." 
 
 "How dreadful!'' laughed the litlle lady, roguishly. 
 "Pray, tell me, what is the Southern rule for first calls?" 
 
 "Twenty minutes, or half an hour, at most." 
 
 " I am glad I do not live at the South then Why, one 
 would hardly get through talking about the weather in 
 that time." 
 
 " Miss Loring, I protest ; there has not been one word 
 said about the weather this morning," retorted the young 
 man, thinking that she was very nearly as pretty as 
 Gladys, as she stood before him in that graceful attitude, 
 her head perched saucily on one side, a mocking smile 
 on her red lips. 
 
 "True; but this wasn't a formal call, you know, for 
 which *ve both feel very much obliged to you, I am sure.
 
 62 MAEQERT. 
 
 People usually begin upon the weather when they make 
 ceremonious visits, and that is about all there is to say. 
 It is really refreshing to have had such a breezy hour as 
 this. Pray come again, Mr. Mapleson, and don't bring 
 your watch next time ; at least, don't IOOK at it if it is 
 going to make you uncomfortable," replied Miss Loring, 
 with charming cordiality. 
 
 "Thank you ; you are so indulgent and your invitation 
 is so alluring that 1 am sure I shall not be able to resist 
 it," he answered, as he shook hands with her. Then he 
 turned to Gladys, and added: ' May I assume that you 
 indorse all that your friend has said, Miss Huntress?" 
 
 a It has, indeed, been a very pleasant hour, Mr. Maple- 
 eon if an hour has really slipped by since you came in 
 and I shall be happy to meet you again, although I re 
 main only a very few days longer with Miss Loring," she 
 replied. 
 
 Mr. Mapleson's face clouded at this. 
 
 "Surely your vacation is not nearly over yet?" he 
 Buid. 
 
 " Oh, no ; but I only promised Addie a week ; there are 
 but two, and papa and mamma will want me at home the 
 other." 
 
 "Allow me to ask where is your home, Miss Huntress?" 
 
 "In Brooklyn." 
 
 " True ; I had forgotten. I remember that Huntress 
 told me he resided in Brooklyn," Everet said, aware that 
 the " City of Churches" was quite convenient to New 
 York, and that he could run over there as easily as to 
 come way up town to the Lorings. 
 
 " We are not going to give Gladys up until Saturday, 
 Mr. Mapleson," Miss Loring here interposed, "for Thurs 
 day evening we give a reception in her-honor ; the cards 
 were issued several days ago. It is rather late to offer 
 you one, but if you will accept it, we shall be glad to see 
 you with our other guests." 
 
 Everet Mapleson was only too glad to get it, even at 
 ?.hat late date, and, with thanks, he took the envelope 
 tvhich Miss Loring proffered him, and expressed the pleas 
 ure it would afford him to accept her invitation. 
 
 He then bowed himself out, more than ever in love 
 with beautiful Gladys Huntress, and more than ever de 
 termined to win her love in return. 
 
 He took a car down town, leaving it near Grace Church, 
 on Broadway, to go to a certain club-house, where he was 
 to meet his friend Vanderwater.
 
 MARGEliY. 63 
 
 On his way thither he passed a flower-stand behind 
 which there sat a woman who appeared to be about titty 
 years of age. 
 
 fcihe was an unusually tidy and lespectable looking per 
 son to be a street vender ot flowers, and she Lad a rare 
 and choice collection for that season of the year, and they 
 were arranged in a really artistic manner. 
 
 It was this! arrangement which attracted Everet luaple- 
 son's attention, for he was a great adnriier ot : iiouers, 
 and was rarely seen anywhere without some bud or spiay 
 in his button-hole. 
 
 He bad worn heliotrope to-day during his call, but it 
 was wilted and discolored, and be paused now before tbe 
 stand to replace it with something else. 
 
 He selected one exquisite rosebud nestling between its 
 dark green leaves, and taking out a piece of silver, ne 
 tossed it over the vases into the woman's lap, and then 
 would have passed on without waiting /or h;s change, but 
 that she had put out her hand to detain him. 
 
 t5he had given a start of surprise and uttered a low cry 
 the moment he had stopped befoie her, but be had not 
 noiiced it, and she had not taken her eyes ficm his luce 
 during all the time that he was making his selectic iJ. 
 
 As nhe looked she began to tremble, her lij H quivered, 
 her eyes filled with tears, and she breathed with cifli- 
 culiy, as if overcome with some powerful emotion. 
 
 Her face was wrinkled and sad, showing that she must 
 have passed through some terrible grief. Her hair was 
 very gray, and there was a white seam or sc?tr til.ove her 
 right temple, the mark of an injury received years bffrre. 
 
 "Oh,' 1 she ciied, putting out her I'nnd to detain him as 
 he was turning away. "Oh, Geoffrey, have you forgotien 
 Marge i y :' 
 
 Everet stopped short, looked back, and attentiv ( ]y 
 scanned the woman's face. 
 
 "'^Inrgery !'" he repeated. "J never know anybody of 
 that name, nnd mine isn't ("Jeoflrey, either, my w( n;;m," 
 he said, somewhat brusquely, for it i ettled him when 
 ever ho heard that nanu, which 1 e h,-;d prown to dit-like 
 so much. 
 
 " Hurely my eyes cfin't dereix e n o. 1 ' rctui-ned the ilower- 
 vender, oni-nestly. "J could never loiget tho (ieir boy 
 tlifit I nursed nnd tended during the first five years of his 
 life. Can't you r n ( n 1 <T nu-, dpnrie? HRV< 
 ton Lhe chickens rno tie r; 1 I il old Chuck, the 
 iii (1 the t\vo iitt.. Kittens. Ah ! try to tliink, Master
 
 64 MARGERY. 
 
 Geoffrey, and tell me what became of Jack after he gave 
 you that dreadful blow and then ran away with you when 
 he left me for dead, so many years ago." 
 
 "What under the sun is the old creature talking about ?" 
 murmured Everet, with a perplexed look. 
 
 "I'd readily forgive him for the hurt that he gave me," 
 the woman went on, unheeding him, "and overlook the 
 past, if I could only set eyes on him once more and feel 
 that I wasn't all alone in the world in rny old age ; it's 
 hard not to hare a single soul to care for you. Sure, I 
 can't see how you could forget Margery, when you were 
 BO fond of her in those old days." 
 
 "I tell you my name is not Geoffrey," repeated Maple- 
 eon. "You are thinking of some one else. I do not know 
 anything about Jack, or his striking anybody, and then 
 running away, and I never saw you until this mo 
 ment. " 
 
 The poor woman was weeping now, and moaning in a 
 low, heart-broken way that made the young man pity 
 her, in spite of his irritability. 
 
 "You must have forgotten," she responded, wiping her 
 fast falling tears. "Perhaps the cruel blow Jack gave you 
 hurt your memory and whatever could he have done 
 with you after he took you away from the old home that 
 night? It breaks my heart that -you don't know me, 
 dearie, for I served your poor mother so faithfully when 
 you were a wee baby. She was the sweetest little body 
 that the sun ever shone on so gentle, and kind, too, with 
 a face like a lily and eyes as blue as heaven. Poor boy ! 
 You never realized your loss when she died, for Margery 
 promised to care for you as if you were her very own, 
 and she did. You were the pride of my heart during all 
 those five blessed years." 
 
 "You have made a mistake, my good woman," Everet 
 said, more gently, for her grief and pathetic rambling 
 touched him. 
 
 He believed that he had run across an old nurse of 
 Geoffrey Huntress, for he remembered now that he had 
 said he lost his parents when very young, and he did not 
 wonder that she had mistaken him for her former nurs 
 ling. 
 
 But it angered him so to talk of his enemy that he 
 
 would not take the trouble to tell her anything about him, 
 
 and he never dreamed how near he was to discovering 
 
 what had been a sealed mystery for many long years. 
 
 "My name is Everet," he went on, "and my mother is
 
 MARGERY. C* 
 
 not dead, neither has she a face like a lily she is dark, 
 with a rich color and brilliant black eyes." 
 
 The woman appeared still more perplexed and troubled 
 by this statement. 
 
 She wagged her head slowly from side to side, as if she 
 could not reconcile his assertions with her belief. 
 
 "Your mother's name was Annie " she began. 
 
 "No, my mother's name is Estelle." 
 
 "Estelle," she repeated, searching his face keenly; 
 "that might have been her other name. Didn't she have 
 bright, beautiful brown hair, and a sweet, gentle way 
 with her ?" 
 
 "No ; her hair is as black as a raven's wing, and no 
 one would ever think of describing her as 'sweet and gen 
 tle,'" the young Southerner replied, with a smile, as a 
 vision of the magnificent woman who reigned in his home 
 arose before him, " but proud and imperious. She is like 
 some beautiful queen." 
 
 " And is she your own mother?" questioned the flower- 
 vender, eagerly. 
 
 "Yes, my own mother, and I am her only child." 
 
 "Well, well, it is very strange," sighed the poor wo 
 man, tears of disappointment again filling her eyes. "I 
 was so sure that I had found my boy at last. I've been 
 hunting for him these eighteen years. It isn't much won 
 der that I mistook you, though, for you couldn't be more 
 like him if you were his twin ; and yet he mayn't look 
 like you at all, now that he's grown up. Ah, Jack, peace 
 to your soul if you've gone the way of all the earth, but 
 where under heaven did you leave the child ?" 
 
 She dropped her head upon her breast and kept on with 
 her muttering, apparently convinced at last that she had 
 made a mistake. 
 
 Everet Mapleson stood irresolute a moment, half 
 tempted to tell her where she could find Geoffrey, and yet 
 obstinately averse to doing anything for one whom he so 
 disliked. 
 
 He was in a hurry, too, for it was already past the time 
 that he had appointed to meet young Vandewater, and he 
 was unwilling to be detained any longer to answer the 
 questions of a garrulous old woman, so he went unheeded 
 on his way. 
 
 All the way to the club-house she was in his thoughts. 
 Without doubt, he reasoned, she had been a servant in 
 the Huntress family, and probably after Geoffrey's adop 
 tion by his uncle she had lost track of her charge,
 
 66 THK RECEPTION. 
 
 perhaps by a change of residence on her part or 
 his. 
 
 He could not seem to understand her reference to the 
 dreadful blow that Jack had given the boy, nor to his 
 running away with him afterward and leaving his wife, 
 as he evidently believed, dead. 
 
 The more he thought it over the more strange it ap 
 peared, and the more interested he became regarding 
 the matter. Possibly there might be something connected 
 with Geoffrey Huntress' history which he might be able 
 to use against him in his future scheming. 
 
 "1 will go back by and -by and question her some 
 more," he muttered, as he reached the club-house, ran up 
 the steps, and entered the elegant vestibule. 
 
 He did not return that day, however, but the next he 
 made it in his way to pass the spot where Margery had 
 had her flower-stand the previous morning. 
 
 But she was no longer there. Flowers, stand, and ven 
 der had all disappeared, and although Everet sought her 
 several times after that he did not see her again during 
 his stay in the city. 
 
 He was greatly disappointed, for the more he consid 
 ered the affair the more he became convinced that there 
 was something which he might have learned of Geoffrey 
 Huntress' life and parentage that would ha,ve been to his 
 T\vn advantage, and he blamed himself severely for hav 
 ing neglected his opportunity. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE RECEPTION. 
 
 Mrs. Loring's reception on Thursday evening proved to 
 be a, very brilliant one. 
 
 It was given nominally in honor of Gladys, but it really 
 was as much for the sake of the daughter of the house, 
 who was the pride and darling of her fond parents' 
 hearts, rmd her taste was consulted, her lightest wish 
 gratified, in every arrangement. 
 
 The elegant mansion was beautifully decorated for the 
 occasion. 
 
 A platform had been extended fifty feet from the broad 
 south balcony and inclosed like a, pavilion for dancing, 
 while one of the finest ba,nds in New York had been se 
 cured to discourse sweet music to entice tripping feet, and
 
 THE RECEPTION. 67 
 
 an elaborate supper had been ordered from Deimonico's. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Huntress were, of course, among the in 
 vited guests, and Geoffrey had also been sent for and 
 pressed to honor the occasion with his presence, for 
 Gladys' sake. 
 
 He had sent a telegram in reply, saying that he would 
 come if possible, but at nine o'clock he had not appeared, 
 and Gladys turned eagerly toward the door at every 
 fresh arrival, hoping to see him enter. 
 
 Mr. Mapleson had not failed to present himself at an 
 early hour, when he immediately constituted himself 
 Gladys' most devoted attendant, and was so persistent 
 and marked in his attentions that the young girl began 
 to feel a trifle uncomfortable and anxious, lest matters 
 should grow more serious than she desired. 
 
 " Papa, where do you suppose Geoff is?" she inquired, 
 with a troubled face, as Mr. Huntress ame up to her, 
 while Everet 7-taplesoii was doing his utmost to be agree 
 able. 
 
 Mr. Huntress had been introduced to the young man 
 earlier in the evening, and had been startled, as everyone 
 elso v,-ns, by his singular resemblance to the boy whom 
 he had reared, and he had resolved to make some inqui 
 ries of him regarding his connections, hoping thus to gain 
 some light upon Geoffrey's early life. 
 
 "I do not know, dear," the erentleman replied to his 
 daughter s question ; "it is surely time that he was here. 
 Possibly something detained him at the last moment, and 
 he could not leave." 
 
 "Oh, I hope not ; the evening will be spoiled if he does 
 not come," Gladys cried, in a tone that made the blood 
 surge angrily to Everet Mapleson's brow, for it told him 
 how little hope there was of his retaining Gladys' com 
 panionship if his fortunate rival should make his appear 
 ance. 
 
 " I shall be sorry myself not to see Geoff ; he needs the 
 change and recrention, too, for he is working very hard," 
 responded Mr. Huntress, glancing wistfully toward the 
 door himself. "But you must trv to en.loy yourself, nil 
 the same, if he does not come. Mr. and Mrs. Loring will 
 be disappointed if their reception does not prove a pleas 
 ant one, after all their effort." 
 
 Gladys 1 glance was b^nt upon her fan. with which she 
 was nervously tovinf : VIP r cheeks were flushed, her brow 
 slight! v clouded, h<>r lips compressed, and it was evident 
 that she was greatly disturbed.
 
 68 THE RECEPTION. 
 
 All at once she turned her gaze again toward the door. 
 She gave a sudden start. 
 
 "Why ! there he is now ! Oh ! I am so glad," she cried 
 in a joyous tone, her beautiful face growing radiant with 
 undisguised delight, as she saw Geoffrey, looking more 
 handsome and manly than ever, just entering the 
 room. 
 
 She instantly darted toward him without even thinking 
 to excuse herself to her companions, thus leaving Mr. 
 Huntress and young Mapleson to entertain each other. 
 
 The latter watched that graceful figure, a lurid fire in 
 his eye, his lips compressed until they were colorless, his 
 heart throbbing with jealous anger. 
 
 He saw her steal softly up to Geoffrey, who was look 
 ing in another direction, and slip one white hand within 
 his arm, while she looked up at him, with a rogueish but 
 happy glance, and addressed some bright words of wel 
 come to him. 
 
 He saw, too, how Geoffrey's countenance lighted, how 
 his eyes glowed as he turned to look down upon that fair, 
 upturned face, while the glad smile that wreathed his 
 handsome mouth, told something of the joy which this 
 meeting afforded him also. 
 
 Everet Mapleson read these signs as plainly as he 
 would have read a printed page, and he knew that the 
 young man loved the fair girl with all the strength of his 
 manly natwe, and the knowledge made him grind his 
 teeth in silent rage. 
 
 But Mr. Huntress spoke to him just then, and he was 
 obliged to turn his glance away from those two central 
 figures, which were now moving out of the room together, 
 and answer him. 
 
 Mr. Huntress was more and more impressed every 
 moment that there must be kindred blood in the veins of 
 these two young men, and he was resolved to I'earn the 
 truth. 
 
 But he was destined to he disappointed, for Everet 
 Mapleson repeated about the same story, with some ad 
 ditions, that he bad already told Gladys, and there seemed 
 no possibility of there being any relationship between 
 them. 
 
 "My father was a colonel in the Confederate Army dur 
 ing the war," Everet said, in reply to his companion's 
 query, "and my home, with the exception of a short resi 
 dence abroad, has always been in the South." 
 "And is your mothor also a Southerner?"
 
 RECEPTION. 69 
 
 Everet smiled, for he knew well enough what these 
 questions meant. 
 
 "Oh, yes; she and my father were second cousins, and 
 they were married in 1853." 
 
 "Ah! in '53," remarked Mr. Huntress, reflectively; 
 "and was that Colonel Mapleson's first marriage?" 
 
 "Yes, sir; and it was a somewhat romantic affair. 
 They had an uncle who was very wealthy, and when he 
 died it was found that he had made a very singular will. 
 He divided his fortune equally between them, but ex 
 pressed a wish that they should unite it again by mar 
 riage ; indeed, he made the possession of it conditional, 
 and in this way. My father was about twenty, my 
 mother seventeen, at the time of his death. Both were 
 to come into their share of the property at once, but if 
 either married some one else before my mother reached 
 the age of twenty-five, he or she would forfeit that por 
 tion and it should go to the other. If both refused to 
 carry out the conditions of the will and married contrary 
 to his wishes, or remained single after my mother, who 
 was tlie younger, reached the age of twenty-five, the whole 
 fortune was to be made over to a bachelor cousin of the 
 testator, and who was also a very singular character." 
 
 "That was an exceedingly strange will," observed Mr. 
 Huntress. 
 
 " Very, though it was not more eccentric than the man 
 who made it ; but my father and mother chose to fulfill 
 the conditions of the will ; thus the property was all kept 
 in the family." 
 
 " And are you their only child ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir. I never had either brother or sister." 
 
 "It is very strange, 1 ' murmured Mr. Huntress, mus* 
 ingly. 
 
 Everet Mapleson regarded him curiously. 
 
 "You are thinking of my resemblance to Mr. Geoffrey 
 Huntress," he said, somewhat stiffly, after a brief pause. 
 
 "Yes, lam." 
 
 "Surely you can have no idea that we are in any way 
 related." 
 
 "I do not know, of course ; but " 
 
 "You do not know !" interrupted the young Southerner. 
 "Why, you surely ought to be able to trace his genealogy, 
 since he is your nephew." 
 
 "But he is not my nephew." 
 
 " How ?" 
 
 "I never saw the boy until about eight years ago."
 
 70 THE RECEPTION. 
 
 Everet Mapleson turned a look of blank astonishment 
 upon his companion, while a strange pallor settled over 
 his own face. 
 
 Mr. Huntress then related to him the circumstances 
 which brought Geoffrey to his notice, telling of his unac 
 countable interest in him, of the experiment which had 
 resulted in the restoration of the boy's reason, and-of his 
 subsequent adoption of the lad. 
 
 Everet Mapleson grew very grave as he listened, and a 
 hundred conflicting thoughts came crowding into his mind. 
 
 Could it be possible, after all, that this young man whom 
 he had so disliked, and was fast loarning to hate from a 
 feeling of jealousy, was in some mysterious way con 
 nected with the proud family of Mapleson ? 
 
 He did not know of a relative by that name, and yet 
 there might be. 
 
 He resolved that he would sift the matter the very next 
 time he went home. 
 
 "And you know absolutely nothing about him previous 
 to that time?" he asked of Mr. Huntress. 
 
 "No, nothing; while he was evidently so young at the 
 time he received the injury which deprived him of his 
 reason that there was comparatively little that he could 
 remember about himself. Of his father or mother he 
 knew nothing; 'Margery' and 'Jack' are the only names 
 that he has been able to recall, while his memories of 
 them are very vague. I imagine, however, that the 
 woman Margery must have been a sort of nurse who had 
 the care of him." 
 
 Everet Mapleson started and colored as he heard these 
 names. 
 
 He instantly recalled the incident that had occurred a 
 few days previous, on Broadway, when the poor old 
 flower-vender had detained him, believing that she had at 
 last found the boy whom she had nursed so many years 
 ago. 
 
 His first impulse was to tell Mr. Huntress of this ad 
 venture, but he checked the inclination, resolving that he 
 would himself try to find old Margery again and glean 
 all that he could from her regarding Geoffrey's early 
 history. 
 
 He began to realize that there was something very 
 much more mysterious about their strange resemblance 
 than had at first appeared. 
 
 It might not be so much a "freak of nature" as he 
 had tried to think it, and if there was any important
 
 THE BECEI'TIVN. 71 
 
 secret connected with the affair, he meant to ferret it out 
 alone, and possibly it might give him an advantage over 
 his rival in the future if he should stand in the way of 
 his winning Gladys for his wife. 
 
 A little later, when he went in search of her, and found 
 her pacing up and down the great hall leaning on 
 Geoffrey's arm, chatting with him in a free and unre 
 strained way, and saw both their faces so luminous and 
 happy, and knew that already they had become all in all 
 to each other, he ground his teeth savagely, and vowed 
 that he would destroy their confidence and peace before 
 another twelve months should elapse. 
 
 He stationed himself behind some draperies where he 
 could see without being seen, and continued to watch 
 them, although it drove him almost to a frenzy to see how 
 happy and unreserved Gladys was with his rival. 
 
 Her face was eager and animated it never had lighted 
 up like that when in his presence her eyes glowed, her 
 lips were wreathed with smiles, and she chattered like a 
 magpie. She seemed to have forgotten where she was, by 
 whom surrounded, everything, save that she was with 
 Geoffrey. 
 
 He knew well enough when she began to tell him about 
 encountering his double in the cafe, for he saw Geoffrey 
 start, change color, and then grow suddenly grave. 
 
 "Is Everet Mapleson here in New York?" he heard him 
 ask, as they drew near where he was standing. 
 
 "Yes; and oh, Geoff, he is so like you. Even I could 
 hardly detect any difference." 
 
 Geoffrey smiled at the reply. 
 
 It implied a great deal ; it told him that she could dis 
 tinguish between them if any one could, and that her 
 eyes, sharpened by affection, had been able to detect 
 something unlike in them. 
 
 "Do you think you would always be able to tell us 
 apart, Gladys?" Geoffrey eagerly asked. 
 
 "Of course I should, you dear old Geoff," she affirmed, 
 with a toss of her bright head. 
 
 " How ?" 
 
 "Why, I only need to look into your eyes to know 
 you," she said, with a fond upward glance. 
 
 At this reply, Geoffrey hugged close to his side the 
 small hand that lay on his arm, and his heart thrilled 
 with a sweet hope. 
 
 "What is there in my eyes, Gladys, that is different 
 from Everet Mapleson's?" he asked.
 
 72 "FIRST IN TIME, FIRST BY RIGHT!"* 
 
 She blushed crimson at the question, for she knew that 
 it was only in their expression that she could detect any 
 difference. 
 
 "Perhaps strangers could not tell you apart," she ad 
 mitted, with drooping lids; "probably it is because we 
 have lived together so long that I know your every ex 
 pression ; then, too, there is a certain little quiver about 
 your lips when you smile that he does not have. Your 
 voices, though, are entirely different." 
 
 "Yes ; any one could distinguish between us to hear ua 
 speak," Geoffrey assented; but his heart was bounding 
 with joy, for he knew well enough that .only the eye of 
 love could have detected the points that she had men 
 tioned. 
 
 Yet, in spite of all, he experienced a feeling of uneasi 
 ness over the fact that Everet Mapleson was spending 
 his recess in New York and was cultivating the acquaint 
 ance of Gladys. 
 
 He had never mentioned him in any of his letters 
 had never spoken of that hazing experience, simply be 
 cause his mind had been so engrossed with other things 
 that he had not thought to do so. 
 
 "There is the band, Geoff," Gladys exclaimed, as the 
 music came floating in from the south balcony. "Mr. 
 Loring has had the loveliest pavilion erected for dancing, 
 and you know that I cannot keep still a moment within 
 ear-shot of such enticing strains. Come, let us go out." 
 
 "Which means, of course, that I am to have the first 
 set with you," he said, smiling. 
 
 "It does mean just that. You know I always like to 
 dance with you, for you suit your step to mine so nicely. 
 There ! I'm so glad you asked me, for here comes Mr. 
 Mapleson, this minute, doubtless to make the same re 
 quest," Gladys concluded, under her breath, as she saw 
 the young man step out from among the draperies, where 
 he had been watching them, and approach them. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 "FIRST IN TIME, FIRST BY RIGHT!" 
 
 Everet Mapleson advanced toward the young couple 
 with all the assurance imaginable. 
 
 He nodded indifferently to Geoffrey, simply saying, in a 
 patronizing tone :
 
 12f T1MJS, FIRST BY RIGHT!" ' 73 
 
 "How are you, Huntress?" and then turned to Gladys 
 with his most alluring smile. "The signal for dancing has 
 been given, Miss Huntress ; may I have the pleasure of 
 doing the opening set with you *" 
 
 Gladys' cheeks were very red, for she resented his 
 manner toward Geoffrey. What right had he to assume 
 such insolent superiority over him, who she knew pos 
 sessed by far the nobler nature of the two. 
 
 But she said politely, though with a little secret feeling 
 of triumph in refusing him : 
 
 "You are a trifle late, Mr. Mapleson, as I have already 
 promised the first dance ; but if you will come to me 
 later, you shall Write your name upon my card." 
 
 The young man frowned slightly, for he could never 
 endure to have his wishes denied, but he was obliged to 
 bow acquiescence, and turned away to seek a partner 
 elsewhere. 
 
 But he managed to station himself where he could 
 watch the young couple incessantly, and not a move 
 ment, not a smile or glance escaped him. 
 
 "They love each other," he mutte.red, "at least he loves 
 her, and it would not take much to make them acknowl 
 edged lovers. I shall be both watchful and dilligent. I 
 wish I knew the secret of the fellow's life. It can't be 
 possible that he is anything to our family, and yet I am 
 dusedly annoyed by the mystery." 
 
 When he went later, to claim Gladys' promise to dance 
 with him, he exerted himself more than he had ever done 
 to be entertaining and agreeable. 
 
 He told her about his Southern home, and the life he 
 led when there. He described the luxuriant beauty which 
 surrounded "Vue de 1'Eau," his father's estate, and so 
 called from the broad, sweeping view which they had of 
 the beautiful James River, which lay right beneath them. 
 He told her something of his courtly father and his stately, 
 beautiful mother, and was really eloquent in his de 
 scription of the spot that had given him birth. 
 
 "I wish you could come to 'Vue de 1'Eau' sometime, 
 Miss Huntress ; I am sure you would agree with me that 
 there is nothing finer in the way of scenery, even on your 
 far-famed Hudson," he said, in conclusion. 
 
 "Thank you, Mr. Mapleson ; your discriptions are 
 surely very enticing," Gladys replied, with a smile. "I 
 suppose your parents are both natives of the South ?" 
 
 44 Yes, they were both born in Richmond, and my father 
 was a colonel in the Confederate army at the time of our
 
 74 "FIRST IX TIME, FIRST BY HIGfllT!" 
 
 civil war ; but, as it happened, his estate was not harmed, 
 and it has since increased greatly in beauty and value." 
 
 "Do you remember much about the war?" Gladys in 
 quired. 
 
 "No, I knew very little about it at the time, of course, 
 I was very young only about eight years of age and 
 besides, my father sent my mother and me abroad, where 
 we remained until the war was over." 
 
 " I suppose some of your people still feel antagonistic 
 toward us Northerners?" Gladys remarked. 
 
 " I presume there is a feeling of bitterness to some ex 
 tent among the veterans, but, as to the generation that has 
 been growing up since, I think we all feel that we are one 
 nation, and our interests are with and for the Union. But 
 if I had been ever so bitter toward Northern people, 
 that feeling could rot have possibly continued to exist 
 after my present experience with them," and Everet Map- 
 leson's glance told the young girl that for her sake alone 
 he would have been willing to waive all past grievances, 
 however aggravating. 
 
 Her cheeks flushed, and her eyes drooped. 
 
 "It is better to put aside all bitterness the war was a 
 terrible thing, and there were mistakes on both sides, and 
 now that neace has been restored, it is far better to let 
 by-gones be by-gones. Have your parents ever been 
 North ?" 
 
 Gladys tried to speak in a general and unconscious 
 way, but it was very hard with those admiring eyes 
 fixed so earnestly upon her. 
 
 "No; they have been in Europe, and my father has 
 been on the Pacific coast several times, but they have yet 
 to visit this portion of the country." 
 
 "Without doubt, then, they will improve the opportun 
 ity to do so when you leave college. It Avould be natural 
 for them to desire to be present when you take your 
 honors." 
 
 "Those will be very few, I fear," young Mapleson re 
 plied, with a flush. "I am not a good student." 
 
 He did not love study, although he was quick to learn, 
 and brilliant in recitation, when he chose to apply him 
 self. 
 
 "I do not believe you really mean that," Gladys sr.id. 
 
 She could not believe that anybody could be a poor 
 student who so closely resembled Geoffrey, who ex 
 celled. She imagined that he must be like him mentally 
 as well as physically.
 
 ' "FIRST IN TIMS, FIRST BY RIGHT!" 75 
 
 "Do you think it pays to get a reputation for good 
 sholarship?" he asked. 
 
 "Perhaps not the reputation alone, but the knowl 
 edge pays. If I was a college boy I believe I should strive 
 to attain the top round of the ladder." 
 
 "It is not every one who can do that." 
 
 "True, but every one can at least try to excel, and even 
 if one does not, he has the satisfaction of knowing that 
 he has done his best." 
 
 "Are you sroing to be first in your class at Vassar, Miss 
 Huntress?" Everet Mapleson asked, studying her eager 
 face earnestly. 
 
 Gladys flushed again, and laughed. 
 
 "I am doing my utmost, Mr. Mapleson, to come forth 
 from my school an honor to my class ; and Geoffrey is 
 bending all his energies toward the same object ; indeed, 
 I surmise that he is trying to gain a year, by his'being so 
 zealous for study during the recesses." 
 
 A startled look shot into Everet Mapleson's eyes. 
 
 If Geoffrey Huntress did gain a year he would gradu 
 ate at the same time with himself, and the thought was 
 anything but pleasant to him. 
 
 "He will have to be very smart to do that," he said, 
 with a skeptical curve of his lips. 
 
 "Geoffrey is smart ; he has achieved wonders during 
 the last few*years, and I predict for him a brilliant col 
 lege career. I am very proud of him." 
 
 The beautiful girl's face glowed, and her eyes gleamed 
 as she said this, while her glance rested more fondly 
 than she was aware, on the manly form that was stand 
 ing beside his hostess, quietly conversing with her while 
 they watched the dancers. 
 
 Her companion was so nettled by this, that for a mo 
 ment he could not control his voice to reply. 
 
 "I should judge that the young man must be a 
 prodigy," he said, at length, with a covert sneer. 
 
 Gladys lifted her eyes searchingly to his face. 
 
 His tone was not pleasant to her, but he looked as in 
 nocent as if he had spoken in all sincerity. 
 
 "Why !" she said, after a moment's thought, "if Geof- 
 froy does gain a year he will take his degree when you 
 take yours !" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 A little ripple of roguish laughter issued from the fair 
 girl's red lips. 
 
 "Then let me warn you," sbe said, with a merry glance.
 
 76 "FIRST IN TIME, FIRST BY RIOHT!" 
 
 "to look out for your honors, Mr. Mapleson, for Geoffrey 
 is bound to go to the front, and I have fully made up my 
 mind to hear him deliver the valedictory at Yale two 
 years hence." 
 
 Again the young Southerner had to pause for self-con 
 trol ; it was very hard for him to conceal the rage that 
 was well nigh overmastering him. 
 
 But all at once he bent toward Gladys, and, speaking in 
 a low, resolute tone, said : 
 
 "Miss Huntress, you have inspired me with an ambition 
 which I never before possessed. I would give more than 
 you can conceive to merit such praise from your lips as 
 you have just bestowed upon another, and from this 
 hour, my purpose shall be to 'go to the front,' as you 
 have expressed it. I shall deliver the valedictory two 
 years from next summer." 
 
 Gladys laughed gleefully. 
 
 She never dreamed of the fierce enmity and jealousy 
 that lay beneath all this, and she was delighted to think 
 that she had aroused his desive to excel in his class. 
 
 "It will be a worthy contest," she said ; "and I honor 
 you for your resolution. I shall watch the rivalry with 
 a great deal of interest, I assure you." 
 
 "Will you wear my colors if I succeed, Miss Huntress?" 
 the young man asked, in a low, almost passionate tone. 
 
 "that depends " 
 
 "Upon what?" 
 
 "Upon whether Geoffrey takes his degree at the same 
 time ; if he gains his year and leaves with your class, I 
 think I shall have to be loyal to Hm, even though he 
 should suffer defeat," Gladys replied, though in her heart 
 she felt sure that he would not fail to do himself honor. 
 
 "That is hardly fair," urged her companion; '"to the 
 victor belongs the spoils,' you know." 
 
 "Yes; but you will have your own friends to rejoice 
 with you, and I could not desert dear old Geoff, though 
 he should fail a hundred times, "she returned, a tender 
 glow overspreading her face. 
 
 "Happy Huntress!" sneered the exasperated young 
 man, for a moment forgetting himself. 
 
 " W"hy, Mr. Mapleson, I hope you are not offended with, 
 me," Gladys said, with surprise, and not once suspecting 
 that this venom was aimed at the object of their conver 
 sation ; then she added : "Perhaps, however, his colors 
 and yours will be the same, and then I can honor you 
 both'."
 
 " FIRST IN TIME, FIRST BY RIGHT!" 77 
 
 Everet Mapleson was glad that supper was announced 
 just at that moment, which saved him the necessity of re 
 plying. 
 
 The mere thought of sharing any honors with his rival 
 made him white with anger, and her praise of him had 
 driven him nearly frantic. 
 
 He saw Geoffrey approaching them, and surmised that 
 he contemplated taking Gladys in to supper. 
 
 He resolved that he should not ; so, turning to her with 
 a smile, as he laid her hand upon his arm, he re 
 marked : 
 
 "That is no doubt a pleasing announcement to every 
 body. Shall we follow the hungry crowd?" 
 
 "Thanks ; but I see Geoffrey coming for me ; pray find 
 some one else, Mr. Mapleson ; I have already occupied 
 more of your time and attention this evening than I 
 ought," the fair girl responded. 
 
 "I could not bestow it more acceptably to myself any 
 where else/ 1 he replied, in a low, earnest cone, and de 
 taining the hand which she would have withdrawn from 
 his arm. 
 
 At that instant Geoffrey bowed before them. 
 "Excuse me for interrupting your chat," he said, 
 courteously ; "but are you ready to go in to supper, 
 Gladys?'' 
 
 "Excuse me. Huntress," voting Mapleson interposed be 
 fore Gladys could reply, and bestowing a haughty, glance 
 upon his rival, "but I must claim the privilege of taking 
 Miss Huntress in by virtue of the old saw ' prior tempore, 
 prior jure' 'first in time, first by right." 
 
 Geoffrey colored more at his tone and look than at his 
 words, but returned, with a genial smilp : 
 
 "That will apply to my case exactly, Mr. Mapleson, since 
 I secured Miss Huntress' promise, more than an hour ago, 
 that she would give me the privilege you claim." 
 
 "But possession is nine points in law. Miss Huntress," 
 saul Everet, addressing Gladys, and ignoring Geoffrey en- 
 tirplv. 
 
 "Rpally, Mr. Maplpson, you will have to excuse me. I 
 have given my promise, as Geoffrey says, and since he 
 loaves for New Haven ngain to-morrow morning, I must 
 say all I have to say to him to-nisrht." 
 
 Everet Mnpleson instantly released her, with a low 
 bow of acquipscence. 
 
 "Your wish is sufficient," he said, with significant em 
 phasis, and he turned abruptly away to seek some one
 
 78 "FIRST IN TIME, 1IR&T BY EIGHT!" 
 
 else; but not before he had shot a revengeful glance at 
 his successful rival. 
 
 "He shall have his pay some day," he muttered, as he 
 moved down the room; "he maddens me beyond all en- 
 dm-ance with his assumption of affability and his high 
 bred civility. He go^s back to New Haven to-morrow, 
 does he? Well, I'll improve the remainder of this recess 
 to cultivate to the utmost my acquaintance with ma belle 
 Gladys." 
 
 He found a young lady to whom he had been intro 
 duced early in the evening, and solicited her companion 
 ship during; supper, but he was careful to station himself 
 where he could watch every look and movement of the 
 pirl whom he was fast learning to adore. 
 
 After supper Gladys and Geoffrey stole away to a quiet 
 corner, where they could have a little confidential chat be 
 fore they separated, for each had much to tell the other 
 about school and various other matters. 
 
 Geoffrey had been much disturbed inwardly to see how 
 devotedly attentive young Mapleson appeared to Gladys. 
 
 He did not benr him any ill-will on account of the haz 
 ing to which he had been subjpcted so long ago, but ho 
 instinctively telt that he could not be a very noble- 
 minded man to allow himself to be so controlled by pas 
 sion as he had been at that time, and Gladys was too 
 precious a treasure to be willingly yielded to one un 
 worthy of her. 
 
 He wondered what opinion she had formed of him, and 
 he meant to find out before he left her ; and after they 
 had chatted awhile he asked, smilingly : 
 
 "Well, Gladys, what do you think of my double?" 
 
 "I think it the most remarkable resemblance in the 
 world ; but why have you never written us anything 
 about him?" she asked. 
 
 "I have had so many other things to write and think 
 about, that I suppose it escaped my memory ; besides, I 
 seldom meet Mapleson, as he is not in my class. I am 
 veiy jrlad,. though, that he does not belong in New York," 
 Geoffrey concluded, with a wistful glance at his com 
 panion. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Because I fear you might often make the same mis- 
 take that you did the other day in the cafe, and I think I 
 should hardly like to share your favors with him." 
 
 Gladys shot a quick, inquiring glance into the young 
 man's face, and saw it was clouded.
 
 A CONFESSION. 79 
 
 "Isn't he nice, Geoff?" 
 
 "I have heard that he belongs to a good family, and 
 feel that I have no right to say one word agairist nini ; 
 still, where you are concerned, Gladys, I feel very jeal 
 ous lest any ill should come to you," he returned, 
 earnestly. 
 
 "I think I could never again mistake him for you," 
 Gladj's said, thoughtfully. 
 
 "What makes you think that?" was the eager query. 
 
 "There are certain expressions in your face that I do 
 not find in his, and vice versa ; while somehow a feeling 
 of antagonism, a barrier, almost amounting to distrust, 
 comes between us when I am with him. Perhaps it is 
 because I do not know him as well as I know you ; it 
 would be natural to differently regard one who had al 
 ways been like a brother," Gladys replied, gravely. 
 
 A painful thrill shot through Geoffrey's heart at those 
 last words. 
 
 "Does she feel nothing but sisterly affection for me ?" 
 bethought; "and I love her oh! not with a brother's 
 love ; Heaven help me if I fail to win her by and by ! She 
 is dearer than my own life, and yet I dare not tell her 
 so ; I have no right to win the heart of the child of my 
 benefactor until I can make a name and position worthy 
 of her acceptance." 
 
 But he alknved nothing of this conflict to appear. Ho 
 changed the subject, and they chatted pleasantly of other 
 matters until Mr. and Mrs. Huntress came to tell him 
 that they were going home. 
 
 He then bade her good-night and good-by, and went 
 away, loving her more fondly than ever, but ^i*h a heavy 
 burden on his heart. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 A CONFESSION. 
 
 There was not much sleep for Geoffrey that night. He 
 lay through the long hours thinking of his love for 
 Gladys, and half believing, yet hardly daring to hope, 
 that she was beginning to return it. 
 
 Her manner toward him during the evening, her glad, 
 even joyful greeting when he entered Mrs. Loring's 
 drawing-room, her shy, sweet glances, while talking with 
 I'im, and the ever ready color which leaped into h^i
 
 80 A CONFESSION. 
 
 checks beneath his fond gaze, all thrilled him with the 
 blissful conviction that she was not in different to him. 
 
 And- yet this only increased his unhappiness to feel 
 that he might win her, and yet could not without being 
 guilty of both treachery and ingratitude toward the man 
 froTfi whom he had received such lasting benefits, and 
 who had stood in the place of a father to him. 
 
 "But my life will b ruined if I cannot win her," he 
 said, a sort of dull despair settling down upon his heart 
 at the mere thought. "I have alwaj^s been determined to 
 make the most of my advantages for her sake that I 
 might be worthy of her ; I have resolved from the first 
 that no one should excel me, and that when I should be 
 through with my college course I would battle, with all the 
 energy i possess, for a high position in the world to offer 
 her. But what will it all amount to if, in the meantime, 
 some one else steals my darling from me ! if, while my 
 own lips are sealed, from a sense of honor, some other 
 man wins the heart I covet, and I have to see her become 
 his wife? Good heavens! I could not bear it it would 
 destroy my ambition it would make a wreck of me." 
 
 He tossed and turned upon his pillow in an agony of un 
 rest and apprehension, the future looking darker and 
 more hopeless to him with every waning hour, and when 
 at l3st morning dawned he arose looking haggard and 
 almost ill from the conflict through which he had passed. 
 
 When the breakfast bell rang he shrank, with positive 
 pain, from going below to meet his kind friends with this 
 harden on his heart. 
 
 But he stopped suddenly while in the act of crossing the 
 threshold of his room, his eye lightin'g, a vivid flush ris 
 ing to his brow, as some thought flashed upon his 
 mind. 
 
 "I will do it," he murmured, resolute lines settling 
 about his mouth. "I will go directly to Uncle August and 
 confess my love for Gladys in a manly, straightforward 
 way, and if he does not oppose me if he betrays no re- 
 pugnanco to such a union, I will no longer conceal my 
 feelings from her, although it may be years before I shall 
 dare to ask her to share my fortunes. I know if I can 
 have before me the hope that she will some day become 
 my wife, that no goal will be too difficult for me to attain. 
 I shall be able to remove mountains, for her dear sake. 
 But if he shrinks in the least from giving me his only 
 child, I will sacrifice every hope I will go'away and hide 
 myself and my despair from every eye, rather than he
 
 A CONFESSION. 81 
 
 should think me ungrateful for all that he has done for 
 me." 
 
 Having made these resolutions, a new hope seemed to 
 animate him. the clouds cleared from his brow, his 
 heart grew lighter, and he descended to the dining-rooin 
 looking more like himself. 
 
 Still Mr. Huntress noticed his paleness and the un 
 usual gravity of his manner, and wondered at it, for ho 
 had seemed remarkably cheerful, even gay, the previous 
 evening at Mrs. Loring's. 
 
 "The boy is working too hard," he said to himself, 
 anxiously : "he has too much ambition for his strength," 
 and he resolved to caution him anew before he left. 
 
 As they arose from the table Geoffrey looked at his 
 watch. 
 
 "Uncle August," he said, a hot flush mantling his 
 cheek, "I have an hour just before I need to go. Can I 
 see you alone for a little while on a matter of business?" 
 
 "Business, Geoff!" laughed his uncle. "I imagined 
 that your mind was filled with literary pursuits, to the 
 exclusion of all else. I had no idea you could combine the 
 two." 
 
 "I should not have called it business ; the matter upon 
 which I wish to speak is far more vital than any business 
 could possibly be," Geoffrey replied, gravely. 
 
 "I'll wager the boy is borrowing trouble over his re 
 semblance to that chap whom we met last evening; h 
 doubtless believes that he is on the verge of some im 
 portant discovery, and wants me to help him ferret out 
 the truth," Mr. Huntress mused, aa he led the way to his 
 library. 
 
 "Now, Geoff, I'm ready to listen to whatever you may 
 have on your mind," he said, seating himself comfort 
 ably, and motioning the young man to another chair. 
 
 "Uncle August," Geoffrey began, after pausing a mo 
 ment to collect his thoughts, "you know, do you not, 
 tint I am truly grateful to you for the unexampled kind 
 ness which you have shown mo ever since you'found me, 
 such ;\ pitiable object, in the streets of Now York?" 
 
 "Why, my boy !" said Mr. Huntress, looking astonished 
 over this unexpected speech, "I have never stopped to 
 think whether you were grateful or not ; j*ou have always 
 shown that you loved me and desired to please me, and 
 that was enough." 
 
 "I have loved you I do lovo you ; if I should ever dis 
 cover my own father I do not believe that I could give
 
 82 A CONFESSION. 
 
 him the deep affection which I cherish for you. But, 
 Uncle August, I have a confession to make to you this 
 morning which may cause something of a change in your 
 feelings toward rne." 
 
 "A confession?" repeated Mr. Huntress, looking up 
 quickly and anxiously. "Surely, Geoff, you haven't been 
 getting into any trouble at college?" 
 
 "No, sir; what I have to tell you, you may regard as 
 far more serious than any college scrape it may alienate 
 your affection for me far more, but 
 
 "Out with it, Geoff, don't beat about the bush ; I fancy 
 you won't find me very obdurate, no matter what you 
 have done," Mr. Huntress interrupted, although he be 
 lieved Geoffrey was making a mountain out of some mole- 
 bill. 
 
 "I will, sir; confession is the only honorable course 
 open to me, and yet if I offend you I shall dread to look 
 my future in the face." 
 
 "Good heavens, Geoffrey ! you begin to frighten me; 
 speak out what have you been doing that is so dread 
 ful?" exclaimed his friend, now looking thoroughly 
 alarmed. 
 
 "I have dared to love Gladys, sir." 
 
 " You have dared to love Gladys ! Well, of course, who 
 could help it?" said August Huntress, his astonishment 
 increasing, and not, on the instant, comprehending the 
 full import of the words. 
 
 "But but Uncle August, you do nor understand; I 
 love her as a man loves tho woman whom he wishes to 
 make his wife," said Geoffrey, with a very pale face, for 
 the die was cast now, and he waited the result with fear 
 and trembling. 
 
 "Humph! and this is your confession?" 
 
 "Yes, sir; I hope you will not regard me as a viper 
 that turns and stings the hand that nourishes it," the 
 young man pleaded, with emotion. 
 
 August Huntress did not reply for a moment. He 
 thoroughly comprehended the situation now, and a great 
 sigh of relief came welling up from his deep chest, for he 
 had imagined from Geoffrey's grave looks and ominous 
 words that he had got into some difficulty at college 
 which might hamper him through the remainder of his 
 course. But it was only a love affair, after all, and he 
 had long ago surmised that some such result might follow 
 the intimate association of these two who were so dear 
 to him.
 
 4 CONFESSION. 83 
 
 His eyes began to twinkle as he regarded the handsome 
 fellow, sitting there before him with downcast eyes and 
 troubled countenance, and yet he knew that the struggle 
 which had driven him to this confession must have been 
 a severe one, and he appreciated, too, the sense of honor 
 and the nobility which had also prompted it. 
 
 "Have you told Gladys anything of this?" he asked. 
 "No, sir ; it was my duty to come to you first, for your 
 approval or rejection of my suit. I could not forget that 
 I am a nameless waif, whom your goodness alone has re 
 deemed from a blighted life. I could not forget, either, 
 the fact, that when I shall have finished my education I 
 shall have nothing to offer her whom I love, save my 
 heart, an empty hand, and a name that is mine only by 
 adoption." 
 
 Mr. Huntress was touched by his frankness and honor. 
 "I can vouch for the heart, Geoff," he said; "it is 
 large, and generous, and noble. Empty hands are no dis 
 grace if they are honest and willing hands, backed by 
 energy and a resolute spirit, both of which I know you 
 possess. As for the name, it is above reproach, but not 
 more so than the manly fellow upon whom I have be 
 stowed it, ami of whom I am very proud ; I know he will 
 never dishonor it." 
 
 "Thank you, Uncle August," Geoffrey replied, with a 
 suspicious tremor in his voice ; " but heart, hands, name, 
 and even life itself will not amount to much with me if I 
 am denied the love I crave the world would be nothing 
 to me without Gladys." 
 
 "It would be rather dark to all of us without her; she 
 has been the light of our home and the pride of our 
 hearts for a good many years ; and, Geoff, to speak the 
 truth, I believe nothing would please me better than to 
 have you two marry, if you love each other well enough." 
 Geoff rey looked up with a transfigured face. 
 "Oh, Uncle August, do you mean that?" he cried. 
 "Of course I mean it, or I should not have said it. 
 Your confession, although it startled me a trifle at first, 
 as it would any father, to be asked to give a "way his only 
 child, was r.ot wholly unanticipated, for I have not been 
 blind during the last few years, and it has proved your 
 nobility better than almost anything else could have done, 
 and if you can win Gladys, I shall give her to you with 
 my sincere blessing. You have grown very dear to me, 
 Geoff. I have been building great hopes upon you ever 
 since I adopted you as my son, and now nothing would
 
 81 A CONFESSION. 
 
 satisfy me so well as to have you become more closely 
 allied to me, and thus cement evert more strongly the 
 bonds that already unite us." 
 
 "But," Geoffrey began, then stopped short, a burning 
 flush rising to the roots of his hair, although his heart 
 had thrilled with joy to every word his uncle had uttered. 
 
 "Well, out with it ; surely you are not going to argue 
 against your own cause, when you can have everything 
 your own way- -that is, as far as I am concerned," Mr. 
 Huntress said, laughingly. 
 
 "But I wish you to consider the matter in all its bear 
 ings," the young man responded, very seriously. "You 
 must not forget that you are utterly ignorant of my 
 parentage. I may even be the child of some unfortunate 
 woman, that was cast adrift in order to conceal the story 
 of her shame. If we should ever make such a discovery, 
 and you should then regret having given me my heart's 
 desire, it might make misery for us all in the future.' 1 
 
 "Geoffrey," August Huntress responded, in just as 
 serious a tone, " I confess that such a discovery would 
 pain me exceedingly, but- more on your account than my 
 own. Still, if I knew at this moment that you could honor 
 ably call no man father, if I knew that your mother had 
 committed an irremediable error, it could not detract 
 from my affection for you nor my pride in you. I hope, 
 however, if such is the story of your origin, that you will 
 never know it. The name that I have given you will he 
 sufficient to aid you to an honorable position in the 
 world ; it is your character, what you are yourself, that 
 is chiefly to be considered, and I could e:ive you Gladys- 
 provided she was willing to give herself to you without 
 a demur. Heaven bless you, Geoff! Go and win your 
 bride, if you can !" 
 
 He held out his hand as he concluded, and Geoffrey 
 seized it in a transport of joy. 
 
 " Uncle August, you are a royal gentleman," he cried, 
 earnestly ; "and now you have crowned all your past good 
 ness to me with this great, this priceless gift, I am the 
 happiest fellow in Christendom I" 
 
 "Well, then, don't come to me with any more con 
 fessions," returned his companion, jocosely, though there 
 were tears in his eyes. "I declare my blood actually ran 
 cold when I looked into your solemn face and thought, 
 perhaps, you had been sent home from college in dis 
 grace for some unheard of misdemeanor. Still," he 
 added, more seriously, " I might have known better, for
 
 A CONFESSION. 85 
 
 you have been studying too hard to have much time for 
 mischief." 
 
 "Indeed I have; and, Uncle August, I am going to 
 gain my year without any difficulty," the young man 
 said, with shining eyes. 
 
 "Well, I like to have you smart, only don't work so 
 hard that you will break down ; I'd much prefer to have 
 it take you a year longer to get through than to have you 
 injure your health." 
 
 "I shall not; I am as strong as a giant, and nov, with 
 this new hope to brighten my life, I believe 1 could ac 
 complish almost any thing. I want to get through with 
 my course in the next two years, and then I mvtst turn 
 my mind to business, for I have my fortune yet to make, 
 you know. 1 ' 
 
 "Yen, I should advise you to choose something to do 
 when you got through college ; it is better for every man 
 to have some business or profession, no matter how much 
 money he may have. I may as well tell you, Geoff, and I 
 do not believe it will do you any harm to know it, that I 
 have madp a handsome provision for you. and if you de 
 sire to get into something promising by and by, I shall be 
 glad to anticipate my will and help you do it. I have 
 plenty, my b^n*," he continued, confidentially, "and if it 
 were not for this habit of business that is on me, like a 
 eon of second nature, I might retire and take my ease 
 for the remainder of my life." 
 
 "I think you deserve to take your ease," Geoffrey re 
 plied ; " you at least might have a few years of travel and 
 sight seeing." 
 
 "I should enjoy that if I could do all my traveling by 
 land. I don't take to the water very well, and perhaps, by 
 the time you and Gladys are through college, we will all 
 like to run about a little. But," he added, looking at his 
 watch, "if you '.re g ing on that nine o'clock train you 
 will have to be off, and," with a sly smile, "since you are 
 absolved from all your sins, you can go with a light heart 
 and an easy conscience." 
 
 Geoffrey smiled and flushed. 
 
 "I think, Uncle August, I can manage to spare another 
 day," he said, "and if you do not object, I believe I will 
 run over to New York again, and escort Gladys home. 
 She said something about returning to-day." 
 
 August Huntress laughed aloud at this change in the 
 young man's plans. 
 
 44 You do not intend to lose any time in your wooing, I
 
 00 A DECLARATION. 
 
 perceive," he said, then added, more thoughtfully : "A3 a 
 rule, I should say it was better not to mix love with Latin, 
 Greek, and the sciences; but you and Gladys are so set 
 upon your studies, i imagine it won't hurt you to season 
 them with a little sentiment. Go along, you rogue, and 
 good, luck go wifti you ! However, I imagine you need 
 not tremble very much for your fate." 
 
 "Do you think that Gladys cares for me? 1 ' Geoffrey 
 asked, eagerly. 
 
 "Go and find out for yourself. I'm not going to betray 
 any of Gladys' secrets," Mr. Huntress retorted, with an 
 assumption of loyalty, but with such a mischeivous gleam 
 in his eyes, that Geoffrey set off for New York with a 
 strangely light heart. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 A DECLARATION. 
 
 Arriving at Mr. Loring's, Geoffrey sent his name up to 
 the young ladies, and a few minutes later Gladys came 
 down alone. 
 
 How his heart bounded as she came tripping into the 
 room, looking as fresh and lovely as the morning itself. 
 
 She was dressed in a morning robe of white flannel, re 
 lieved by quilted facings of pale blue silk, and fastened at 
 the waist with a cascade of ribbons of the same hue. 
 
 Her hair was carelessly knotted at the back of her 
 head, where it was pinned with a small shepherd's crook 
 of silver, while a few light rings clustered lovingly about 
 her forehead. 
 
 ,In spite of the dissipation of the previous evening, her 
 eyes were bright as stars, her cheeks flushed, and her 
 manner animated. 
 
 "Dear old Goff," she cried, springing forward with a 
 glad smile to meet him, "I imagined you were on your 
 way back to New Haven, to bury yourself in Greek 
 verbs and Latin nouns! What good fairy has sent you 
 here instead ?" 
 
 "Love !" was on Geoffrey's lips as he gathered both her 
 hands in his, but he restrained the wo~d, and replied : 
 
 "Oh, T Canted to have a little talk with Uncle August, 
 and so concluded to remain over another day. I 'have 
 come to act as your escort home." 
 
 " How good of you 1 I was dreading to go alone."
 
 A DECLARATION. 87 
 
 "How is your friend this morning?" 
 
 "Addie? poor child ! she is laid up with a wretched 
 headache : the dancing and excitement \vere too much 
 for her. Mrs. Loring was obliged to go out early to her 
 dress-Maker, and as Addie is compelled to keep very quiet 
 in a darkened room, I was having quite a solitary time 
 of it when you were announced," Gladys explained. 
 
 Geoffrey was secretly delighted at this, although sorry 
 for Miss Loring's indisposition. 
 
 The coast was clear, so to speak, for him, and yet, now 
 that everything seemed so propitious for his suit, he al 
 most feared to put his fate to the test. 
 
 "I regret your friend's illness," he said, "but you are 
 as bright and fresh as if you had not lost an hour of 
 sleep." 
 
 "Yes, I do net feel in the least wearied," Gladys re 
 turned, "and I had a most delightful time. But the best 
 of all was to have you here, Geoff. I began to fear my 
 evening was to be spoiled, you were so late.'' 
 
 " Was my presence so necessary to your enjoyment?" 
 the young man earnestly questioned, a quick flush rising 
 to his brow, as he searched her lovely face. 
 
 " Indeed it was ; I had set my heart upon having you 
 here it was almost my first appearance in society, you 
 know. How did I behave, Geoffrey? like a novice?" 
 Gladys asked, archly. 
 
 "No, indeed ; you were quite the woman of the world, 
 and entertained your admirers as composedly as if you 
 had been accustomed to such homage fop many a season. 
 Do you imagine that you would enjoy a fashionable life, 
 Gladys?" 
 
 "I think I would enjoy social life, to a certain extent, 
 but I would not care to devote all my time to keeping 
 up style, or to live in a fashionable whirl continually," she 
 replied, thoughtfully. 
 
 " And yet you are eminently fitted for just that kind 
 of a life," Geoffrey said, thinking how few there were 
 who could compare with her. 
 
 'How so?" she asked, flushing slighter. 
 
 "You are beautiful and graceful; you have winning 
 manners and a cultivated mind ; you would shine any 
 where," he answered, an earnest thrill in his voice. 
 
 "Flatterer ! not one of my 'admirers,' last night, paid 
 mo such a tribute as that," retorted the fair girl, with a 
 merry laugh, "and it is quite unusual, I believe, for 
 one's brother to be so complimentary."
 
 68 A DECLARATION. 
 
 "You forget, Gladys, that I am not your brother," 
 Geoffrey returned, gravely, and wondering that she 
 should have spoken thus, for she had very rarely as 
 sumed that there was any kindred tie between them. 
 
 She could not have told herself what made her use the 
 word, and she remembered how she had repudiated Mr. 
 Mapleson's assumption of such a relationship ; but some 
 how, though her own heart thrilled to Geoffrey's asser 
 tion that he was not her brother, a sort of perverseness 
 took possession of her, and she continued, in the same 
 strain, with a half-injured air and a bewitching pout : 
 
 "One would think that you were rejoiced over the fact, 
 to remind me of it in such a way." 
 
 "I am rejoiced over the fact.' 1 
 
 "Why, Geoff! After all these years!" and Gladys 
 .'ooked up in genuine surprise, for the restraint that he 
 had been imposing upon himself had made his tone al 
 most stern. 
 
 "Yes, after all these years; Gladys," he went on, 
 eagerly, toeling that the supreme moment of his life had 
 come, ''can you conceive of no reason why I should be 
 glad? As a boy, before T realized what you would be 
 come in the future, I was proud and happy to be allowed 
 the privilege of regarding you as my sister ; but as a 
 man I exult in the fact that no kindred ties bind us to 
 each other, for in that case I should have no right to love 
 you as I do, and my life would be bereft of its sweetest 
 hopes." 
 
 Gladys darted one quick, searching glance into hia 
 face as he uttered these impassioned words; then a burn 
 ing blush suffused her face, and her eyes drooped in con 
 fusion before the ardent light in his. 
 
 "Have I startled you, my darling, by this confession?" 
 Geoffrey went on. "Have you never suspected howl 
 have been growing to love 3-011 day by day ? At first, as I 
 told you, T regarded you in a brotherly way. I was de 
 lighted with your beauty, I was proud of your intellect. 
 I loved and reverenced you for your goodness and gen 
 tleness to me, and your patience with me ae an ignorant, 
 simple-minded boy ; but, as I grew older, a deeper, more 
 sacred love took possession of me, until I came to realize 
 that my future would be a miserable blank unless I could 
 win your own heart's best love. I do not forget that I 
 arn nameless, dear, that I am only a stray waif whom 
 your father rescued from a hapless fate. I ha,ve nothing 
 to offer you save my great love and an energy and reso-
 
 A DECLARATION. 89 
 
 lution which will enable me to overcome every obstacle 
 for your dear sake. Does your heart respond to my plea, 
 my darling? .Can you give me a deeper and holier love 
 than that of a sister for a brother, and some day, when 
 vre are both through with our studies, when I can obtain 
 a position worthy of your acceptance, become my^ cher 
 ished wife?" 
 
 He reached out, took the hands that lay clasped upon 
 her lap, and drew her gently toward him. 
 
 She lifted her sweet face to him for one brief instant, 
 and their glances met, soul answering to soul. 
 
 "Geoffrey! you have fairly taken my breath away," 
 Gladys whispered, "and yet and " 
 
 His clasp tightened about her hands. 
 
 "'And yet' Gladys what?" he breathed, eagerly. 
 
 Her bright head drooped lower to hide the crimson in 
 her cheeks, but there was no shrinking from him, aa 
 there must have been had not her heart responded to hia 
 appeal. 
 
 "And yet, I know that you are far dearer to me than a 
 brother could ever be," she confessed. 
 
 He dropped her hands, and the next moment his arms 
 were around her. 
 
 He drew her close to his wildly bounding heart and 
 laid her head upon his breast. 
 
 " My own darling ! that means that you love me even aa 
 I love you ! Oh, Gladys, how I have longed to hear thia 
 confession from your lips, and yet I have never dared to 
 betray the affection that has become a part of iny very life." 
 
 "Haven't you, Geoff?" Gladys asked, a mischievous 
 smile wreathing her red lips, which, however, he could 
 not see. 
 
 "No; for I felt that it would not be right to do so. I 
 feared that Uncle August would feel that I had betrayed 
 his confidence, and taken an unfair advantage of hia 
 kindness. Besides, it galled me to feel that I had nothing 
 to offer you save my nameless self, without any definite 
 expectations for the future." 
 
 " You imagine that you have been exceedingly circum 
 spect, don't you, dear?" and now a pair of merry eyes 
 were raised to meet his. 
 
 "Have I not? Have you suspected anything of this be 
 fore, Gladys?" he asked, quickly, a vivid crimson suffua- 
 ing his face. 
 
 "I shall have to confess that I have in a measure," 
 he replied.
 
 90 A DECLARATION. 
 
 "When? What made you?" 
 
 "Just before you went to college, when you told me 
 that you were glad vou had been case adrift upon the 
 world." 
 
 "I remember when I said but for that I should never 
 have known you. It was very hard for me, then, not to 
 tell you how well I loved you, but I believed I did conceal 
 it. Did it trouble you, Gladys?" 
 
 " N o ; still I was taken by surprise. I had never 
 thought of loving you in that way, or of your regarding 
 me other than as a sister, 1 ' Gladys replied, gravely. 
 
 "Then it set you thinking and you have been learning 
 to love me since that time ?" Geoffrey asked, fondly. 
 
 "Not exactly 'learning to love,' Geofl', but I began then 
 to realize the fact that 1 did love you," the young girl 
 confessed, with brilliant cheeks. 
 
 Geoffrey bent and kissed her red lips. 
 "Darling, I am glad I did not dare tell you then I 
 should have been very premature," he said, tenderly. 
 
 "How does it happen that you have 'durea' even now?" 
 she asked, roguishly. 
 
 "Because I confessed everything to Uncle August this 
 morning, and he bade me come and win my bride if I 
 could," was the smiling retort. 
 
 "Geoff ! did papa say that," cried the young girl, grow 
 ing crimson again. 
 
 "Yes, those very words. Uncle August is a kingly 
 
 man, and his permission to let me speak to you has raised 
 
 me from the depths of despair to the very heights of joy." 
 
 "Oh, Geoffrey, what an ardent figure of speech!" 
 
 laughed the happy girl. 
 
 "Indeed it is not a figure at all, you sweet, brown-eyed 
 fay. I did not sleep a wink last night for wretchedness 
 of mind." 
 
 "And all for nothing, Geoff." 
 
 "It was the fear of losing you, my darling. When I 
 saw you so admired in these very rooms last night, 1 said 
 to myself, 'some one else Avill win her before I shall have 
 any right to speak ;' so, after lying awake all night, I 
 desperately resolved to make a clean breast of everything 
 to Uncle August. If he had told me he was unwilling to 
 give you to me I should never have come to Brooklyn 
 again." 
 
 "Geoffrey," cried Gladys, clinging to him, "you would 
 not have left us like that." 
 
 "I should, dear," he answered, firmly ; "I could not
 
 A DECLAMATION. 91 
 
 have remained in the same house with you and know 
 that I must never, by either word or look, reveal the love 
 I bear you. But all that is past. Uncle August seems 
 even happy in the prospect of our union. You love me 
 you are sure you love me well enough, Gladys, to be 
 come my wife, with no regret for anything?" he pleaded, 
 bending to look searchingiy into her eyes. 
 
 "Yes, I am sure, Geoii'rey. I have never tried to 
 analyze the affection which I have always cherished for 
 you, but I Know, now, that it has not been ot that calm 
 nature which a sister would feel for her brother. I have 
 been happier at your coming, I have been lonely and have 
 drooped whenever you went from home, and I can un 
 derstand now why it has been so," Gladys answered, drop 
 ping her head again upon her lover's breast. 
 
 "My own darling! How wonderful it is that this price 
 less boon should be granted me to crown all tne other 
 good gifts that I have received," he paid, in a thrilling 
 voice ; then added : " But, Gladys, I must remind you, as, 
 I have already reminded your father, that you will have 
 to become the wife of a nameless man. "Will that never 
 trouble you ?" 
 
 "Surely, the name that my father has bestowed upon 
 you will do very well, will it not?" 
 
 "That was just what he also said, dear; but. will the 
 mystery that enshrouds me never make you uncomfort 
 able or unhappy!" 
 
 "No ; I am well content with you just as you are." 
 
 " But have you never thought that there may be some 
 story of wrong of shame, even connected with my 
 early life? If we should discover it to be so, some time in 
 the future, would you not regret having given yourself to 
 me. Gladys, dear as you are to me, I could better face a 
 separation now, than such a regret by and by." 
 
 "Such a story of wrong could never harm you, dear 
 Geoff. All the shame or guilt, if any, would rest upon 
 others the perpetrators of it. But I have no fear that 
 you will ever be troubled by any such discovery. I be 
 lieve you will yet l^arn your parentage and feel honored 
 by it. However, it will nver change or mar my love 
 for you," Gladys replied, with grave earnestness. 
 
 Geoffrey's face was luminous. 
 
 "This noble spirit is just what I might have expected 
 from you, Gladys ; yet, I confess, I am very sensitive 
 over the mystery of my birth, and I should never havs 
 been fully satisfied without knowing just how you feel
 
 02 A DECLARATION. 
 
 about it. Oh, my love, the future looks very bright be 
 fore us, though the next tvvo years will seem very long 
 to me." 
 
 "Why, Geoff! I thought study was a positive delight 
 to you,' Gladys returned, in surprise. 
 
 "And so it is, but it frets me to feel that, even after I 
 get through college, it will perhaps be years before I can 
 attain a position that will warrant me in asking Uncle 
 August to give you to me finally." 
 
 " Wiiat kind of a position would satisfy your conscien 
 tious scruples, Geoffrey ?" Gladys asked, demurely. 
 
 "1 would not feel willing to take you from a home of 
 affluence to one of poverty you must never miss the 
 luxuries to which you have been accustomed," he said, 
 thoughtfully. 
 
 "Do you expect to find the treasure of a Monte Cristo 
 somewhere?" his companion asked, in the same tone as 
 before. 
 
 "Oh, no; I expect to provide a home and competence 
 by my brains and hands ; but it will take time " 
 
 "How much?" 
 
 "Years perhaps." 
 
 "How many '*" 
 
 "Five or six, maybe, if I am successful ; more if I am 
 not ; I shall start off to 'seek my fortune' just as soon as 
 I can take my degree." 
 
 " Meantime, what is to become of your humble servant ?" 
 
 "You? why, Gladys, you will have your home and 
 friends the same as now." 
 
 "And you will be out in the world, somewhere, working 
 for me?" she said, sitting erect and turning her gaze full 
 upon him. 
 
 "Of course; that is to be expected; doesn't it please 
 you ?" 
 
 "No. I am no hot-house plant that requires n tem 
 pered atmosphere in order to thrive and grow ' Do you 
 think that I can afford to let you spend the best years of 
 your life away from me, toiling to give me luxuries, 
 while you deny yourself even the comforts and com 
 panionship of a home? My father and mother began life 
 in an humble way, and built up their fortune together. I 
 am of no finer clay than they or you ; if I am not calcu 
 lated to share your burdens as well ns your pleasures, I 
 am not worthy to be your wife at all," Gladvs concluded, 
 with an energy and decison that made Geoffrey regard 
 her with surprise.
 
 OUT OF COLLEGE AT LAST. 93 
 
 "Why, Gladys, what would people think of mo if I 
 should ask you to inarrj' me before I could provide you 
 with a comfortable home?" lie asked. 
 
 "I do not expert you will do that; but comfort and 
 elegance a>-e not necessarily one and the same. With 
 the comfortable home provided, we will begin life to 
 gether, and win our luxuries and elegance hand and 
 hand ; it is not a mutual love where one gives all and 
 the other nothing." 
 
 "My darling, 1 had no idea there were such intensely 
 practical ideas in this small head of yours," said Geoffrey, 
 laughing, hut with a very tender face. 
 
 "Had you not? Well, then, perhaps, I may astonish 
 you again some time," she returned, laughing, too. 
 "But." she added, "I think we are both rather premature 
 in our plans, considering that we have two years more of 
 school before us. Besides, it is time I was getting ready 
 to go home with you, and we must not sit here talking 
 longer." 
 
 Later in the day the lovers returned to Brooklyn, where 
 they were received with many smiles and significant 
 glances, for both August Huntress and his good wife were 
 greatly delighted by the prospect of a union between 
 these two, upon whom all their fondest hopes had so long 
 been centered. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 OUT OF COLLEGE AT LAST. 
 
 Two years sped rapidly away, but they were improved 
 to the utmost by both Gladys and Geoffrey in their efforts 
 to secure a solid education. They saw but comparative 
 ly little of each other during this time, for Geoffrey was 
 so bent upon gaining his year that he made the most he 
 could of every recess and vacation. 
 
 But they corresponded regularly, each hearing from 
 the other every week, and their letters were a source of 
 great comfort and joy to them. 
 
 Everet Maplcson, too, worked harder during these two 
 years than he had evor done before. 
 
 His ambition had been fired by what Gladys had said 
 to him that evening at Mrs. Loring's reception, and he 
 had determined then that he would bend all his energies 
 toward securing the first honors of his class.
 
 94 OOT OF COLLEGE AT LAST. 
 
 He was more strenuous in this, perhaps, than he would 
 have been if Geoffrey Huntress had not succeeded in 
 gaining his year ; for when the juniors became seniors 
 our young hero took his place in the class with a record 
 to show that he would be no mean antagonist. 
 
 Young Mapleson flushed an angry red the first time 
 they met in the class, and returned Geoffrey's courteous 
 greeting with a haughty, supercilious nod. 
 
 They had not met until then since the evening of Mrs. 
 Lot-ing's reception, and the present year did not promise 
 anything very pleasant in the fact that they would be 
 members of the same class. 
 
 During these two years Everet Mapleson had seen con 
 siderable of Gladys, for he had resolved that he would 
 cultivate her acquaintance upon every possible occasion. 
 
 During his long vacations he had managed to follow the 
 Huntresses to the sea-shore or mountains, where, ming 
 ling in the same circles, they had been thrown much to 
 gether. His shorter recesses always found the young 
 Southerner- in New York city, where, being a favorite in 
 society, besides diligently cultivating Miss Loring's ac 
 quaintance, he managed to see a good deal of the beauti 
 ful girl upon whom he had set his affections. 
 
 But as yet he had not succesded in establishing himself 
 upon very intimate terms with her. 
 
 Gladys alwavs treated him courteously and in a friend 
 ly way, but still managed to hold him at a distance, and 
 lie had, as yet, never presumed to address one word of 
 love to her. 
 
 It chafed him that he had not been able to do so. It 
 galled him to think that he could not conquer her un 
 varying reserve, and make her yield to the fascinations 
 that had never failed to win wherever he had made up his 
 mind to win. 
 
 He still cherished his secret hatred for Geoffrey, and 
 was always on the alert for some way to vont it upon him ; 
 but no opportunity had presented itself, and he was 
 forced to conceal his feelings as best he could. 
 
 He had tried several times, when in New York, to find 
 the flower-woman, Margery. Indeed he never passed a 
 flower-stand now without peering beneath the hat or bon 
 net of the vender in senrch of that sorrowful and wrink 
 led visage. But he had never seen it since that first time 
 on Broadway, and he began to fear that she was dead, 
 and thus he would never be able to learn the secret of 
 Geoffrey Huntress' early life.
 
 OUT OF COLLEGE AT LAST. 95 
 
 The first of April drew near. 
 
 There were now only about three months before com 
 mencement at Yale, and every ambitious senior was do 
 ing his best to acquit himself honorably. 
 
 Geoffrey, however, had not been obliged to work nearly 
 so hard this year as durine: the two previous ones ; those 
 had been the test of his course, and he had strained 
 every nerve. 
 
 It had been a little doubtful at the clos3 of his last year 
 about his entering the senior class. 
 
 The professors, fearing tor his health, had advised him 
 to relinquish his purpose to do so. Mrs, Huntress, too, 
 was anxious about him, for he had been losing flesh and 
 color for several months, but Geoffrey very quietly re 
 marked, in the presence of the professors, that he would 
 do his best during the summer vacation to prepare for his 
 examinations for the senior class, and if he failed in them 
 he would cheerfully remain the extra year. 
 
 Mr. Huntress would not curtail hi -i in any of his privi 
 leges, and so again sent him to a pleasant spot in the 
 country with a tutor, a boat, and a couple of saddle- 
 horses, and the coaching went on as faithfully as ever. 
 
 The result was that Geoffrey passed his examinations 
 without a condition, and then felt that his hardest work 
 was over ; he would need to burn no more midnight oil, 
 and when there came a recess he would feel at liberty to 
 enjoy it as others did and gain a little of the rest he so 
 much needed. 
 
 He was not idle, however. 
 
 Gladys bad told him that she would expect great thinjrs 
 of him, and "great things" he meant to accomplish, if it 
 were possible, for her sake. 
 
 At the beginning of the year Huntress and Mapleson 
 were dubbed "the twins" of their class, and not long 
 afterward it was whispered that they stood about equal in 
 the race for first honors. Some were inclined to think 
 that Huntress would win the day. others that Mapleson 
 would be the favored one. 
 
 When the verdict was finally rendered in favor of 
 Geoffrey, Everet Mapleson swore an angry oath, although 
 his own name stood second on the list. 
 
 "He has seemel like some bad spirit pursuing me with 
 some evil purpose in view, ever since he entered college," 
 he muttered, distorting facts that would have seemed 
 just the reverse to any one else. "If I could only find 
 out the secret of his life I might ruin him, even now, be-
 
 96 OUT OF COLLEGE AT LAST. 
 
 fore the year is ended. I'd give half of my expectations 
 if I could find that old woman ; but I'm afraid she's 
 dead, and all that mystery buried with her. 
 
 " Well, I must calmly submit to his good fortune in 
 excelling all his competitors," he continued. "I've done 
 my best to win and I stand next, which is some comfort. 
 If I could have stood first I would have gone to Gladys 
 and told her that I worked for her sake, and perhaps he 
 might have listened to me. I wonder if she will stand 
 firsc in her class. I must run up to Poughkeepsie to see 
 the little lady graduate ; the commencement there comes 
 a few days earlier than ours this year." 
 
 However much Everet Mapleson inwardly regretted the 
 loss o f the first honors, he betrayed it to no one else he 
 appeared to take the appointments as a matter of course, 
 and spared no pains to make his own oration worthy and 
 briMiant. But underneath all this outward calm there 
 lay a relentless purpose to some day have ample revenge 
 upon his rival for his disappointment. 
 
 As soon as Geoffrey learned of his good fortune he has 
 tened to telegraph the news to Gladys. 
 
 "I shall not disappoint you the first honor is mine," 
 were the words which went flying over the wires to the 
 beautiful girl aft Vassar. 
 
 Gladys had just come in from a walk when she re- 
 ceivod it, and the principal, as he handed it to her, mar 
 veled at her exceeding beauty. 
 
 The rich glow of perfect health, deepened a little by ex 
 ercise, was on her cheeks; a happy smile wreathed her 
 lips. Her hair had been tossed about a trifle by the 
 breeze, and lay in a light, fluffy network low on her 
 brow, which gleamed white as ivory beneath it. 
 
 Her hand trembled a little as she took the telegram and 
 opened it, but as she caught sight of the cheering words 
 within she sepmed almost transfigured. 
 
 Her eyes lighted and sparkled with unusual brilliancv ; 
 the vivid color ran swiftly up to her temples and she 
 laughed a clear, musical, happy laugh, that rang through 
 the great hall like some sweet silver bell. 
 
 "You evidently have some good news, Miss Huntress." 
 the principal remarked, his usually grave face involunta 
 rily relaxing into a svmpathic smile at her delight. 
 
 "Indeed. I have, sir ;" she returned. "My a friend 
 has taken the first honors for this year at Yale." 
 
 She flushed again, for she had almost forgotten to 
 whom she was speaking, and nearly said, " My dear old
 
 OUT OF COLLEGE AT LAST. 9T 
 
 Geoffrey," but checked herself and called him a 
 friend. 
 
 "You need not have corrected yourself," replied the 
 professor, with a twinkle of his eyes. "If the 'friend' is 
 your brother you should not allow your modesty to pre 
 vent your acknowledging it." 
 
 Gladys 1 eyes drooped half guiltily at this. 
 
 She could not explain that Geoffrey was not her broth 
 er, but something far dearer, and yet her sense of truth' 
 fulness made her shrink from giving a wrong impression. 
 
 "You will be able to send him as pleasant tidings in re 
 turn, will you not? You have also been appointed vale 
 dictorian, I believe?" the gentleman continued. 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 " I am almost inclined to think that two valedictorians 
 out of one household are more than a fair allowance, espe 
 cially for one year ; your parents must be very proud 
 over two such brilliant children. Are there any more of 
 you to keep UD the credit of the family?" the principal in 
 quired, laughing. 
 
 "No, sir, Geoffrey and I are all there are," Gladys an 
 swered, and then tripped away to reply to Geoffrey's tel 
 egram with a jubilant letter. 
 
 "I rim delighted with yon, dear Geoff," she wrote. "Your telegram 
 has made me the happiest givl at Vassal", though my heart failed me a 
 trifle before I opened it, fearing that it might contain bad news. Hovr 
 prond I am of yon ! for you have climbed mountains of difficulties to 
 attain yonr goal. 
 
 "Now let me whisper a little bit of news in yonr ear. I have won 
 my spurs, too if I may be allowed to use lhat expression and aa I 
 shall graduate a few days before yon take yonr degree, can't yon c,>me 
 to Vassnr to honor the occasion with your presence? Papa and mamma 
 will be here, but the day will not be complete without you." 
 
 Geoffrey replied that, nothing shauld keep him away ; 
 that he would bo with her bright and early on commence 
 ment day. but would have to return to New Haven at 
 throe in the afternoon, as lie still had much to do to pre 
 pare for the final exercises of his own class. 
 
 "Rnt notwithstanding his promise, the train on which 
 he Ifft New Haven wns delayed two hours, and he did not 
 arrive nt Vnssnr until after the exercises were opened, 
 and so had no opportunity to see Gladys before, as he in 
 tended to do. 
 
 An usher led him into the crowded room, but the only 
 available seat fvas far in the rear, and so situated that he 
 could scarcely see or be seen.
 
 98 OUT OF COLLEGE AT LAST. 
 
 One of the graduating class was singing as he entered, 
 and for a few moments his attention was arrested by the 
 young amateur who gave promise of becoming something 
 more by and by. 
 
 But presently his eyes began to wander about in search 
 of Gladys, for she, of course, was the center of attraction 
 for him. 
 
 She was sitting near one end of the platform, at the 
 head of her class, and looking fairer than he had ever 
 seen her, in her virgin white. 
 
 Her dress was of finest Indian mull, sheer and fleecy 
 as a summer cloud. It was very simple, yet daintily 
 made, one gauzy thickness alone shading her snowy neck 
 and rounded arms, which gleamed fair as alabaster be 
 neath. 
 
 She wore no ornaments save a string of costly pearls 
 around her neck and a bunch of snow-balls in her silken 
 belt. 
 
 Her face was slightly flushed, her eyes glowed with ex 
 citement, and her lips were like polished coral. 
 
 Ever and anon her eyes wandered wistfully over the 
 sea of faces before her, as if in search of some one. 
 
 All at once they rested upon a familiar face and form. 
 She gave a slight start, her countenacne lighted for an in 
 stant, then she gave utterance to a sigh of disappoint 
 ment, although a little smile curved her lips and she 
 bowed in a friendly way to some one in the audience. 
 
 She had seen Everet Mapleson, and at the first glance 
 had thought he was Geoffrey, but catching his eager look 
 of recognition, she realized her mistake, and felt almost 
 angry with him for being there, while she feared that 
 Geoffrey would not ccme at all. 
 
 She did not catch sight of her lover until just a moment 
 before she was called up to deliver the farewell address 
 to class and faculty. 
 
 Geoffrey saw that she v- s anxiously looking for him, 
 and shifting his position lie leaned forward and fixed a 
 fond, magnetic look upon her. 
 
 She seemed to feel it, and turning her glance in that 
 direction, their eyes met ; a rosy flood swept up to her 
 brow, a brilliant smile wreathed her lips with one glad 
 look of welcome, and the next moment she was standing 
 before the audience, her whole being thrilling with de 
 light, and with the determination to do her best for Geof 
 frey's sake. 
 
 And she did ; her effort was the crowning seb
 
 A DISAPPOINTED LOVER. 99 
 
 of the day. The rapt and breathless attention of the hun 
 dreds before her testified to that, and when she concluded, 
 a perfect storm of applause showed their approbation 
 and how completely she had swayed them by her elo 
 quence. 
 
 More than this, numerous floral tributes were borne 
 forward and laid at her feet. These she acknowledged 
 with blush, and smile, and bow ; but when at the very last 
 an exquisite bouquet of lilies-of-the-valley followed the 
 more pretentious offerings, she eagerly stretched forth her 
 white-gloved hand and took it from the bearer. 
 
 They were her favorite flowers, arid she knew that 
 Geoffrey had sent them, even without the evidence of the 
 tiny note that lay twisted in their midst and concealed 
 from every eye but hers. 
 
 Everet Mapleson's card was attached to an elaborate 
 basket of japonicas, roses, and heliotrope. Mr. Huntress 
 had sent up a harp of pansies and smilax, and two or 
 three of Gladys' admiring classmates had contributed 
 lovely bouquets, but her little bunch of lilies, tied with 
 snow-white ribbon, was prized above them all. 
 
 It was all over at last; diplomas were presented, the 
 usual remarks made and advice given, and then admiring 
 friends crowded about to offer congratulations and ex 
 press their pride and pleasure in their loved ones. 
 
 In the midst of this confusion Gladys stepped aside a 
 moment to ascertain what her little billet contained. 
 
 "My darling," she read. "I would not have missed this hour to 
 have secured a fortune, and yet I came very near it. I will be in the 
 reception-room below after the exercises are over. Come and receive 
 my verdict there. GEOFF." 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 A DISAPPOINTED LOVER. 
 
 Gladys stole away from the crowd as soon as she could 
 do so without attracting attention, and sped down to the 
 reception-room to find her lover. 
 
 He was there and alone, fortunately, as nearly all the 
 guests were still in the hall above, and his face lighted 
 with a luminous smile as she sprang toward him, glad 
 ness beaming through every feature. 
 
 "Dear old Geoff!" 
 
 " My darling !" was all the salutation that passed be-
 
 100 A DISAPPOINTED LOVHR. 
 
 ween them, and then for an instant Gladys was folded 
 close to her lover's breast in a fond embrace. 
 
 "Oh, Geoff, I thought you had not come ; I never got a 
 glimpse of you until almost the last minute, and was so 
 disappointed that I was about ready to break down," 
 Gladys said, with a little nervous shiver, as she remem 
 bered how nearly her courage had failed her. 
 
 "I was late, dear, and I knew you would feel it ; but I 
 do not believe you would have failed even if you had not 
 seen me at all," he answered, as he fondly smoothed back 
 the clustering rings of hair from her throbbing temples. 
 
 "No, I do not think I should, really; but I could not 
 have done as Avell ; it was like a sudden inspiration to me 
 when I found you at last." 
 
 "Then I am thankful I was here, dear, for your effort 
 was the grand event of the day," Geoffrey said, smiling. 
 
 "You are very good to say so, Geoff," Gladys replied, 
 modestly. 
 
 "Very good to say so," he repeated, laughing. "Why 
 should I not say it, when your praises are on every lip, 
 and a pin might have been heard, if one had dropped, 
 while you were addressing the faculty and bidding >our 
 classmates farewell. Poor girls ! the crystal drops were 
 plentiful over the thought of parting." 
 
 "It is a little hard to leave school, Geoff, and all the 
 pleasant friends one has made ; don't you think so?" 
 
 "Perhaps," he replied. " I presume it is harder for you 
 than it will be for me, because I am so eager to make a 
 place for myself in the world, and a nest for somebody 
 else." 
 
 Gladys blushed at this reference to coming events. 
 
 "Did I not see Mapleson here?" Geoffrey asked, after a 
 mpment. 
 
 " Yes ; and at first I thought he was you ; but I soon 
 discovered my mistake." 
 
 "I wonder what he is here for?" mused the young 
 lover. 
 
 "To see me graduate, of course," Gladys responded, 
 roguishly. 
 
 '' Did you invite him ?" ? 
 
 "No. A long time ago he asked me to exchange tickets 
 with him for commencement, and I think he has spokan 
 of it every time that we have met since ; so, of course, I 
 could hardly help sending him one." 
 
 "You have seen a good deal of him during the last two 
 years, haven't you, Gladys?"
 
 A DISAPPOINTED LOVER. 101 
 
 "Yes, he has appeared at almost every place that we 
 have visited the last two summers, and he was always 
 in Ne\v York during the shorter recesses. I met him con- 
 Btaiitly in society, and I didn't like it very well, either." 
 
 W ny ?" 
 
 "Because it rather annoyed me to receive his atten 
 tions," Gladys confessed. 
 
 "Then he has been attentive to you?" the young man 
 asked, studying the face he loved very closely. 
 
 "Yes, quite so,'" Gladys answered; then noticing her 
 lover's grave, anxious look, she added : "You do not like 
 it, either, do you, Geoff?" 
 
 "No, dearest, I do not," Geoffrey replied, frankly, then 
 continued : "Pray, do not misunderstand me do not sup 
 pose that I am disturbed by a petty feeling of jealousy, 
 but there are some traits in Mapleson's character which 
 make me feel that he is not a proper companion or escort 
 for you." 
 
 "Then, Geoff, I will never accept any attention again 
 from him," Gladys said, quickly. "He has never been 
 very congenial to me in any way, and somehow I have al 
 ways resented his resemblance to you." 
 
 " Why should you?" 
 
 " 1. do not know I cannot account for the feeling, but I 
 have always had it. It mny be because I have detected 
 something not quite true in him, and did not Jike to have 
 him look like you on that account, while it almost seems 
 sometimes as if he were usurping a place that rightfully 
 belongs to you." , 
 
 "That is impossible, dear, and I am afraid, a sort of 
 morbid fancy," Geoffrey replied, with gentle reproof. 
 U I have never had such a thought, nor envied him either 
 his high position in the world, or the immense wealth 
 which I have heard will some time be his." 
 
 Gladys raised herself on tiptoe and softly touched her 
 lips to her lover's cheek. 
 
 "How noble you are !" she whispered, "and I'd rather 
 have my Geoff without a penny !" 
 
 "You will have your 'rather,' then," the young man re 
 turned, laughing, although he fondly returned her caress, 
 "for he hasn't even a penny that is rightfully his own. 
 But," he added, drawing himself up resolutely, " that 
 shall not be said of me long another year, I trust, will 
 find me established in something that need not make m 
 ashamed to take my place among other men."
 
 102 A DISAPPOINTED LOVER. 
 
 "Oh, Geoffrey! who is indulging in morbid fancies 
 iiow?" queried Gladys, chidiugly. 
 
 "I do not mean to do so," he replied, cheerfully, "but I 
 long to begin to do something for myself and for you, my 
 darling. But I must not keep you here people will be 
 wondering what has become of the fair valedictorian. 
 There!" as steps were heard approaching the door, "I'll 
 venture that some one is looking for you now. 
 
 It proved to be even so, and Gladys was in gieat de 
 mand during the next few hours. Indeed, Geoffrey saw 
 but comparatively little of her after that one interview, 
 for he was obliged to leave at an early hour in order to 
 reach New Haven that night. 
 
 There was to be a brilliant reception that evening for 
 the graduating class, and it was quite a disappointment 
 to Gladys that Geoffrey could not be present, but she 
 strove to make the best of it, knowing that they would 
 meet again in a few days ; besides Mr. and Mrs. Huntress 
 were to remain to accompany her when she should leave 
 the next day. 
 
 Everet Mapleson also remained. 
 
 He had hardly been able to get a word with Gladys all 
 day, and when he found that Geoffrey was obliged to 
 leave, he resolved that he would attend the reception arid 
 devote himself to the fair girl whom he was learning 
 every hour to love more devotedly. 
 
 When he presented himself in the evening before her a 
 slight frown contracted her brow, and for a moment she 
 was tempted to pass on and leave him to himself. But he 
 made that impossible by instantly taking his stand by 
 her side, and devoting himself exclusively to her, and 
 thus it was out of her power to avoid him without being 
 positively rude. 
 
 "Well, all this will soon end," she said to herself, with a 
 sigh of resignation, "and for once I may as well surrender 
 myself to the inevitable ; after he leaves college we shall 
 probably not meet again, and I should not like to have 
 it on my conscience that I had been rude even to him." 
 
 She introduced him to several of her classmates, and 
 tried thus to attract his attention from herself and slip 
 away unobserved ; but at her first movement he was at 
 her side. 
 
 During the latter part of the evening he managed to 
 draw her into the circle of promenaders who were pacing 
 up and down the main hall, to the delicious strains of a 
 fine band, where, after a few turns he led her, almost be-
 
 A DISAPPOINTED LOVER. ica 
 
 fore she was aware of his intention, to a balcony at one 
 end, and out of the hearing of the crowd within. 
 
 "Perhaps I am taking a great liberty, Miss Huntress," 
 he began, before she could utter a word of protest, "but I 
 must Did you good-night presently, and I have something 
 very important which I wish to say to you first." 
 
 Gladys shivered at his words, although the night was 
 intensely warm, for instinctively she knew why he had 
 brought her there. 
 
 But she could not help herself now, and she thought 
 perhaps it would be best to have their future relations 
 definitely settled once for all. 
 
 " I am obliged to return to New York on the midnight 
 train," the young man continued, " but I could not go with 
 out first telling you what has long been burning on my 
 lips for utterance. Gladys, I love you, and all my future 
 happiness depends upon my winning you to be my wife. 
 Will you give me your love in return? will you give me 
 yourself?" 
 
 It was a manly, straightforward declaration, and wor 
 thy a better man than Everet Mapleson was at that time. 
 It impressed Gladys as being earnest and genuine, and 
 she was grieved to know that she must wound and disap 
 point him. 
 
 "I cannot tell you how sorry I am, Mr. Mppleson, that 
 you should have said this to me," she returned, in a low, 
 pained tone, "for I cannot respond as you desire ; my an 
 swer must be a decided refusal of your suit." 
 
 "Do not say that !" he burst out in an agonized tone. 
 "Oh, my darling, you nuist not ruin my life with one fa 
 tal blow. Let me wait ever so long, if I may only hope 
 that some day you will be mine." 
 
 "I cannot let you hope," Gladys replied, greatly agi 
 tated, "what I have said must be final. I do not love 
 you I can never become your wife." 
 
 "Perhaps you do not love me now, but you can lenrn to 
 do so ; I will teach you. I will be very patient ; I will not 
 press you. Oh, Gladys, my beautiful, brown-haired dar 
 ling, do not break my lu art ! do rot ruin my life !" 
 
 A quivering sigh burst trom the young girl's pale lips. 
 No one can tell how painful the interview had become to 
 her. for she saw that he was a lover in deadly earnest, 
 and that his affection for her was deep and true. 
 
 She impulsively reached out her hand and laid it upon 
 bis arm. 
 
 "Mr. Mapleson," she pleaded, "pray do not importune
 
 104 A DISAPPOINTED LOVER. 
 
 me further ; for, truly, I can give you no other answer ; 
 my feelings can never change ; I do not love you I can 
 never love you." 
 
 He seized her hand in an eager, trembling grasp, and 
 bent his proud head until his forehead rested upon it. 
 
 "Why do you say that?" he cried, "that you can never 
 love me? You do not know. I will serve for you I will 
 prove my devotion ; oh ! give me time, Gladys, before 
 you discard me utterly, and no slave ever served more 
 faithfully for the coveted gift of freedom, than I will 
 serve, in any way, to win you, my fair love." 
 
 "No, no; please say no more, it is useless," she mur 
 mured, brokenly. 
 
 He raised bin head and looked eagerly into her face. 
 
 "There can be but one reason for such a persistent re 
 fusal, such a decided answer," he said, in a low, concen 
 trated tone ; "you have given the wealth of your love to 
 another !" 
 
 Even by the dim light of the moon which came strug 
 gling in upon them through the network of vines upon 
 the balcony, he could see the vivid color which shot up 
 over her cheek and brow, and dyed even the fair shoul 
 ders, beneath their gauzy covering, at this direct charge. 
 
 He grew pale as death. 
 
 " It is true ! I know it must be true !" he said, in the 
 tones of one who has suddenly been calmed or benumbed 
 by a terrible shock. 
 
 "You never could have resisted an appeal like mine," 
 he weni on, between his tightly shut teeth, "if it were 
 not so. Tell me," he continued, growing excited again, 
 "is it so? have I guessed rightly?" 
 
 There was so much of concentrated passion in his voice, 
 and such an authoritative ring in his tone, that it aroused 
 something of resentment and antagonism in Gladys' 
 heart, in spite of her sympathy for him. 
 
 She turned and faced him, standing straight and tall 
 and calm before him. 
 
 "You have no right to speak in this way to me, Mr. 
 Mapleson," she said, with quift dignity, "and T am under 
 no obligation to explain why I do not favor your suit. 
 The chief reason in nny such case. T think, is that per 
 sons are not congenial to each other." 
 
 "Do you mean to tell me that I am not congenial to 
 you. Miss Huntress?" the young man interrupted, almost 
 fiercely. 
 
 "You have it in your power to be a very pleasant
 
 A LONG AND INTERESTING CONVERSATION. 105 
 
 friend, Mr. Mapleson ; but more than that you could 
 never be to me under any circumstances," Gladys an 
 swered, coldly. Her tone more than her words drove 
 him almost to despair. 
 
 "Tell me, is it because you love another?" he persisted. 
 
 "I could not truthfully give that as the reason." 
 
 "That does not answer me. Do you love some one 
 else ?" 
 
 " Yes," answered the beautiful girl, briefly and proudlv. 
 
 " Are you betrothed ?" 
 
 Gladys lifted her head haughtily. 
 
 "Mr. Mapleson," she said, "I question your right to 
 interrogate me in this authoritative manner, but if a plain 
 answer Avill convince you that there can be no change in 
 my decision, I am willing to acknowledge to you that I 
 am pledged to another." 
 
 "To Geoffrey Huntress?" Everet Mapleson demanded, 
 hoarsely. 
 
 "Yes, to Geoffrey," she repeated, with a tender intona 
 tion of the name that betrayed how dear it was to her." 
 
 At this confession the young man dropped the hand 
 that he had clung to in spite of her efforts to release it, 
 as if it had been a coal of fire, all the evil in his nature 
 aroused by this triumph of his enemy over him. 
 
 "That low-born beggar !" he hissed.- 
 
 "Sir!" 
 
 He shrank for an instant beneath the word ns if she had 
 smitten him. Then his passion swept all before it once 
 more. 
 
 " He has opposed and thwarted me from the first mo 
 ment of our meeting. He offered me an indignity om-e, 
 which I have never forgotten or forgiven ; he has robbed 
 me of my honors at college and now he has robbod me of 
 you ! 7 hate him! and he shall yet feel the force of my 
 hatred in a way to make him wish that he had never 
 crossed my path." 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 A LONG AND INTERESTING CONVERSATION. 
 
 It is impossible to convey any idea of the anger, malice, 
 and venom contained in these fiercely uttered words, and 
 before Gladys could collect herself sufficiently to make 
 any reply before she was even aware of his intention 
 he had sprung past her and disappeared within the hall,
 
 106 A LONG AND INTERESTING CONVERSATION. 
 
 leaving her alone upon the balcony, and ehe saw him no 
 more that night. 
 
 "Mercy ! what a volcanic nature," she murmured, with 
 a sigh of relief over his departure. " I should pra} r to be 
 delivered from a life with such a person, let alone trying 
 to learn to love him No, there can be no relationship 
 between Geoffrey and Everet Mapleson, as I have some 
 times imagined there might be. My Geoff is a noble- 
 hearted gentleman ; he could never forget himself and 
 give the rein to passion as this fiery young man has done 
 to-night. I hope I shall never meet him again." 
 
 She sat down a moment on the low railing of the bal 
 cony to recover herself a little more fully before return 
 ing to the company. 
 
 "I wonder," she mused, "what he meant by Geoffrey 
 thwarting him, and what imaginary indignity for it 
 could have been nothing more than that he offered 
 him ; and how could he have robbed him of his honors at 
 college? I will ask him when we go to New Haven." 
 
 A little later she rejoined her friends, but all enjoy 
 ment had been spoiled for her, and seeking Mr. and Mrs. 
 Huntress, she intimated that she was very weary after 
 the excitement of the day, and they were quite willing to 
 retire with her, knowing well thnt she needed rest. 
 
 The next morning Gladys bade a long farewell to her 
 classmates and teachers, and then, with Mr. and Mrs. 
 Huntress, left for New Haven to attend the commence 
 ment exercises at Yale. 
 
 We cannot linger over these, or even particularize 
 much. Suffice it to say that Geoffrey acquitted himself 
 most nobly, and Mr. Huntress was as proud of him as if 
 he had really been his own son. 
 
 His oration was one that was long remembered by his 
 class with great pleasure, and was highly commended by 
 the faculty. 
 
 Everet Mapleson also shone upon this occasion. He 
 had worked harder during this last year than hn had ever 
 worked before during his college life. A feeling: of an 
 tagonism against Geoffrey, and a desire to win Gladys 1 
 favor, had spurred him on to strive for the post of honor 
 in his class, and the disappointment at his failure was a 
 bitter one. 
 
 It created a good deal of surprise and comment that 
 two young men so nearly resembling each other, and yet 
 in no way related, should stand so high in their class, and 
 be such brilliant scholars.
 
 A LONG AND INTERESTING CONVERSATION. 107 
 
 Mrs. Mapleson, who had come on from the South to be 
 present upon the occasion, was strangely impressed by 
 the circumstance. 
 
 Colonel Mapleson had been called out West on business, 
 and could not return in season to accompany her, so she 
 had been forced to come alone. 
 
 She was a magnificent-looking woman ; tall, with a 
 stately figure, a brilliant brunette complexion, with dark 
 hair and eyes, and beautiful teeth, such as a youthful 
 belle of twenty might envy. 
 
 "It is the strangest thing in the world, Everet," she 
 remarked to her son after the exercises of the day were 
 concluded. "Iriean this wonderful resemblance between 
 you and that young man. If I had not known the Maple- 
 eons all my life, and that our family is the last of the 
 race, I should be tempted to believe that he belonged to 
 us in some way." 
 
 "Pshaw ! mother, that is all nonsense !" her son re 
 plied, a hot flush of resentment rising to his brow. 
 "Don't, for pity's sake, suggest that any of our blood 
 flows in his veins !" 
 
 "Why, Everet? Reappears like a fine fellow hand, 
 some, manly, and he is certainy extremely clever," re 
 turned Mrs. Mnpleson, with some surprise. 
 
 "Granted; though that may sound rather egotistical, 
 since we are considered the counterparts of each other; 
 but for all that he has been a thorn in the flesh and a 
 marplot to me ever since he entered college, and I detest 
 him !" 
 
 "That is not a very good spirit, I'm afraid, Ev.," Mrs. 
 Mapleson said, chidingly. "But who is he? Geoffrey D. 
 Huntress, I believe, was the name on the programme, 
 but where does he belong, and what is his family?" 
 
 "Nobody knows who or what he is; there is a queer 
 story connected with his life. I heard, while I was in 
 New York, that this Mr. Huntress found him several 
 years ago wandering in the streets of the city in a de- 
 mentod condition. He became interested in him, took 
 him to some hospital, and had an operation performed a 
 piece of bone was pressing upon the brain, and was re 
 moved, I believe, and he recovered his senses immedipte- 
 Iv. but appeared more like a child five years old rather 
 than like a boy in bin teens." 
 
 "Row very strange !" exclaimed Mrs. Mapleson, deeply 
 interested ; "but rould he tell nothing about himself after 
 his mind was restored ?"
 
 108 A LONG AND INTERESTING CONVERSATION. 
 
 "No, nothing of any consequence; all that he could re 
 member of his previous life was that he had lived with 
 some people named Margery and Jack, and that his name 
 was Geoffrey Dale " 
 
 "Dale! D.ile!" repeated Mrs. Mapl<snn, with a start. 
 "There used to he a family of Dales Irvine near Vue de 
 1'Eau before I was iraivitd ; at least tl.f re was a widow 
 and her daughter, a girl named Annie. They were poor 
 people; they lived in one of those cottrgf s near the old 
 mill, and after the mother died thepiil suddenly disap 
 peared, and was never heard of again." 
 
 "Mother, what is this you are telling ire?" cried young 
 Mapleson, a strange look fl: siring over his face. "The 
 girl went awav and never came hack?'' 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Where did she go? She must have had some especial 
 place in view when she started." 
 
 "She said she was going to "Richmond to serve as por- 
 erness in some family ; that was the last I ever heard of 
 her." 
 
 Everet Mapleson's eyes glowed. 
 
 "Aha!" he thought; "who knows but what I have at 
 last found a clew to the fellow's birth? 
 
 "Dale, Dale," he, too, repeated thoughtfully, "wasn't 
 that the name of that queer old codger who was to have 
 had Uncle Jahez's fortune, if you and father didn't fulfill 
 the conditions of his will ?" 
 
 ."Yes, Robert Dale. He was a cousin of Uncle' Jabez, 
 and considerably younger than he, and I suppose he 
 would have had all the money, if your father and I had 
 been contrary." 
 
 "It was the most eccentric will I ever heard of," said 
 Everet, rmi singly. 
 
 "It was indeed." 
 
 "What could have prompted him to make it?" 
 
 "Your father was his bi-olher's only son. and the last of 
 the Maplesons. I was a favorite niece, the dciuphter of 
 his sister, and I suppose he did not wish the wealth which 
 it had tnken so many years to accumulate, to be divided, 
 yet he desired to have it benefit his relatives, and so took 
 this way to accomplish it." 
 
 A little sigh escaped Mrs. Mapleson as she con 
 cluded. 
 
 Her son noticed it, and shot a searching glance into her 
 face. 
 
 "Mother," he said, as if some strange thought had sud-
 
 A LONG AND INTERESTING CONVERSATION. 109 
 
 denly come to him, " it has never occurred to me before, 
 but were the conditions of that will obnoxious to you?" 
 
 Mrs. Mapleson colored a vivid red at this unexpected 
 question. 
 
 "You are touching upon rather delicate ground, Everet, 
 and this is hardly the time or place for the discussion of 
 such a matter," she replied, gravely ; "but since you 
 have asked the question, I will tell you the truth 
 about it." 
 
 " You need not tell me anything if the subject is painful 
 to you," interrupted her son, whose love for his mother 
 was the noblest trait in his character. 
 
 "No, the pain is all a thing of the past, if, indeed, 
 there ever was any connected with my marriage with 
 your father. Wnen the conditions of the will we~e first 
 made known to us, neither of us were willing to carry 
 them out, not that we had any especial dislike to each 
 Other; we simply did not seem to be in perfect sympathy, 
 we had no real affection for one another, and on that ac 
 count we both shrank from assuming the intimate rela 
 tions of husband and wifa. William Mapleson was a 
 handsome and noble gentleman, and I admired and 
 liked him in a cousinly way. His own feelings were sim 
 ilar to mine, so you perceive it was not easy to comply 
 with the wishes of your Uncle Jabez. The property, as 
 you perhaps know, was divided equally between us, and 
 Ve werer free to use the income of it as we chose, until I 
 should be twenty -five years of age, provided neither of 113 
 married any one else before that time ; in that case, 
 whichever of us violated the conditions of the will was to 
 forfeit his or her share, and it was to go to the other, Avho 
 was then free to marry, and would have the whole for 
 tune. If both of us remained single after I reached the 
 age of twenty-five, than all was to go to Robert Dale." 
 
 "It was an abominable will!" Everet Mapleson ex 
 claimed, indignantly. 
 
 "Yes, it was, and it made me very antagonistic at first. 
 I was extremely high spirited as a girl, and I resented the 
 presumption of any one choosing my husband for rne," 
 Mrs. Mapleson replied, a flush dyeing her whole face at 
 the memory of her girlish indignation. 
 
 "Of course, any one would. Besides this, Robert Dalo 
 had plenty of money of his own, hadn't he?" 
 
 "Yes, he was worth a great deal. He was a bachelor 
 and a sort of miser and hermit." 
 
 "What if he had died before you were twenty -five?"
 
 110 A LONG AND INTERESTING CONVERSATION. 
 
 "That would have ended all our difficulties the money 
 woufr! have been ours without restrictions." 
 
 "What finally induced you to change your mind ?" Ev- 
 eret asked, searching his mother's handsome face ear 
 nestly. 
 
 She did not reply for a moment, and seemed to be 
 struggling with an inward emotion. 
 
 "I shall have to confess, Everet, that it. was the love of 
 money," she at last said, with a sigh, although a slight 
 smile played over her brilliant lips. ' I had known what 
 poverty was as a girl, and I, hated it. I had struggled 
 during my youthtul years for even the necessaries of life, 
 for, "as you know, my father was poor and an invalid. 
 After I came into the possession of my share of Uncle Ja- 
 bez's money I enjoyed every luxury and w r as enabled to 
 provide all the family with comforts such as they had 
 never known before. Do you think it would have been 
 easy to have gone back to the hardships of my early life ?" 
 
 "I suppose it would not have been easy." 
 
 "Your father was situated somewhat the same. He 
 had been dependent upon Uncle Jabez's bounty ever since 
 the death of his parents, and, although he was as indig 
 nant as I, at first, over this will, and vowed he would not 
 Submit to any such arbitrary conditions, yet. after years 
 of luxurious living, when he began to realize what it 
 would be to be deprived of it, he came to me and asked if 
 I was willing to revoke my early decision, and become his 
 wife." 
 
 "But, mother, was there no one else in all the world 
 whom you would have preferred to marry ? no one 
 whom you had met and loved ? Was there no romance in 
 either of your lives that would conflict with such a pro 
 ceeding?" Everet anxiously asked. 
 
 "No, there wap no one whom I loved better no one 
 whom I would have been as willing, even, to marry." 
 
 "That seems very strange ! How old were you at that 
 time !" 
 
 "Twenty-four it was my last year of grace," replied 
 Mrs. Mapleson, with a little laugh. 
 
 " Have you never met any one since who has made you 
 regret the step ?" 
 
 "No, Everet; and if I had, I had too much respect for 
 myself and for your father to ever have yielded to any 
 such sentiment. More than that, I have become deeply 
 attached to my husband, and oirr life, as you well know, 
 has been a remarkably peaceful and uncheckered one."
 
 A LQbQ AND INTERESTING CONVERSATION. Ill 
 
 "And father " the young man began, and then hesi 
 tated. 
 
 "He told me frankly when he asked me to marry him, 
 that he had no other attachment," interposed Mrs. Maple- 
 son ; "in fact we mutually confessed that, athough we did 
 not possess any rozrantic love for each other, such as 
 lovers usually entertain, we had none for any one else ; 
 that we did admire and esteem each other, and we be 
 lieved that a marriage would, under the circumstances, 
 be best for us both." 
 
 "It is the strangest union I ever heard of, and I believe 
 it was a very dangerous thing to do." 
 
 "Dangerous? Why?" 
 
 u You might have met some one later, whom you would 
 have learned to love, and unhnppiness must have result 
 ed from it to all parties." 
 
 "That was hardly probable, for we had both been much 
 in society and had seen a great deal of the world. At all 
 events we have been a very contented couple. Our early 
 admiration and simple liking have ripened into a deep 
 and lasting affection, and we have been as quietly happy 
 as most married people, I believe." 
 
 The young man regarded his mother curiously. It 
 seemed very strange to him that such a beautiful woman 
 as she was and must have been in her youth, should have 
 missed that sweetest of all experiences youthful loving 
 and being loved. 
 
 She was just the person, he thought, to have inspired 
 the most ardent passion in the heart of some strong, true- 
 minded man ; and just the woaian to have loved such a 
 man most fervently and devotedly. 
 
 He almost wondered that his father had not fallen mad 
 ly in love with her at the very outset, and yet he could 
 understand how the spirit of antagonism had been 
 aroused in them, from the fact of not having been al- 
 lo'.ved to choose for themselves in a matter so vital to 
 their interests and happiness. 
 
 "You say that this cousin, Robert Dale, was an old 
 bachelor?" ho asked, after a few moments of thought. 
 
 "Yes, and he was every bib as eccentric as Uncle Jabez 
 himself." 
 
 "Are you sure that he never married? Somehow, 
 what you have toLi me has created a suspicion in my 
 mind that this Geoffrey Dale Huntress, after all, 
 may bo in some way connected with these Dales ai; 
 home."
 
 112 A LONG AND INTERESTING CONVERSATION. 
 
 Mrs. Mapleson gave vent to a silvery ripple of amuse 
 ment at her son's question. 
 
 "I am very sure that Robert Dale was never married," 
 she said. " He despised all women, even disliked to eat 
 what a woman's hands hud cooked." 
 
 "How old was he when he died?" 
 
 "Forty. I should judge." 
 
 "Do you imagine that he could have had a secret al 
 liance \\itli any one, and that this Geoffrey Dale is a de 
 scendant of his?" 
 
 "No, indeed !" Mrs. Mapleson returned, her face dim 
 pling all over at this suggestion. ".If you could have 
 geen him 3*ou would never ask such a question. No 
 woman would have dared approach him ; 110 woman 
 would have lived with such a creature, or as he lived. 
 He built himself a small stone house in the woods a few 
 miles from Vue de 1'Eau. It was as rude as it could be, 
 and furnished with only what was actually necessary, 
 and there he lived a kind of hermit's life, with an old ne 
 gro servant, who was cook, housemaid, and everything 
 else you ma}' choose to call him." 
 
 "But during his earlier life be may have been different 
 he may have loved some one, and been secretly mar 
 ried, and then disappointed in some way in his hopes, 
 which might have embittered him and made him the 
 woman-hater he was," responded Everet, thoughtfully. 
 
 "No, I do not think that is possible ; and even if it were, 
 this young man could not be a son of his ; he is not old 
 enough ; he belongs to the same generation as yourself." 
 
 "True. T did not think of that. How long did Robert 
 Dale live after you were married ?" 
 
 "Just one month." 
 
 Everet looked up quickly into his mother's face. 
 
 "Before your twenty-fifth birthday?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And were you sorry that you did not wait a little 
 longer? You would have been free from the conditions 
 of that will, and could have kept your money." 
 
 "No, Everet, I have never regretted my marriage," 
 Mrs. Mapleson calmly replied. "I think I have been far 
 happier than I should have been had I remained single." 
 
 "What became of Robert Dale's money?" 
 
 " That has been a mystery to everybody, and one that 
 has remained unsolved to this day. He was known to 
 have given twenty thousand dollars to a blind asylum in 
 Philadelphia several years previous to his death ; but
 
 A LONG AND INTERESTING CONVERSATION. 113 
 
 what became of the remainder of his fortune, which 
 must have been very large, has been a question that has 
 puzzled ull who knew him. I think, however, he must 
 have given away large sums at different times, and it 
 was all distributed before he died, for no papers of any 
 kind and no will were ever found." 
 
 " Was Miss Annie Dale a relative of this eccentric old 
 bachelor?" Everet inquired. 
 
 " Yes ; she was his niece, his own brother's child ; but 
 he never had anything to do with the family. There was 
 some trouble between himself and his brother during 
 their youth, and he never forgot or forgave the grudge. 
 Even after the girl's father died, he refused to have any 
 thing to do with either mother or daughter, although I 
 have heard that they were at times very needy." 
 
 "Did you ever see the girl?" 
 
 "No; my home, as you know, was in Richmond. I 
 was not married, and did not go to Vue de 1'Eau until 
 some three years or more after she disappeared." 
 
 " Do you know the name of the family to whom she 
 went as governess?" 
 
 u No." 
 
 Mrs. Mapleson seemed to grow somewhat weary of the 
 conversation. 
 
 "It is very strange what became of her," her son mur 
 mured, reflectively. "Do you imagine there was any foul 
 play about her disappearance ?" 
 
 "Oh, no, indeed. She probably met some clever young; 
 man who fell in love with her and married her. I do not 
 know much about the matter anyway, only that she waa 
 entirely alone in the world, and I do not know as there 
 was anything so very remarkable about her going off and 
 never coming back again. But, mercy ! Everet, I do not 
 care to sit here all day ani talk about the Dales, oven for 
 the sake of making out your handsome orator to belong 
 to them, which is not at all probable. Come, I want to 
 look about a little." 
 
 Mrs. Mapleson arose as she spoke, thus putting an end 
 to their long talk, and her son dutifully attended her 
 wherever she wished to go; but he become more and 
 more convinced that Annie Dale, who had so mysterious 
 ly disappeared many years ago, and Geoffrey Dale 
 Huntress were in some way connected with each 
 other. 
 
 He knew that there was some Mapleson blood in the 
 Dale veins, although it was a good way back, and he be-
 
 114 EVJSRET MAPLESON RETURNS TO VUE DJS L'SAU. 
 
 lieved that accounted for Geoffrey's singular resemblance 
 to himself. 
 
 "I'll wager that there is some story of shame at the 
 bottom of Annie Dale's disappearance," he thought; 
 "and if I can ferret it out and fasten it upon him, Gladys 
 Huntress will never marry him, I'll look into this mat 
 ter as soon as I go home." 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 EVERET MAPLESON RETURNS TO VUE DE L'EAU. 
 
 Everet Mapleson conducted his mother to Sheffield 
 Hall, thence to the Divinity Collages, the Marquand 
 Chapel and Library, and finally to the Peabody Museum. 
 
 In this latter place they lingered for some time, exam 
 ining various objects of interest, Mrs. Mapleson appear 
 ing to be greatly attracted by the valuable collection of 
 curiosities on exhibition there. 
 
 While they were standing before a cabinet of curious 
 stones, one of Everet's classmates came to him and drew 
 him aside for a moment of private conversation. 
 
 He then turned to his mother and exciised himself, say 
 ing that he was wanted elsewhere upon a matter of class 
 business, but would shortly return to her. 
 
 "Very well," she replied. "I will look about by my 
 self until you come back, and you will find me here." 
 
 She wandered leisurely from case to case, looking over 
 their contents, until suddenly her attention was attracted 
 by a peculiarly pleasant voice, and, glancing up, she saw 
 her pon's "double" standing near her, with a beautiful 
 girl leaning upon his arm. 
 
 She knew that it was Geoffrey Huntress from some tri- 
 flins: difference in his dress, although, even to her keen 
 mother's eye, it was almost impossible to otherwise dis 
 tinguish him from her son. 
 
 But after a passing glance at him, her attention was 
 riveted upon the exquisitely beautiful girl at his side, 
 whose face was all aglow with health and happiness. 
 
 "They are lovers," Mrs. Mapleson said to herself, as she 
 saw how oblivious they were of all save each other. "I 
 wonder who the young girl is? How graceful she is in 
 every movement ! how animated ! and I have rarely seen 
 such a lovely complexion, or such beautiful, expressive 
 eyes 1"
 
 EVERET WAPLESON RETURNS TO VUE DE VEAU. 115 
 
 She stood beside one of the cabinets, partially shielded 
 by it, and watched the young couple all the time they re 
 mained in the room, and \vould gladly have followed 
 them as they passed on to another, so interested did she 
 become in them, if she had not promised that she would 
 remain where she was until Everet returned. 
 
 When at length he did come back to her, his face was 
 pale and lowerng. He had passed Gladys and Geoffrey 
 on his way, and the sight of them together had wrought 
 him up to the highest pitch of passion and suffer 
 ing. 
 
 " What is the matter, Everet ?" his mother asked. " Are 
 you in trouble?" 
 
 "No," he answered, briefly, and then added: "Have 
 you seen enough here?" 
 
 "Yes, I have been ready to go for some time; I have 
 only been waiting for you. I have been quite interested 
 in a young couple who have just gone out your 'double,' 
 as you call him, and a lovely young girl. Perhaps you 
 met fhem." 
 
 "Yes, I passed them as I came in." 
 
 "Who is she?" 
 
 "She is the daughter of the man who adopted him; 
 her name is Gladys Huntress." 
 
 "Gladys? What an appropriate name. She is a veri 
 table sunbeam. Do you know her?" 
 
 "Yes ; I have met her a great many times in New York 
 society," the youne man returned, but with a face so 
 pale and pained that his mother could not fail to notice it. 
 
 "Everet, T believe that you have fallen in love with 
 her, yourself !" she said, in a startled tone. 
 
 "It would not be a very difficult thing for any man to 
 do, would it?" he asked, trying to smile, yet with a ring 
 of pain in his voice. 
 
 "Is the family a good one?" 
 
 "They stand well ; they are received in the best society 
 in New York, and I hive been told that Mr. Huntress is 
 a wealthy man." 
 
 "Well, he has a charming daughter, anyway. I'd like 
 you to win a pretty girl like that for a wife, Everet," said 
 Mrs. Manleson, wistfully. 
 
 "I assure you it would give me a great deal of pleasure 
 to gratify you, ma chere," he responded, his lips curling 
 with a bitter smile, as he thought of how he had tried 
 and failed ; then he abruptly changed the subject. "But; 
 time is flying, and if \ve are to be in New York to-night,
 
 116 EVEEET MAPLESON RETURNS TO VUE DE L'EAU. 
 
 we must bo thinking about trains, while I have some 
 packing to attend to yet." 
 
 Mrs. Mapleson signified her readiness to go, and they 
 passed out of the museum and repaired to Everet's 
 rooms. 
 
 That evening they Avere en route to the great metropo 
 lis, whence they were to go to Newport. 
 
 Mrs. Mapleson had arranged to spend the greater por 
 tion of the season at this fashionable resort, where she 
 expected to meet some friends, who were also coming 
 from the South 
 
 But Everet had other plans for himself. 
 
 He attended his mother to Newport, saw her comforta 
 bly and pleasantly settled there, and then informed her 
 that he was going homo to Virginia. 
 
 She was amazed at this information, and protested in 
 dignantly against his departure. 
 
 "Why, I am a total stranger here, Everet," she said, 
 "and it is too bad of you to desert me in this unceremoni 
 ous fashion.'' 
 
 "But the Ainslies and Worthingtons will he here in a 
 day or two, and then you will have plenty of company," 
 he told her. 
 
 " But I want you for an escort. I do not like to be left 
 alone." 
 
 "Then I'll try and persuade father to con.e on, if he is 
 at home when I reach Vue do 1'Eau," Everet returned, 
 but without relenting in the least from his purpose. 
 
 "But what is your object? It seems inexplicable to 
 me. I supposed, of course, you wre going to remain 
 with me,' 1 his mother said, searching his face curiously, 
 and with some anxiety as well. 
 
 " I have an object, but " 
 
 "But you do not wish to tell me what it is," she inter 
 posed. "Everet, you shall! I suspect it is some love 
 affair." 
 
 He colored crimson, and then was enraged at himself 
 for doing so. 
 
 "Well, and what if it is?" he demanded, somewhat de 
 fiantly. 
 
 " Who is there at home in whom you are so deeply in 
 terested ?" 
 
 "No one; I am going to trace out that Annie Dnle's 
 history, if you must know. I'beliove Geoffrey Bale Hun 
 tress is in some way connected with her, and," he hurst 
 out excitedly, "I am going to know 1"
 
 JSVERET MAPLESON RETURNS TO VUS DB L'EAJT. 111 
 
 "Nonsense! What good will ifc do you? Everet," she 
 added, as a sudden thought came to her, "you are in love 
 with that girl, Gladys Huntress, and you are jealous of 
 him. " 
 
 u Wt 11 ?" 
 
 "You have conceived the idea that Annie Dale disap 
 peared because of some wrong that she had done, and 
 that this Geoffrey Huntress may be her child, and not of 
 honorable birth. You believe, if you can prove ttiis, that 
 Miss Huntress will never marry him, and you will thetf 
 be able to win her." 
 
 Mrs. Mapleson had said this looking: s f raight into hei 
 son's eyes, and seeming to read his soul like an oper 
 book. 
 
 "Mother, your penetration is something remarkable. J 
 could almost believe you to be a mind-reader," he replied 
 half guiltily. 
 
 Then, after a moment of thought, he continued, e* 
 Citfdly : 
 
 "Yes, I may as well confess it I am madly in lovd 
 with Gladys Huntress, and have been for more than 9 
 year. I have vowed that I will win her if it can be ao 
 complished, even though I know that she loves this fel 
 low, who has been nothing but a stumbling-block in my 
 path since the day T first met him. I am going to Rich 
 mond, as you surmise, to trace Annie Dale's history from 
 the time of her disappearance, and I fully believe that 1 
 shall discover that this Geoffrey Dale is her son. If he is 
 a child of shame r I do not believe that Gladys Huntresi 
 will marry him, and T may yet be happy." 
 
 Mrs. Mapleson looked deeply troubled over this confes 
 cion. 
 
 "Everet," she said, gravely, "I am afraid that you ar< 
 building upon a false foundation, and your hopes will 
 come to naught,. If this srirl truly loves that young man. 
 and he is worthy of her, she will marry him, or I am verj 
 mu oh mistaken in my estimate of her character." 
 
 Everet Mapleson's brow darkened. 
 
 "I am going home, anyhow," he said, doggedly. 
 
 "It will be a wild-goose chase, I warn you," returned 
 his mother. 
 
 "I cannot help it. I shall go mad if I sit idly down, 
 and Gladys is lost to me forever," he retorted, with quiv 
 ering lips. 
 
 Mrs. Mapleson seemed very unhappy. 
 
 She loved her son ns she loved no one else in the world,
 
 118 EVERET MAPLESON RETURNS TO VUE DE L'EA CT. 
 
 and she could not bear to think that he had learned to 
 love unwisely, and was risking his future happiness in 
 pursuit of an ignis fatuus. 
 
 She did not believe he would ever win Gladys Hun 
 tress. The young girl's face had haunted her ever since 
 she had seen her witn her lover, in the museum at Yale, 
 and she knew, by the way she had looked up into Geof 
 frey's eyes, that she loved him with her whole soul, and 
 that no dishonor, save that of his own making, would 
 ever alienate her fiom him. 
 
 "Oh, Everet, pray give up this foolish infatuation," she 
 pleaded, laying her hand beseechingly on his arm. 
 
 "Foolish infatuation, indeed I" he retorted, with an 
 angry flush. "What can you know about it you who 
 never knew what it was to love a man as I love this 
 peerless girl ?" 
 
 Mrs. Mapleson crimsoned to her brow, then grew white 
 as the snowy lace about her neck ; her lips quivered pain 
 fully, and hot tears rushed to her eyes. 
 
 "Are you not somewhat harsh in your judgment of me, 
 Everet? Surely, whatever else you may say of me. you 
 cannot accuse me of lacking in affection for my son," she 
 said, sadly and tremulously. 
 
 "Forgive me, mother," he pleaded, conscience-smitten, 
 "but, indeed, it nearly drives me distracted to think 
 that I may not be able to win Gladys ; while he, that 
 beggar without even a name, has won her without an 
 effort." 
 
 "Has won? Then they are engaged ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "What folly, Everet? I would respect myself too much 
 to cry after a girl who was already pledged," said Mrs. 
 Mapleson, scornfully, and with flashing eyes. 
 
 His face flamed angrily. 
 
 "I tell you, you cannot understand !" he cried. "At 
 all events, whether I win or not, I will do my utmost to 
 separate them. I detest him so thoroiiehly, I will never 
 allow him to triumph where I have failed." 
 
 He stole from the room with these words, and that 
 night he left Newport for Vue de 1'Eau, where he arrived 
 three days later, and found his father at home keeping 
 bachelors' hall in fine style, with half a dozen servants to 
 attend him.. 
 
 Colonel Mapleson greeted his son with a heartiness 
 which testified to the deep affection which he bore him, 
 though he expressed some surprise that he should have
 
 EVEliET MAPLESON RETURNS TO VUE DE L'EA U. 119 
 
 returned at that season, when he might have been enjoy 
 ing the cool breezes of Newport, and had his pick of the 
 fashionable belles who thronged the place. 
 
 " I have not been at home for a long time, you know," 
 Everet responded, carelessly, "and somehow had a pecu 
 liar longing to get back to the old place. Mother rebelled 
 at being left, but I promised to send you on to take my 
 place." 
 
 Colonel Mapleson shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 He was not particularly fond of gay society, and was 
 never anxious to dance attendance upon his fashionable 
 wife, although he was proud of her beauty, and the admi 
 ration and attention she received wherever she went. 
 
 "I have not been in Newport for a good many years," 
 he remarked, as he passed his coffee-cup to be filled for 
 the third time; for they were at breakfast. 
 
 "Surely ydu would enjoy the trip then," Everet re 
 plied. "Newport has changed greatly; it has become, 
 literally, an island of palaces. You ought to run up there 
 for a little change during mother's stay." 
 
 "Well. I'll think about it; but you will be lonely if I 
 run off just as you come home." 
 
 "Never mind me ; mother needs and wants you, and I 
 have been in so much excitement of late that I shall be 
 glad to be quiet for awhile," the young man remarked, 
 carelessly. 
 
 This was such a strange desire on the part of one who 
 had been accustomed to frequent all the gay resorts dur 
 ing the summer holida3 r s, while, too, he was looking far 
 from well or happy, that Colonel Mapleson shot a search 
 ing glance into his son's face, and began to suspect thnt 
 he had been disappointed in some affair of the heart, and 
 had come home to conceal it. 
 
 "That is a new freak, isn't it?" he asked, quietly. 
 
 "You can call it so if you like ; but I have been working 
 pretty hard this last year, and am tired. Besides, I have 
 not had a really good chance to fish, hunt, and ride since 
 I entered Yale, and I mean to improve my opportunity 
 now to my heart's content. By the way," he continued, 
 after a slight pause, "isn't there a place called the 'Her< 
 mitage' somewhere in this vicinity, whore a relative of 
 ours, who was a sort of recluse, used to live? In some of 
 my roaminga I may like to visit it." 
 
 "Yes ; Robert Dale, a distant cousin, built it and lived 
 there for years. I suppose your mother has been telling 
 you about him ; she always invested him with a grout
 
 120 EVERET MAPLESON RETURNS TO VUE DE L'EAU. 
 
 deal of romance," his father replied, with a slight smile 
 of amusement. "He was a queer old codger, too, and 
 lived a regular hermit's life for nearly a quarter of a cen 
 tury. The house is still standing, about ten miles from 
 here, in a lonely spot surrounded by a dense growth of 
 pines. He kept one servant Uncle Jake, he was called 
 who was housekeeper and steward all in one cooking, 
 washing, and ironing, taking care of their one horse and 
 cow, and the chickens. He also attended to all the 
 marketing and errands, and his master was rarely 
 seen." 
 
 "How did Mr. Dale occupy his time?" Everet inquired. 
 
 "With reading and writing. He had a choice library, 
 the only luxury of which he was guilty ; and he left piles 
 of manuscripts, some of which were quite valuable, treat 
 ing chiefly upon geology and ornithology. He had al 
 ways been a great student of those subjects. 1 
 
 "What became of his library ana manuscripts?" 
 
 "One of the trustees cf Richmond College claimed that 
 they had been promised to that institution, and although 
 there was no writing of any kind found after his death to 
 verify that claim, the books and papers were all made 
 over to the college." 
 
 "What of his servant, Uncle Jake?" 
 
 "He died only a few mont-hs after his master. He 
 lived on at the Hermitage in the same way, refusing to 
 leave the place, and was found dead in his bed, one day, 
 by some sportsmen, who stopped there to fill their can 
 teens with water. He was buried there in the woods, 
 the house was shut up, and has remained so ever since." 
 
 "This Robert Dale was a relative of vours, wasn't he, 
 father?" 
 
 "Well, yes, I suppose he was, though the relationship 
 is very distant. He was own cousin to my Uncle Jabez, 
 who was my father's half-brother, if you can make thai 
 out." said Colonel Mapleson, laughing. 
 
 "Humph! There was another family of Dales, who 
 lived somewhere in this region, if I remember right, that 
 is, I remember hearing something about them, 5 ' Everet 
 remarked, after another pause. 
 
 Colonel Mapleson bent a look of questioning surprise 
 on his son. 
 
 "It appears to me that you manifest an unusual interest 
 in the Dales this morning," Colonel Mapleson said. 
 "What has aroused it? I did not suppose you were even 
 aware of their existence."
 
 &VERET MAPLESON RETDKN8 TO VUE DE L'EAU. 121 
 
 "Mother related something of their history to me. But 
 you have not answered my question." 
 
 "Yes, there was another family of Dales; at least, 
 there was a widow, and her daughter, who lived in a cot 
 tage not far from Vue de 1'Eau, a good many years ago. 
 They came here in a very destitute condition, after Mr. 
 Henry Dale's death, and supported themselves by teach 
 ing and sewing." 
 
 "And yet this old hermit, Robert Dale, had plenty, and 
 lei them toil for the necessities of life," said Everet, in 
 dignantly. 
 
 "They were his own brother's wife and child, too; 
 but " began Colonel Mapleson, musingly, while he 
 seemed to bo busy with some memory of the past. 
 
 "Well, mother told me they were bitter enemies. 
 What was the cause of it?" asked the young man, 
 eagerly. 
 
 "Robert and Henry Dale both loved the same woman 
 when they were young men. Henry won her, and Robert 
 hated him ever afterward ; that is the secret of his lead 
 ing such a singular life, I suppose," explained his father. 
 
 Everet flushed. 
 
 He was thinking of two other young men who loved the 
 same woman, one of whom hated the other for having 
 won, where he had failed. 
 
 "What became of the two women? 1 ' he asked, wishing 
 to hear his father's version of Annie Dale's disappear 
 ance. 
 
 "Mrs. Dale died many years ago, and the daughter, I 
 believe, went somewhere to be a governess. But, gra 
 cious ! Everet, it is nearly ten o'clock !" suddenly inter 
 jected Colonel Mapleson, looking at his watch in sur 
 prise, "and I promised to meet Major Winterton in town, 
 at a quarter before eleven, to look at his sorrel mare. I 
 am talking of buying her for a saddle horse. I must be 
 off at once. Will you come with me?" 
 
 "Thanks, no. I think I will lounge about home for to 
 day," the young man replied, but feeling somewhat dis 
 appointed at having their conversation so abruptly termi 
 nated. 
 
 Colonel Mapleson bade his son good-morning, and hur 
 ried from the room to order his horse, while Everet sak 
 musing upon what he had learned, and wondering* what 
 his next step would be to ascertain what Annie Dale's 
 fate had been, after going to Richmond to seek her for 
 tune.
 
 122 A2f INTJiiliJSSTIlW D WMLL1SG. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 AN INTERESTING DWELLING. 
 
 Colonel Mapleson received a letter from his wife, a 
 day or two after Everet 's return to Vue de 1'Eau begging 
 him to come to Newport to join herself and friends. 
 
 She wrote that she was an odd one in the party, and 
 although every one was very kind, she feit rather embar 
 rassed to be without an escort, which marred her enjoy 
 ment very much ; if he could not come she should return 
 home. 
 
 Everet urged his father to go, and the colonel, feeling 
 that it would be too bad to have his wife's holiday spoiled, 
 decided that he would gratify her, packed his portman 
 teau, and started off at once. 
 
 Everet accompanied him to the station, and gave a 
 sigh of relief as he watched out of sight the train that 
 bore his father northward, for he felt that he could now 
 pursue the investigations he was contemplating indepen 
 dently, and without fear of criticism. 
 
 With his thoughts full of this purpose, he turned his 
 horse's head again toward home, but on his way he made 
 a detour, taking a road which would lead him around by 
 the old mill. 
 
 He had not traversed this way since he was a boy, and 
 had almost forgotten how the place looked, though he 
 used to row upon the pond and play about the dilapidated 
 wheel, which once had turned the mill, while he had fol 
 lowed the stream that fed it for miles, in search of the 
 pretty speckled trout that lay hidden in their dark 
 haunts beneath the tangled roots of the overhanging 
 trees. 
 
 The day was excessively warm, but the trees with their 
 luxuriant foliage made a perfect arch above his head, arid 
 afforded a delightful shade, through which the sunlight 
 only came in checkered gleams, making quaint shadows 
 on the grass-grown path beneath. Hundreds of birds on 
 every hand made the woods ring with their sweet melo 
 dies ; myriads of flies buzzed lazily about ; tha beetles 
 hummed among the bushes, and gayly painted butterflies 
 fluttered among the many-failed flowers that grew by ths
 
 AN INTERESTING DWLLLlbb. i_3 
 
 wayside. Now and then a squirrel would spring out, 
 chattering from some gnarled and moss-grown trunk, 
 and dart across the path or along the zigzag Virginia 
 fence on either hand, while occasionally a nut-brown par 
 tridge, startled from its covert, darted deeper into the 
 forest, followed by its timid and clamorous mate. 
 
 It was a perfect summer day, and remote from the busy 
 haunts of men, with th6 tender blue of the sky above, 
 and the waves of golden ligi't, that streamed softly on 
 him between the interlacing branches over his head, Ev- 
 eret thoroughly enjoyed his solitrry ride, and the lazy, 
 peaceful life of bird and insect all about him. 
 
 By and by he heard the rushing of the brook that fed 
 the pond farther on, and presently he came to the rhal- 
 low ford where, as a boy, he had often played and sailed 
 his miniature boats. 
 
 He rode his horse into the middle of the stream, where 
 he gave hi K the bridle, and let him drink his fill, while 
 he absently watched the ripples and eddies which he 
 made with every swallow. 
 
 Then he passed on, and coming up on the opposite 
 bank, he saw not far distant the smooth, glassy pond, 
 and the old mill still standing on its margin. 
 
 It was an ancient and dilapidated building, black from 
 age and neglect, but picturesque withal, for it was almost 
 covered with a luxuriant growth of glossy, dark-green 
 woodbine, intermingled with the deadly nightshade, 
 whose bright purple blossoms made spots of rich color 
 here and there among the foliage. 
 
 Passing this, he came to the miller's house, which was 
 also empty and falling to decay, while still farther on he 
 came upon a small cottage fairly embowered in vines, 
 and brilliant with great clusters of the scarlet trumpet- 
 honeysuckle and pin pie wisteria. 
 
 This also appeared to be deserted, and there was no sign 
 of life anywhere about it ; still it was not dilapidated like 
 the other buildings which he had passed, and it looked aa 
 if, from time to time, some careful hand had trained and 
 primed the vines, and kept the place from falling to ruin. 
 It had originally been painted white, with green 
 blinds, and a neat fence surrounded the spacious garden ; 
 but time and the elements had robbed it of its once spot 
 less coat, and but for the vines it would have looked 
 naked and forlorn. 
 
 Everet rode up to the hitching-post, dismounted and 
 tied his horse to it, unfastened the low gate and walked
 
 124 AN INTERESTING DWELLING. 
 
 up the grass-grown path to the broad veranda that ran 
 entirely around the house. 
 
 Every window was curtained, and every curtain was 
 down, and the front door was securely fastened. 
 
 The young man stood irresolute a moment as he ob 
 served this. 
 
 "It cannot be that any one lives here," he muttered ; "I 
 am quite sure that this must be the Dale cottage, and yet 
 it looks as if it were inhabited." 
 
 He walked slowly around the veranda, trying to peer 
 in at the side of the curtains as he passed the windows, 
 but not a glimpse of the interior could he obtain. 
 
 There was another door at the back of the house. 
 
 He tried this also, but it was evidently bolted on the 
 inside, for he could hear the bolt rattle in its socket. 
 
 He shook it gently back and forth a few times, in an 
 impatient way, for he was very anxious to know what 
 was behind all those closely drawn curtains, when, to his 
 surprise, the door suddenly yielded and opened. 
 
 The iron had rattled from its place. 
 
 Stepping within, he found himself in what appeared to 
 be a kitchen, for there was a cooking stove under the 
 mantel; a dresser filled with dishes stood on the east 
 side, and there was a small table, with one or two chairs 
 opposite. 
 
 There was a door on his left. 
 
 Crossing the floor, which was covered with dust, and 
 showed the print of every step, he passed into a small 
 bedroom. 
 
 A faded carpet lay upon the floor. A bed, covered with 
 a canopy of musquito netting, which once had been blue, 
 but was now faded and discolored with age and dust, 
 stood in one corner. 
 
 Pretty lace draperies fell over the window shades, and 
 were looped back with broad satin ribbons, which were 
 also blue. A cherry table and a couple of wicker chairs 
 completed the furnishing of the apartment. 
 
 A second door led into another room from this. This 
 stood open, and, passing through, Everet found himself 
 in what must have been the parlor, for it extended the 
 whole width of the house, and had been both richly and 
 tastefully furnished, although, of course, everything was 
 now faded and covered with dust, and had a look of neg 
 lect that was forlorn and cheerless. 
 
 There were pretty easy-chairs and tempting rockers 
 scattered about ; a luxurious aofa in one corner, and a
 
 AN INTERESTING DWELLING. 125 
 
 handsome table in the center of tlie floor, covered with a 
 richly embroidered cloth, evidently the work of a skillful 
 pnir of hands, and the young man wondered if Annie 
 Dale had wrought the beautiful thing. There was a small 
 piano between the two front windows, a book-case, filled 
 with books by standard authors, in a corner, and at one 
 end there was a lovely writing-desk, containing numer 
 ous drawers and pigeon-holes, and every convenience for 
 writing. A small work-basket, on an elaborate stnnd, 
 stood beside a pretty rocker by one of the low front win 
 dows. It was a dainty affair, lined with crimson satin 
 and garnished with bows of ribbon to match ; and Everet 
 Mapl^son could imagine just how the graceful figure of 
 the fair girl to whom it had belonged, had looked an she 
 sat beside it, intent upon some delicate bit of sewing or 
 embroidery. 
 
 He turned again to the writing-desk, as if he instinct 
 ively felt that this was more likely than anything else to 
 contain soive information regarding the former occupants 
 of the pretty house. 
 
 It was not locked. 
 
 He opened it, laying the cover out flat, and then bogan 
 pulling out the drawers and peering into the various 
 pigeon-holes and compartments. 
 
 They were all empty so far there had not been even a 
 ecra,p of paper to tell who, in davs gone by, had made tise 
 of the convenient and elegant affair and he shut them up 
 again with a sigh of impatience nnd regret, while a feel 
 ing of gloom began to oppress him ; there was something 
 very dreary in this house, so completely furnished, yet? 
 so silent and deserted. 
 
 A sensation of guilt, too, began to intrude uncomfort* 
 ably upon him. It almost, seemed as if the former occu 
 pants of this home, although perhaps long since dead and 
 passod beyond all things earthly, were yet spiritually 
 present at that moment, and were viewing, with a re 
 proachful eye, this wanton invasion of the place that had 
 once been sacred to them. 
 
 He put up the cover, and was pushing in the little 
 side rests that had held it, when a scrap of paper, wedged 
 in hesMe one of thorn, caught his eye. 
 
 Something very like an electric shock ran along his 
 nerves at this discovery. 
 
 He tried to dislodge the paper, but it was very firmly 
 caught, while the raprged edges did not protrude suffi 
 ciently to allow him to grasp it with his fingers.
 
 126 AN INTERESTING D WELLING. 
 
 He drew forth his knife, and, working very carefully, 
 finally succeeded in detaching it from its position. 
 
 Upoji examining it he found it to be a portion of a letter 
 that had probably been caught some time, when the slide 
 was being pushed in, and the other part had been hastily 
 torn away, doubtless by some one trying to remove it 
 from the crevice. 
 
 He smoothed it out with an eager, trembling hand, 
 while his face grew white from the excitement of the mo 
 ment. 
 
 "Can it be possible that I have found a clew at last?" he 
 muttered, in a repressed tone. "I am afraid it will prove 
 but a faint one, but it may be something to begin upon." 
 
 The following is what he read from that torn sheet of 
 paper, Avhich had been torn lengthwise in a very irregular 
 manner : 
 
 AN 
 
 regret that I have 
 your mother. Of cotir 
 you alone, and that the 
 for life only must now cea 
 nnnrovided for. My poor lit 
 nothing to comfort yon, for I kno 
 cold words are at snch a ti 
 heart is with yon. I sorrow with 
 sihle I would come to yon 
 yon in this sad hour. T?nt 
 favor of yon, Annie. We hav 
 life, and surely yon will 
 I want, yon to remain in 
 yonr home for the future 
 past. It is yonrs without 
 
 "Yon mnst not. however, stay there 
 not be safe, and I want you to 
 panion ; some one older tha 
 be a sort of protector to von. 
 expense, Annie, for yon know 
 I have a. right to care for you 
 Inclosed yon will find che 
 yonr present necessities, and 
 will make some perm an 
 for yon. Write me at once 
 anxions until I hear from 
 
 "Ever y 
 
 Such was the fragment which Everet Mapleson found, 
 and he read 't over severa.1 times, his fnoe growing 1 
 whiter, graver, and more thoughtful Avith each perusal. 
 
 "At last!" he cried, striking his clenched hand upon 
 the desk before him. "I have felt it coming, and now I
 
 AN INTERESTING D WELLING. 127 
 
 will follow it up. I will leave no stone unturned until T 
 get to the bottom of the whole matter. How tenderl> 
 affectionate this letter must have been," he continued, 
 with curling lips. " He sorrows with her. and would have 
 come to her 'had it been possible'. He evidently wanted 
 her to remain here after her mother died until he could 
 come. Meantime he ad vises a companion and pi-otector, 
 and does not wish her to 'mind the expense,' because he 
 has a ' right to care' for her, and incloses a check as sub 
 stantial evidence of the fact. 
 
 "Why didn't she stay here, I wonder?" he pursued, 
 musingly. " Why did she go to Richmond to look for a 
 situation as governess, or was that only a blind to cover 
 her flight to deceive him. There is a mystery about it. 
 Can it be possible " 
 
 He sprang to his feet with the sentence unfinished on 
 his lips, and began pacing the floor with a clouded brow, 
 and his mouth drawn into a stern, resolute line. 
 
 "She is dead, though, if she was Geoffrey Dale Hun 
 tress' mother and I'm as certain of that as that I am the 
 heir of Vue de 1'Eau for that woman, Margery, said that 
 be could not realize his loss when she died. But who 
 was his father? why was he named Geoffrey Dale? by 
 whom and why was he abandoned in the streets of New 
 York? There is some dark secret connected with Annie 
 Dale's life and her disappearance from Richmond, and I 
 shall never rest until I know th6 whole story from begin 
 ning to end." 
 
 He continued his pacings and mutterinsrs for a long 
 while, growing more and more excited over the matter. 
 His face wore a dark and troubled look as evf r nnd anon 
 he raised that scran of paper which he still held in his 
 hand and scanned those disjointed lines. 
 
 At last he folded it very carefully and put it safely 
 away in his wallet. 
 
 "It may come handy some day even if the other half is 
 wanting," he said, an evil smile curling his lips. 
 
 Then he set about finishing the exploration of the little 
 cottage. 
 
 There was a little hall leading from one end of the par 
 lor and a flight of stairs conducted to the second story. 
 
 Ascending these Evoret found two comfortably fur 
 nished chambers above, one of which had evidently been 
 usorl for a servant's room. 
 
 Retracing his steps he came to the front door, which he 
 found fastened with a spring lock. He then went back to
 
 138 AN OCTOGENARIAN INTERVIEWED. 
 
 the kitchen, where he securely bolted the door, after 
 which he passed out the front way, the lock springing 
 into place with a sharp snap after him, as if in vigorous 
 protest at his intrusion upon the mysteries which it had 
 guarded for so many years. 
 
 Passing out of the little gate, he fastened it after him, 
 then mounted his horse and rode slowly and thoughtfully 
 back to Vue de 1'Eau. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 AN OCTOGENARIAN INTERVIEWED. 
 
 The following morning, bright and early, Everet Maple- 
 eon was en route to Richmond. 
 
 His object was to visit an old lady who resided there, 
 and who knew all about the Maple-sons for the last three 
 generations, for he believed she would be able to throw 
 some light on Annie Dale's history. 
 
 She resided in a quiet, old-fashioned street, and her 
 family consisted of one servant, her cat, dog, canary and 
 parrot. 
 
 Everet found her in her dining-room, surrounded by 
 her pets, and looking as contented and benignant as if she 
 had been in the midst of as many children. 
 
 "Aha!" she exclaimed, looking at his card as Everet 
 followed the servant into the room, "you must be the son 
 of William Mapleson ; he married Estelle Everet, and I 
 Bee they have combined the two names : quite a good idea, 
 young man, and not a badly sounding title, either. And 
 how is my friend, the colonel, your handsome lady 
 mother, too? at least she was handsome the last time I 
 saw her." 
 
 The young man informed the loquacious old lady that 
 both his parents were well, and were at present enjoying 
 the gayeties of a season at Newport. 
 
 "And they've left you at home to look after the planta 
 tion, eh ? That is rather reversing the order of things, 
 isn't it? Most young people think they must have the 
 good times, while the old people stay at home." 
 
 "No, I have not been left ; it was my own preference to 
 remain," Everet told her. "You know, Miss Southern, I 
 have not been at Vue de 1'Eau very much during the last 
 four years, and so it is quite a relief to be at home for 
 a little while. 71 
 
 "Vue de 1'Eau is a grand place, Mr. Mapleson, and I
 
 AN OCTOGENARIAN INTERVIEWED. 128 
 
 think anybody ought to be happy there," the old lady ob 
 served ; "and I'm sure," she added, with an appreciative 
 glance, "it was very good of you to call upon your father's 
 old friend. I do not see many young people nowadays.'* 
 
 Everet colored slightly at this reference to his visit, 
 and it made it a trifle awkward for him, since he did not 
 like to tell her outright, after that, that a selfish interest 
 alone had brougtit him there. 
 
 He bowed, and murmured something about being par 
 tial to elderly people ; and then, after chatting a while 
 longer upon indifferent topics, he asked her, casually, if 
 she had known the Dales, with whom the Maplesons were 
 distantly connected. 
 
 il Bless your heart ! yes ; I knew them as well as I knevr 
 my own brothers and sisters," replied Miss Southern, her 
 eyes lighting with interest. " I suppose you are more par 
 ticularly interested in Robert Dale, who was to have had 
 the whole of the Mapleson fortune if your father and 
 mother had not married according to the conditions of Ja- 
 bez Mapleson's will." 
 
 "Well, yes. I am interested in him; but he had a 
 brother named Henry, hadn't he?" Everet asked. 
 
 "Yes; Robert and Henry Dale were brothers, and were 
 left orphans when they were about twelve and fourteen 
 years of age. After completing their education, they both 
 started in life with a comfortable fortune, for their father 
 died a rich man. Henry was all business, and went at 
 once to speculating, determined to increase his patrimo 
 ny ; while Robert, who was a great student, settled 
 quietly down to his studies, content with what he had. 
 But, unfortunately, both fell in love with the same girl, 
 Nannie Davenport, and she was about the sweetest girl 
 that I ever knew. She, however, preferred the gay, 
 dashing Henry, and Robert never forgave neither his 
 brother for being his successful rival, nor her for marry 
 ing him. It just ruined his life, for he withdrew f*om nil 
 society, made a recluse of himself, in fact, and finally 
 ended his days in a little stone hut not far from your 
 own house, young gentleman." 
 
 11 Yes, so I have been told," Everet replied, "find I in 
 tend to visit the place some day soon. But what became 
 of the other brother?" 
 
 "Poor Henry was unfortunate in his speculations; he 
 lost every dollar of his money, and though he struggled 
 along for a few years, he finally died, broken-hearted, 
 leaving his wife and child almost destitute."
 
 130 AN OOTOUSNARIAN INTERVIEWED. 
 
 "This child was a daughter, I have heard, and there is 
 some romantic story connected with her, I believe," in- 
 torp>,sed Everet, \vho could hardly restrain his impa 
 tience to learn Annie Dale's history. 
 
 " Yes, yes ; 1 will tell you all about it, only you must 
 let me do it in my own way, if you please," returned Miss 
 Southern, who, like many other garrulous old ladies, did 
 not enjoy being interrupted. 
 
 " Nannie Davenport," she resumed, " was, as I have told 
 you, a very beautiful girl, and her little daughter inherit 
 ed all her mother's loveliness, which was of the golden- 
 haired, rose-and-liiy type, and much of her father's en 
 ergy and love of business. Jabez Mapleson, whose moth 
 er was a sinter of Annie Dale's father, supported them 
 after Henry Dale's death until the girl was fifteen years 
 of age, when she insisted that she and her mother were 
 able to take care of themselves, and they opened a small 
 private school, to which some of the wealthiest families 
 of the section where they lived sent their children. In 
 this way the mother and daughter managed to get a com 
 fortable and independent living. But this proud spirit on 
 their part offended old Jabez Mapleson, who never left 
 them .anything at his death, but made that queer will, 
 which you, of course, know all about." 
 
 "Yes," Everet returned, with a slight smile. 
 "It was the most absurd ana arbitrary affair that lever 
 heard of," Miss Southern asserted, indignantly, "to divide 
 his great fortune between those two young people one 
 the son of a sister, the other a daughter of a brother- 
 giving them a taste of the luxuries and pleasures of life 
 for several years, and then dooming them to poverty 
 again if they refused to marry each other at the end of a 
 given time. It all turned out well enough, though, as it 
 happened, only I always thought it a little queer that 
 your lather and mother fought shy of each other until al 
 most the last moment, when they concluded to comply 
 with the terms of the will. They were wonderfully suited 
 to each other ; there was no question about that ; and they 
 made a handsome, noble couple ; but I've always won 
 dered if there was really any true love between them, o? 
 whether they had become so accustomed to the life of 
 luxury they were living that they could not give it up, 
 and so married to secure the fortune." 
 
 This last, seemed to have been uttered in an absent way, 
 as if the old lady were simply musing upon what had al 
 ways been a mysterious question with her.
 
 AN OCTOGENARIAN INTERVIEWED- 131 
 
 Everet colored resentfully at the implied reflection 
 upon the lovo of his parents for each other ; but he saw 
 that she had spoken thoughtlessly, as if hardly aware of 
 his presence, and, respecting the infirmities of age, ho 
 concealed his feelings, although he hastened to sec her 
 right upon the matter. 
 
 "My mother once told me," he said, a trifle coldly, 
 "that her married life has been a very happy one, and 
 that there was no one else whom she would have pre 
 ferred to marry at the time she was united to my father. 
 There was something rather mysterious about the dis 
 posal of Rob rt Dale's fortune, was there not?" Everet 
 asiced, anxious to change the rather delicate subject, and 
 determined to find out all that he could about the Dale 
 family. 
 
 "You are right," replied the old lady; "and it is a 
 matter that has never been cleared up to this day, and is 
 never likely to be, according to my way of thinking. Pie 
 died very suddenly, and that may perhaps account for it, 
 for I believe the old miser hid his money, and it has been 
 rusting itself away all these years and doing nobody any 
 good. lie gave quite a sum to some charitable associa 
 tion, I've been told ; but that could not have been a tithe 
 of his possessions, for, the way he lived, his income must 
 have accumulated very rapidly." 
 
 Everet Mapleson looked interested at this view of the 
 mystery. He had never thought of such an explanation. 
 
 " I say it is a shame !" the old lady continued, excitedly, 
 "that his brother's widow and child could not have had 
 the benefit of some of his money. Charity begins at home, 
 and he had no business to give oven a blind asylum hia 
 thousands and hide away the rest, while they were toil 
 ing: early and late for the bare necessities of life." 
 
 Everet thought of the richly a,nd daintily furnished 
 rooms that he had visited only the previous day, and 
 came to the conclusion that perhaps Miss Southern did 
 not know just how they had lived. 
 
 "Did they own the cottage where they resided?" ho 
 asked. 
 
 "Bless you, no ! Old Jabez Mapleson owned that; 
 didn't you know it? And it fell to your father, with the 
 rest of the estate, after he died." 
 
 The young man started at this information. 
 
 He had never known just the extent of his father's es 
 tate. 
 
 He had been at the North in different schools during
 
 132 AN OCTOUENAEIAN INTERVIEWED. 
 
 the last eight years, and previous to that he never had 
 felt interested enough in the properly to ask any informa 
 tion about tne boundaries of Vue de 1'Eau. 
 
 Colonel Mapleson, in speaking of the Dales, had said 
 they lived not tar from tnat place ; but now it appeared 
 that his estate included the little vine-clad cottage, the 
 old mill, and other buildings in that vicinity. 
 
 Did the furniture oil tnat little house also belong to him, 
 or had he simply let it remain there after the mysterous 
 disappearance of Annie Dale, thinking, perhaps tnat some 
 time she might return to the home she had so strangely 
 left? Or had the writer of that letter,, a portion of which 
 he had found, had something to do with the rich garnish- 
 ings of that cozy home? 
 
 The mystery seemed to be thickening, rather than be 
 ing explained. 
 
 " I have been at home so little that I have had no op 
 portunity to learn much about the estate," Everet re 
 marked, in reply to Miss -Southern's look of astonish 
 ment. " But do you know how old this girl was when her 
 mother died?" 
 
 "Annie was in her eighteenth year. Poor child! She 
 seemed to be entirely alone in the world then, and came 
 here, to Richmond, to try to earn her living. She made 
 me a call, while looking about for a nituation, and I pitied 
 her from the bottom of my heart," said the old lady, 
 with a sigh. 
 
 " Where did she make her home while searching for a 
 place?" Everct inquired. 
 
 "With her old nurse- -a free colored woman, who was 
 very fond of her. Mauma Gregory was her name. I 
 begged her to come to me, and would have been glad of 
 her company, for her mother and I were great friends 
 during our youth ; but she feared to hurt her nurse's feel 
 ings, while she hoped to obtain a situation in a few days, 
 and thought it best not to change her address." 
 
 " Is that old nurse living now ?" Everet eagerly asked. 
 
 "I am sure I cannot tell. If she is, she must be very 
 aged, and I think it doubtful.'' 
 
 11 Where did she live at that time?" 
 
 Miss Southern told him the street and number, direct 
 ing him, as well as she could, how to find it. 
 
 "I never saw the girl again," she went on, sadly. "Af 
 ter her call I did not hear anything of her, and, feeling 
 interested to know how she had succeeded, I went one 
 day to see Maurua Gregory, and make inquiries about her.
 
 AN OCTOGENARIAN INTERVIEWED. Ic3 
 
 The woman was herself in deep trouble on account of 
 her. She told me that Annie had remained with h?r 
 about two weeks, and during that time she received t\vo 
 applications to go into families as a governess, and about 
 the same tiine Mie also received a leiter that appeared to 
 agitate her considerably. A day or two later, she told 
 Minima Gregory that she was going to a situation out of 
 town she would not tell where, but said she would write 
 about it as soon as she was settled in it. But she never 
 did at least, her nurse had not heard anything from her 
 at the end of another year, and in great grief told me she 
 was sure that Miss Annie must be dead, or she would 
 never have treated her so." 
 
 "It seems vt-ry strange that a young and beautiful girl 
 should drop suddenly out of the world like that, and no 
 one ever learn her fate," Everet remarked, though tiuliy. 
 
 'It does indeed," said Miss Southern, "and yet the 
 had no near friends to interest themselves for her ; there 
 appeared to be no one, sa v e her nurse and myself, who 
 had any special interest in her, and what could two weak 
 women do, with no tangible facts to work upon? I have 
 a theory of my own about the matter, however, though it 
 may be far from the truth." 
 
 u What is it? Tell me, please,'' the young man urged, 
 eagerly. 
 
 The old lady regarded him curiously. 
 
 " You seem strangely interested in a generation of the 
 past," she dryly observed. 
 
 "I am," he acknowledged, frankly. "I have only 
 very recently learned this story about the Dales, and 
 their connection with my ow family. Yesterday, while 
 I was out riding, I came to a small cottage which attracted 
 my attention. I dismounted and went to peer in nt one 
 of the windows, but every curtain was down. I finally 
 forced an entrance by a back door, and found the house 
 furnished just as its occupants had left it many years 
 ago. I was convinced from what I had already heard that 
 it was the Dale cottage." 
 
 "Was it a small white cottage, standing near an old 
 mill, and not far from the pond? "Was there a low orna 
 mental fence around the yard, ai <i a veranda entirely sur 
 rounding the house?" Miss Southern asked. 
 
 "Yes; you havo described it exactly." 
 
 "And is it still furnished ?" 
 
 "1 should judge it remains just as they left it." 
 
 "That is strange, for it is more than twenty years since
 
 134 AN OCTOGENARIAN INTERVIEWED. 
 
 Annie Dale left it to come to Richmond," mused Miss 
 Southern. " Tt was very good of Colonel Mapleson to 
 leave it. so," she added ; "perhaps he disliked to disturb 
 anything, hoping that the wanderer might some time re 
 turn." 
 
 Everet did not say what he thought, but his face wore 
 a troubled look. 
 
 "You were going to tell me what your theory is regard 
 ing Miss Dale's disappearance," he remarked. 
 
 "I think there was a lover in the case," she replied. "I 
 believe she must have made the acquaintance of some 
 young man, who was enamored of her beauty, and who, 
 having won her heart, enticed her to go away with him to 
 some place, promising to marry her, and who then be 
 trayed her confidence." 
 
 "Then you think she was never married?" said the 
 young man, flushing with excitement to find how like her 
 theory his own was. 
 
 "If she had been a lawful wife I think she would have 
 written of the fact to h^r nurse ; for she promised to let 
 Mauma Gregory hear from her when she was settled, and 
 there has never come a word from her." 
 
 "She may have written and the letter miscarried," 
 Everet suggested. 
 
 "In that case she would have written again, for 
 Mauma could write, and if Annie did not get an answer 
 to her letter she would have sought a reason. Besides, 
 what you have told me confirms my suspicion ; if she had 
 been a happy wife, with a home of her own, she surely 
 would have wanted the articles of furniture belonging to 
 her, and which must have beon sacred to her because of 
 their associations. No ; I firmly believe that the poor girl 
 met with some crushing sorrow and lins either died of a 
 broken heart, or is still hiding herself and her misery 
 from all who ever knew hor." 
 
 Miss Southern wiped a tear of regret from her eyes as 
 she concluded. 
 
 Everet Mapleson felt that be could have settled the fate 
 of the unfortunate girl for her by telling what Margery, 
 the flower vender, had told him ; but he did not care to 
 say anything about it then, and believing be had 
 learned all that Miss Southern could tell him, he changed 
 the sob./ecfr, and after a few minutes took bis leave, prom 
 ising to come again to see his father's old friend upon an 
 other visit to Richmond. 
 
 He went immediately to seek Mauma Gregory, bu*
 
 A E EM A EKABLE DISCO VER T. 135 
 
 learned that the faithful old nurse had died nearly two 
 years previous. 
 
 He was deeply disappointed in having his way thus 
 hedged about, for he was puzzled to knew what step to 
 take next. 
 
 He regretted more than ever that he had neglected to 
 question Margery at the time of his encounter v, r ith her 
 in New York. Had he done so, he felt as if he might 
 have now held the key to this perplexing riddle. 
 
 He turned his face homeward, more miserable and 
 troubled over the matter than he would have cared to 
 own. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 A REMARKABLE DISCOVERY 
 
 "I shall hunt up that old hermit's retreat k^day," 
 Everet Mapleson said, as he awoke the next morning. 
 " I want to see for myself just how and where he lived. I 
 begin to find these researches into the past somewhat in 
 teresting, if perplexing. I enjoy real romances, but not 
 unfinished ones. I like to be able to complete a story, 
 and have all the characters definitely disposed of. It be 
 gins to look, though, as if Miss Annie Dale was a lost 
 heroine, and like the celebrated 'Lost Chord,' never 
 likely to be recovered or accounted for. 
 
 "So this queer old character, Robert Dale, was her 
 mother's lover?" he resumed, as he began to dress. "How 
 strangely things get mixed in this world. Why can't 
 people always love the right ones, and escape all this 
 jealousy and disappointment? Nannie Davenport's story 
 is likelv to be repeated in this generation. Oh, Gladys, 
 why couldn't you have loved me instead of that mysteri 
 ous personage who seems to have won your favor? I 
 could have given you an honorable name, wealth, and a 
 proiH position in life, while he has literally nothing to 
 offer you. But," his face assuming a stony expression, 
 "I will not give you up even now ! I will move mountains 
 to nrcomplish my purpose, and you shall yet be Gladys 
 Mapleson !" 
 
 Aft.pr breakfasting, the young man ordered his horse to 
 bo s.nddjprl. and. after inquiring of HIP eroom the way to 
 the "Dale Hermitage," as the rpelnspv ^ornp was called, 
 he mounted and rode away toward the fo.'est, in the depths
 
 185 A REMARKABLE DISCOVERT. 
 
 of which Robert Dale had spent BO many years of his 
 life. 
 
 It was a long ride, though a delightful one, through 
 the spicy pine woods and over the grass-grown cart-path, 
 where only mule teams passed now and then in hauling 
 great logs to market. 
 
 It Avas nearly noon when Everet came in sight of the 
 Hermitage, and he found it not such a rude affair, after 
 all. as he had pictured in his imagination from the de 
 scriptions he had heard of ft. 
 
 He saw that it must have been quite an expensive 
 structure, for it was built mostly of stone, while every 
 bit of the work had been done in the most thorough man 
 ner. 
 
 It made quite a pretty picture, standing there beneath 
 two huge pine trees, and with the glossy ivy climbing 
 thickly all about its rough walls, hanging in graceful fes 
 toons from the overlapping eaves and the mullioned win 
 dows. 
 
 It was composed of but one story, and a couple of* 
 granite steps led up to the one door, which was set in the 
 center of the structure. This was not locked, and enter 
 ing, Everet found himself in a narrow hall, Avhich divided 
 the building through the middle, and was lighted by a 
 window at the other end. 
 
 On each side there were two rooms. 
 
 On the rieht was what appeared to have been the cook 
 ing and eating-room, for a great dresser had been built 
 upon one side ; a wide fire-place, Avith andirons and an 
 old-fashioned crane, Avas opposite th entrance, and a 
 small table, with two chairs, stood in the center of the 
 room. 
 
 Back of this there was a smaller apartment, probably 
 the servants' quarters, and on the opposite side of the 
 hall there Avere two similar rooms. 
 
 In the front one there stood a plain but solid desk, and 
 a large arm-chair before it. Near it was an iron safe, but 
 the door was swung partly open, and EA-eret could see 
 that it was empty, and he thought that it had probably 
 been used as a receptacle for the valuable manuscript of 
 which his father ha,d spoken. A couple of book-cases, 
 reaching from floor to ceiling, had been built into the Avail 
 upon two sides of the room, like the dresser in the kitchen. 
 Back of tbip there was another bedroom, its only furni 
 ture consiph'ng of a single bedstead of iron. 
 
 The walls were all of rough stone, the crevices being
 
 A EEMARKABLE DISCOVERY. 187 
 
 filled in with cement, while all the floors were of red 
 brick, laid in zigzag pattern. 
 
 The furniture was of soli 3 oak, but plain to clumsiness, 
 and everything about the place betrayed how utterly in 
 different to the comforts and elegancies of life the owner 
 had been, and Everet could not help contrasting it with 
 the luxuries that were stored away in that little cottage 
 which he had visited only a few days previous. 
 
 The book-cases alone possessed any claim to elegance. 
 They were also of oak, like the other articles of furniture, 
 but somewhat ornamented, and glazed with heavy plate 
 glass, showing how tenderly the recluse had guarded the 
 books that he had loved so well. 
 
 There was a spacious fire-place at one end of the room, 
 in which there were a pair of rude andirons, and a clumsy 
 pair of tongs, with a shovel, stood beside it. 
 
 The apartment was light and pleasant, for there were 
 four windows in it two on the front, which looked toward 
 the east, and two more on the south. 
 
 It was just the nook for a student and a recluse, and, 
 in snite of its isolation from all the world, there was a 
 aort of charm about the place, even to the gay and 
 eociety-loving Everet Mapleson. 
 
 At the back of the house there was a small wooden 
 structure, now fast fallng to decay, and a yard fenced in, 
 where, evidently, Robert Dale had kept his one horse, 
 cow, and hens, while beyond this there was a patch of 
 cleared ground, which, doubtless, had once been a kitchen 
 garden. 
 
 Everet sat down in the great chair before the desk, 
 after completing his round of investigation, and fell to 
 musing upon what he had seen. 
 
 He triod to imagine what the appearance of Robert 
 Dale had been what his temperament and disposition. 
 
 Bitter and vindictive he must have been, to have so 
 hated his brother that he allowed him to die in poverty, 
 and his family to struggle on for years afterward for a 
 mere pittance, while he had thousands lying idle and 
 useless ; purly and churlish, too, he surmised, to have 
 biddon himself away from all society there in the depths 
 of the forest. 
 
 The place seemed invested with an unearthly mystery, 
 and it was not Rtmnge, taking into consideration the life 
 its owner had livod. nnd th? dpnth he had died, leaving 
 no trace behind him of the vast possessions that had been 
 bis.
 
 138 A' KEMRABlE DISCO VERY. 
 
 "If he did not dispose of his wealth while he lived, and 
 made no will before his death ; if there is money con 
 cealed anywhere and should ever be found, it would be 
 long to Annie Dale's heirs, for she was his nearest kin," 
 Everet Mapleson murmured, as he leaned both arms on 
 the desk before him, and looked thoughtfully out of one 
 of the south windows. 
 
 "If Geoffrey Dale Huntress proves to be her son, as I 
 am more and more inclined to believe, he will be the heir 
 to Robert Dale's missing thousands. This place would 
 be his, anyhow, if the relationship could be proved. I 
 wonder how much land belongs with it ! Zounds ! I wish 
 I knew what has become of the old chap's money ! The 
 more I seek to penetrate this mystery, the more tantaliz 
 ing it becomes ; but I swear that I will never rest until I 
 get to the bottom of it !" 
 
 He struck the desk a terrific blow with his fist, in the 
 heat of his excitement, as he uttered this vow; and the 
 weight and force of it jarred it so that something was 
 displaced, and clattered noisily to the floor. 
 
 The young man leaned forward to see what he had 
 done, and found that a panel, about twelve inches long 
 and six wide, had fallen from one end of the desk, 
 
 "Well, I should think it was about time for this truck 
 to be falling to pieces, solid as it is," he said, as he 
 stooped to pick it up. 
 
 Upon examining it, he found that there were some 
 hinges upon one end, and that time and dampness had 
 caused them to rust until they had fallen apart, while 
 upon the opposite end there was a socket for a spring. 
 
 "Aha! a secret compartment !" he exclaimed, his face 
 lighting with eagerness. 
 
 Bending to inspect the place from which the panel had 
 fallen, he saw that his surmise was correct. 
 
 There was a cavity, about four inches deep, in the end 
 of the desk, just under the molding that ran around the 
 top of it, with the other portions of the hinges attached 
 to the top, and a small spring at the bottom. 
 
 "Ye gods ! there is something in it, too !" he cried, in a 
 startled voice, and his hand actually trembled with ner 
 vous excitement as he drew forth a small black morocco 
 case, and a package of papers, tied with red tape, which 
 lay underneath. 
 
 The case was an old-fashioned miniature case, and 
 doubtless contained a likeness. 
 
 Everet instinctively shrank from opening it for a mo-
 
 A REMARKABLE DISCOVERY. 139 
 
 raent, for he felt as if he were trenching upon some secret 
 almost too sacred to be revealed. 
 
 " There must have been a soft spot somewhere in the 
 old fellow's heart, to have kept a thing like this," he mut 
 tered, turning it over and over in his hands. 
 
 "But, 'to -the victor belong the spoils;'! have made 
 this discovery after everybody else has failed, and so I 
 have a right to know what I have found.'' 
 
 He touched the spring and the case flew open, revealing 
 the likeness of a young girl of exquisite beauty. 
 
 "Nannie Davenport ! I'll wager a ten-dollar note,' 1 he 
 ejaculated, in a breathless tone. 
 
 The face was a pure oval, crowned with a wealth of 
 hair that was twined in a massive coronet about the 
 small, beautifully-shaped head. The eyes, Everet felt 
 sure, must have been a deep, dark blue, and their ex 
 pression was lovely beyond description ; the nose was 
 small and straight, with delicate nostrils, the mouth full 
 and sweet, with a slight smile just curving the tender 
 lips. 
 
 "What a bewitching little fairy she must have been. 
 No wonder Robert Dale buried himself here and ate his 
 heart out with grief arid jealousy at losing her. Poor old 
 man ! I reckon I know something of your feelings, but I 
 Bhall never sit tamely down and bear it. I'll conquer or 
 die in the struggle," he concluded, between his set teeth. 
 The?i he grew deadly pale. i 
 
 "Perhaps he didn't give up either until after she was 
 married," he said, "and then he couldn't help himself. 
 Bah ! Gladys Huntress shall never marry Geoffrey Dale !" 
 He shook himself impatiently, as if these reflections 
 were too painful and disagreeable to dwell upon, closed 
 the miniature with a snap, and turned his attention to the 
 package that he had also found. 
 
 He carefully untied the tape that bound it, removed 
 the wrapper, and several certificates, representing a large 
 amount of bank stock, fell out. 
 
 Examining them closely, Everet found that they were 
 dated several years previous to his own birth, and all 
 were made out in the name of Annie Dale. 
 
 "Good gracious! she was his heiress !" he exclaimed, 
 in amazement. "The old chap had to give in at last. He 
 loved that woman to the death, though he was too proud 
 to show it by helping her while she lived, and so left his 
 money to her child. 
 "Let me see," he went on; "these are dated just about
 
 HO EVtiRET MAKES A NEW ACQUAINT AX VE. 
 
 the time the girl's mother died, I should judge, or a little 
 before ; so it is evident he did not mean sue should have 
 anything until he was gone. How strange ! these papers 
 have lain here all these years and no one the wiser fur it, 
 while, of course, the stock has been accumulating ail tnat 
 time. It is remarkable that tne directors of the banks 
 represented have not taken measures to find the holder 
 of the certificates. Possibly they have, and failed to do 
 so. I wonder father has not been applied to; but, then, 
 Eobert Dale was such a secretive character, he may 
 never have revealed his residence, and it would have 
 been a very easy matter to give orders to let the stocJ 
 accumulate until called for." 
 
 Ho fell to musing again over his wonderful discovery, 
 until all at once he gave a violent start, and a vivid flush 
 mounted to his brow. 
 
 "Blast it !" he muttered, "if my theory is correct all 
 this money belongs to Geoffrey Dale, What in thunder- 
 am I going to do about it, anyway ?" 
 
 JH AFTER XXIII. 
 
 EVERET MAKES A NEW ACQUAINTANCE. 
 
 Evei'et Mapleson spent the next week mostly in hunt 
 ing and fishing, occupj'ing, however, a portion of one day 
 in looking over the Hermitage again, although without 
 the slightest return for his labor in finding anything new. 
 , At the end of that time he began to grow very restless, 
 and a fooling of depression and loneliness took possession 
 of him. 
 
 A few days more of the same kind of life and he de 
 clared he could stand it no longer. 
 
 Still, he could not make up his mind what he really 
 wanted to do, and was miserable and discontented. 
 
 He would have been glad to go to Brooklyn, ascertain 
 where Gladys had gono for the summer, and then follow. 
 
 But he reasoned that Geoffrey would be with her this 
 year, and knowing it would be simply maddening to see 
 them together, he felt it was best that he should keep 
 away. 
 
 But something he must do to kill time and amuse him 
 self ; he had an unaccountable distaste for gay society, 
 and yet longed for some excitement.
 
 r MAKES A mw ACVAnrTAXcx. HI 
 
 "I believe I will take a Western trip," he suddenly said, 
 one -muming. alter liavmg read in his paper an interest 
 ing' account ot a certain route taken by a party of 
 travelers going to California and the Yosemite Valley. 
 
 Acting upon tne impulse of the moment, he packed 
 his portmanteau, dashed off a few lines to his mother in 
 forming her of his project, and was westward bound be 
 fore noon. 
 
 lie readied Chicago the second morning after starting, 
 and took a room at tne Palmer Mouse, to rest for a f aw 
 days while he was deciding what direction he would take 
 from that point. 
 
 The following day, after a good night's sleep and a fine 
 breakfast, he strolled into the smoking-room with a 
 morning paper to idle away an hour or so and read the 
 news. 
 
 There were several people in the room, but he paid no 
 attention to them more than to cast a sweeping glance 
 around ; then, seating himself by a window, he lighted a 
 cigar and was soon buried in the contents of his paper. 
 
 He looked through one half of it, and then laid it aside, 
 taking up the other, when a deep, gruff voice just behind 
 him remarked : 
 
 " I say, stranger, could you spare a part of that there 
 paper? I've read yesterday's Inter-Ocean about through, 
 and would like something a trifle fresher." 
 
 Everet turned to see who was addressing him, and 
 found a man, every hit as rough looking as his voice had 
 sounded, sitting near him. 
 
 He was evidently a niinar or ranger, but had an honest, 
 open face which at once attracted the young Southerner. 
 
 He passed him that portion of his paper which he had 
 read, receiving his brief thanks with a courteous bow, 
 and then resumed his interrupted reading. 
 
 He sat there for perhaps an hour longer, until he grew 
 tired of keeping still, and was contemplating going out 
 for a stroll, when the man addressed him again : 
 
 "I take it you're a stranger in these parts," he re 
 marked, with a keen, comprehensive glance over the 
 young man. 
 
 " Yes, I am from the South," Everet replied, politely. 
 
 "Travelin' for pleasure?" 
 
 "Y-e-s partly!" 
 
 "Any special route laid out?" 
 
 "No; I thought I'd like to eee something of the far 
 West. I think I shall visit the principal cities on my
 
 112 E VERET MAKES A NEW A C Q UAINTANCK 
 
 way, and the chief points, of interest, and perhaps take a 
 look at some of uie mines ; I've always had something of 
 a curiosity regarding mining." 
 
 "Have you now tf" asked tne man with delighted em 
 phasis, his face briglitening with pleasure. " Perhaps I 
 can be ot use to you in that line then, for I've been a 
 miner all my life and know all the ins and outs about as 
 well as any man living. I'll be glad to give you any 
 points ubouc the business." 
 
 "Thank you," Everet returned, looking* interested. 
 "What mines have you been connected with?" 
 
 "I've been in Nevada, Colorado, New Mexico, and Cali 
 fornia," answered the man, with an air of pride. 
 
 "Indeed, you have surely seen a good deal of that kind 
 of life," remarked Everet, smiling. " When were you in 
 NewMfcxico? I know a man who once owned stock in 
 some mines there." 
 
 "I went to New Mexico in 18 ," replied the stranger, 
 in answer to Everet's question, "and did tip-top for ten 
 years, and after that I tried Nevada. What was your 
 friend's name, sir?" 
 
 " Mapleson." 
 
 "Mapleson?" repeated the miner, reflectively. "I don't 
 think I ever heard the name before, leastwise not in the 
 diggings. What mine did he work?" 
 
 "He had some shares in the Moreno mines on the east 
 side of the Rocky Mountains." 
 
 "Wall, 1 wasn't located in the Moreno mines myself. 
 I was rather up among the mountains, though I've been 
 there ; but I never met a man by the name of Mapleson ; 
 though there's nothing strange about that, where so 
 many people own shares. I worked for a man named 
 Dale " 
 
 "Dale !" interrupted Everet, with a sudden shock. 
 
 "Yes, and a fine man he was handsome chap, too; al 
 together too much of a fine gentleman to be roughing it as 
 a miner, I used to think. ' ; 
 
 "Where did he come from?" the young man inquired, 
 trying to repress the eagerness that possessed him. 
 
 "I couldn't tell you. I was in Santa Fe one day look 
 ing for a job and he was looking for a man, to sort of 
 superintend a claim. We took to each other, struck a 
 bargain on the spot, and I went back to his diggings 
 Ttfith him that very night. He couldn't or wouldn't wait 
 till the next day, though I'd been glad to, and afterward 
 I found out the reason he had the trappiest little wife up
 
 ZVERET MAKES A NEW ACQUA1NTAXC& 143 
 
 there that I ever set eyes on a sweet, white-livered little 
 thing, with eyes as blue as the sky and hair as bright as 
 the gold we dug out of the bowels of the earth." 
 
 The miner was waxing eloquent over the reminiscence. 
 
 " "Tisn't often that a man cares to take such a dainty 
 piece of humanity into such a wild, outlandish place as a 
 miner's camp, and goodness knows that it's rare enough 
 for a rough set like us to see a beautiful woman, 
 let alone having her right among us all the time. But 
 there wasn't a soul that wouldn't have risked his life to 
 defend her from any evil or danger, for she always f.iad a 
 kind smile and a gentle word for the worst of us." 
 
 Everet Mapleson sat suddenly erect and looked the 
 astonishment he felt. 
 
 His face had grown as white as his shirt front, while 
 his companion was speaking r and his heart was beating 
 with great heavy throbs that almost suffocated him ; for 
 a wild suspicion had suddenly taken possession of him. 
 
 "You say the man's name vias Dale?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes, William Dale or Captain Dale, as we all 
 called him. You see he was cnly newly married, and 
 had just brought the little won an there, and that was 
 the reason he didn't like to leave her alone over night in 
 that wild region," the miner explained, beginning to 
 notice his listener's strange manner. 
 
 "You are sure that they we:e married that she was 
 really his wife?" eaid Everet, in an excited tone. 
 
 The miner looked the surprise he felt at such a question. 
 
 "Why, yes; at least everybody supposed she was his 
 wife; he said she was; whille they seemed to set the 
 world by each other, and the poor captain giieved like 
 one bereft of his reason when she died." 
 
 "Died?" gasped his listener. 
 
 "Yes, poor little lady ! she was in the camp just one 
 blessed year, then tlie little shaver came, and the mother 
 never got up again." 
 
 "There was a child !-" ejaculated Everet Mapleson, los 
 ing his self-possession mere and n-ore. 
 
 "Strange," said the man, \\ith a curious stare, "you 
 seem wonderfully moved over my story did you ever 
 hear of these people before ?" 
 
 "I'll tell you 'by and by. But go on tell me about 
 this child," Everet eagerly urged. 
 
 "Well, there w;-.s a fine boy," continued the miner, 
 "and he was the pride of the can p ; you see it was a 
 rare thing for a set of rough miners to have a baby
 
 144 JSVEEBT MAKES A NEW ACQUAINTANCE. 
 
 among us, and every man Jack of us took as much inter 
 est in him as if he'd been our very own; but it cast a 
 gloom over the whole lot when it came to be known that 
 the gentle little mother had to go. I never saw a fellow 
 so upset as Dale was over it ; he went about with a face 
 as white as u sheet, and all bowed down like an old man. 
 Not one of us dared to speak to him he looked so awful, 
 and we all kept out of his way as much as we could. It 
 came at last the final blow; the captain's lovely wife 
 pretty Annie Dale was dead, and the only baby in the 
 place was motherless. 
 
 " Annie Dale !" breathed Everet Mapleson, actually 
 growing dizzy as he caught the name. 
 
 "Yes, that was her name," the man answered, with a 
 sigh, "and I shall never forget the day they buried her. 
 They had a parson over from Port Union, a grave-spoken 
 bub pleasant-faced man, and he almost took us right into 
 heaven where that sweet -woman had gone, with the 
 beautiful, solemn words he spoke. The coffin was solid 
 rosewood, and came from Santa Fe, with another great 
 box of sweet smelling flowers. The captain never showed 
 himself that clay ; he just sat alone by the coffin in the 
 front room of his house and never made a sound until the 
 men went in to take it away, when he gave a groan, that 
 I shall never forget as long as I live, and fell on his face 
 to the floor where he was picked up in a dead faint. Poor 
 fellow ! he was worn-out with watching, to say nothing 
 of his grief. I tell you that was a sorry day for the camp, 
 for there wasn't more'n a half-dozen woir>en in the place, 
 and most of them were none of the best ; though after 
 the captain's wife came there they seemed to take more 
 pride in being kind of decent. Well, she was buried Tin 
 der a great cypress tree where she loved to sit on warm 
 days, and the captain had it all fenced off, after a while, 
 and put a white stone tip by the grave with just her first 
 name on it, and the miners rough as they were, never 
 let the flowers wither on that grave as long as I staid 
 there. I don't know how it was afterward, for it's more 
 than twenty years since the poor thing ried." 
 
 The man had to stop and use his handkerchief vigor 
 ously just here, and Everet could see that he was deeply 
 moved over the memory of that sad time. 
 
 "What became of the child?" the young man asked, 
 after a moment. 
 
 "Well, when the Dales first went there to live, they 
 hired a girl to serve Mrs. Dale, for she was delicate, and
 
 EVERET MAKES A NEW ACQUAINTANCE.^ H6 
 
 the captain wouldn't permit her to do any work, and she 
 the girl had the care of the boy after the mother died. 
 But they didn't stay long in the place, only about a 
 month. The captain didn't seem to have any heart for 
 anything ; appeared wretched and half-crazed, and 
 finally, when the girl was married to a man named Jack 
 Henly, who was going to California, to be a farmer, the 
 cottage was shut up, its furniture sold, and they all went 
 away together." 
 
 "What was this girl's name?" Everet demanded. 
 
 "Margery something. I can't remember her other 
 name just now," said the miner. 
 
 Even though Everet Mapleson had been expecting just 
 this reply it gave him a shock when he heard that name 
 pronounced. 
 
 He had, at last, he believed, traced Geoffrey Huntress 1 
 birth ! It was proved that Annie Dale AVP.B his mother. 
 When she left Richmond she had doubtless gone to the 
 man whom she loved, and who had enticed her, with 
 smooth words and fair promises, to go with him to that 
 wild mining region where they had lived together as 
 husband and wife. 
 
 That they were not really so, Everet felt quite sure, 
 else the man would never have taken the girl's name, in 
 stead of giving her his own. 
 
 "What did they name the child?" he asked. 
 
 The miner looked perplexed. 
 
 "I'll be dashed if lean think," he said, after a mo 
 ment's reflection, as he scratched his head. "'Twas a sort 
 of queer, high sounding name Jeff Gof or something 
 after that sort with a tail to it." 
 
 Everet had heard enough to confirm all his sus 
 picions, hut he did not enlighten his companion, as to the 
 rest of the name ; he did not care to seem to know too 
 niurh. 
 
 "Did Captain Dale ever return to his mine after that,* 1 
 he inquired. 
 
 "Not while I was there ; an agent came once or twice, 
 to not for him, and finally bought him out. I've never 
 seer, him since, though I've often wondered what became 
 of the little motherless chap that we were all so fond of." 
 
 Tho young Southerner sat with bowed head and 
 thoucrhtful mien for several moments, then taking a case 
 from his pocket, he opened it, and hold it before the 
 Biiner. 
 
 "Did Annie Dale look anything like this?" he asked.
 
 146 EVERET MAKES A NEW ACQUAINTANCE. 
 
 The man gave his companion a look of questioning sur 
 prise as he took the picture, and turning it toward the 
 light, examined it critically for a moment. 
 
 "It does, and it doesn't," ho said, at last. "It ain't so 
 delicate like as she v/as ; the eyes are a little smaller, and 
 the face fuller and rounder. I should say this might be a 
 sister or some relation, but it ain't the captain's wife. I 
 say, youngster," he added, looking Everet full in the eye ; 
 "it's mighty queer that you should have this picture, and 
 it strikes me thr.t I've been firing arrows at a mark I'd 
 no notion of hitting. Who be you, anyway ?" 
 
 "My name is Mapleson," Everet returned, "and the 
 name of the young lady, whose picture I have shown 
 you, was Miss Dannie Davenport. She married a man by 
 the name of Dale, a distant connection of my father's 
 family. They had one child, a daughter, whom they 
 named Annie. After her parents' death, she suddenly 
 left the place where she had lived, and no ono ever 
 heard anything of her afterward, and her disappearance 
 was a matter of mystery to all who had ever known 
 her.'' 
 
 "You don't say! Well, I am beat!" exclaimed the 
 miner, in astonishment. "Things do come about queer 
 enough sometimes, and I reckon there ain't much doubt 
 that the woman I've been telling you of was the daugh 
 ter of the one in the picture. But you say her own 
 name was Annie Daley he concluded, looking puzzled. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "That's queer, too. Then v ho was Captain Dale?" 
 
 "I do not know; possibly some relative," Everet 
 said, not caring to destroy the man's romance by arous 
 ing his suspicions that there had been a story of shame 
 enacted in that mountain camp. 
 
 Further conversation developed the facts that the 
 stranger was in comfortable circumstances, the owner of 
 two or three mining claims in New Mexico, and was on 
 his way there to try to dispose of them. 
 
 Everet Mapleson manifested a great interest in New 
 Mexico, and intimated his desire to accompany his new 
 acquaintance thither. 
 
 The stranger gladly assented, and said : "I can give 
 you some points about the country, and the mining busi 
 ness, too, that you couldn't find out for yourself." 
 
 "Thank you ; but if we are to be traveling companions, 
 it would perhaps be pleasant^r for both of us if AVC could 
 know each other's name. Mine is Everet Mapleson, and I
 
 EVERET MAKES A STARTLING DISCOVERT. U7 
 
 am from Richmond, Virginia," and the young Southerner 
 smiled as he thus introduced himself. 
 
 "Well, I'm beat ! Here I've been talking to you for 
 more'n an hour and neve* told you who I be !" said the 
 miner, looking blank. "There ain't nothing high-sound 
 ing about my name, but Bob Whittaker is an honest one, 
 and I'm not ashamed of it ; and I'm from most anywhere, 
 just as it happens. I guess now we can hitch bosses and 
 go along without any more ceremony." 
 
 CHAPTER, XXIV. 
 
 EVEBET MAKES A STARTLING DISCOVERY. 
 
 It was settled that Everet Mapleson was to accom 
 pany Bob Whittaker, the miner, to the mines of New 
 Slexico, and two days after the conversation related in 
 the previous chapter found them on their way thither. 
 
 Arriving at their destination, about a week later, they 
 found that what had been a small camp in those early 
 days, when Bob Whittaker had worked for Captain Dale, 
 was now a thriving village, or "city," as the place was 
 designated in that region, and the miner could hardly 
 realize that it was the same place which had once been so 
 familiar to him. 
 
 Everet looked about the town with a great deal of 
 interest, after which he visited the tiny plot where, 
 overshadowed by a venerable cypress tree, all that re 
 mained of beautiful Annie Dale rested. 
 
 There was no sign of any grave there now ; every trace 
 of it had disappeared. There was nothing save a simple 
 head-stone of pure. Italian marble, with the single name 
 "Annift" inscribed upon it, standing in the center of the 
 inolosure, to mark ttir> spot where she had been laid. 
 
 Two or three varieties of ivy had been planted by some 
 loving hand beside the feive which surrounded it, nnd 
 a luxuriant growth now almost concealed it from view, 
 and embowered the little plot of ground in a frame-work 
 of living green. 
 
 Tho small house, where the beautiful cirl had lived 
 during that short, happy year, and where her child wns 
 born where, as Everet Mapleson firmly believed. Geof 
 frey Dnle Huntress was born stood near this spot, and 
 was still empty.
 
 148 EVERET MAKES A STARTLING DISCOVERT. 
 
 No one had ever lived in it ;ince (he poor young 
 mother died, one of the older inhabitants of the village 
 told him. Il was believed that the fan.e genthn an ovned 
 it still, though he had not been seen tlitie lor 3 ears, and 
 would not allow any one else to ccciij y it. It seen ed as 
 if he deemed the place too pacitd to be invaded hy 
 strangers, and so had preferred 1o sacrifice it to desola 
 tion and decay. 
 
 Everet passed through the small yard, now thickly 
 overgrown with vines and bi;.n V,]< s, to the tiny pouh, 
 and looked in through the fide-lights of the front door. 
 
 The doors on each side of the MI all 1 all A\ere all open, 
 and the place was laie and forlorn in the extren-e, aro in 
 strange and gloomy contrast with that luxuiious little 
 nest near the old mill at home, that had been Annie 
 Dale's rormer home.. 
 
 He went around the house, perpirg in at each window; 
 but there was nothing to be peen fave hare floors, ;.nd 
 walls from which the rich payer, that hrd rnce adoii ed 
 them, was falling away, "while every nook and coiner 
 was infested with dust and cobwebs. 
 
 He came hack again, after a tnre. to the front porch, 
 where he sat down upon one of the steps, wondering 
 where he should turn next to pick up the t lire ad \\ 1 ich 
 seemed to have suddenly broken ai d vanished from sight 
 again here. 
 
 He sat there a long time pondering the mystery who 
 was the man who had called hinsdf \Villiam Dale? 
 whither had he gone after leaving that place, and which 
 way should he Everet Mapleson turn now to hunt him 
 down ? 
 
 But he could arrive at no definite conclusion ; thrre 
 wag only one thing that he could think of to do to satisfy 
 himself regarding the truth of a suspicion that, haunted 
 him continually, and that he shrank from with a feeling 
 that was akin to horror; while it might result in nothing 
 save making a fool of himself and becoming an object of 
 ridicule and scorn. 
 
 He arose at last, with a sigh of weariness and discour 
 agement to return to the public bouse where he was 
 staying and to seek his new friei'id. Bob Whittaker. 
 
 But, owing to the cramped posi ion in wich he had been 
 sitting, cne of his feet had "gone to sleep," and he found 
 he could not walk a step. 
 
 He stamped vigorously, and impatiently, too, for the 
 intense prickling sensation witb which circulate began
 
 EVEHET HAKES A KTAHTLING DISCOVERT. 149 
 
 to reassert itself irritated him, when, without the slight 
 est warning, tne step on which he was standing gave 
 way and he was unceremoniously precipitated into the 
 rank grass and among the brambles which grew ail about 
 it. 
 
 He picked himself up, after giving vent to a somewhat 
 unrefined expression of annoyance, rescued his hat, 
 which had lodged in a prickly cactus near-by, and then 
 turned to see how much damage he had done. 
 
 The step was a complete wreck, the top board being 
 split entirely across, while the rotten supports beneath 
 were wholly demolished, and lay in a crumbled heap ou 
 the ground. 
 
 He gave the mass a kick with his foot, scattering it 
 right and left, when suddenly a gleam of light from 
 something among it, flashed into his eye. 
 
 He stooped to see what had caused it, when, to his in 
 tense surprise, he found a small ring, the gold all black 
 ened and tarnished, but with a beautiful diamond, clear 
 and brilliant as a drop of dew in the sunlight, set in its 
 delicate crown. 
 
 " Well, I imagine I have found a treasure now," Everefc 
 exclaimed, eagerly, as he turned it over and over to ex 
 amine it more closely. 
 
 He saw that there was some inscription upon its inner 
 surface, but it was so blackened with age and so filled 
 with dirt that he could not make it out. 
 
 "Aha!" he cried, exultantly, "I'll wager almost any 
 thing that I have at last found the end of the broken 
 thread that will unravel the mystery." 
 
 He sat down again upon the upper step of the porch, 
 deliberately drew a cigar from his pocket, lighted it, and 
 began to smoke. 
 
 Tho first ashes that he datached from it he carefully 
 saved upon a piece of wood, and, using his handkerchief, 
 began to polish the discolored ring with them. 
 
 It was not long before his efforts were rewarded the 
 inner surface of the ring began to take on its original 
 color and the inscription to stand out more plainly. 
 
 "It is evidently an engagement-ring with only some in 
 itials and a date engraven upon it," the young man mur 
 mured, as he held it up to inspect it more closely. 
 
 The next instant he lifted his head with an air of 
 triumph, though his face was as white as a sheet. 
 
 "It is the icey to the whole mystery," he said. "This 
 will take me straight to the heart of the secret."
 
 1JO EVERET MAKES A STARTLING DISCOVERY. 
 
 While Everet Mapleson was following the trail of tha 
 mystery that possessed such a power of fascination over 
 him, August Huntress and his family were luxuriating 
 at {Saratoga. 
 
 Mr. Huntress had obstinately insisted that Geoffrey 
 should have a long holiday alter the clo.se application of 
 the last three years, although the young man himself 
 wouiri have much preferred, and was very eager to begin 
 the real business of his life at once. 
 
 "It is time that I was at work for myself, "he had 
 pleaded, "and if ^ou will only use your influence, Uncle 
 August, to help me into some good position, my con 
 science would be easier." 
 
 "Your conscience needn't trouble you, and I won't 
 hear a word about business for three months to come," re 
 plied iiis friend, decisively. "You've given yourself no 
 rest during all your college course, and now, my boy, 
 I'm determined that we shall all have a jolly good time 
 together to celebrate your own and Gladys' release from 
 school-life." 
 
 So, by the middle of July, they were settled for the 
 summer in pleasant rooms at the Grand Union, and were 
 as happy and united a party as ever visited that resort of 
 gayety and fashion. 
 
 Gladys was very much admired from the first ; her 
 beauty and charming manners winning her legions of 
 friends. 
 
 But none of them were to be compared to Geoffrey, 
 and the lovers managed to be much by themselves, in 
 spite of the fact that " that delightful Miss Huntress was 
 such a favorite with everybody." 
 
 One morning they were leisurely strolling through one 
 of the shady avenues of Congress Park, when they saw a 
 distinguished-looking gentleman advancing toward them. 
 
 He did not appear to notice them, however, until he 
 was almost upon them, when, suddenly looking up, ho 
 gave a violent start of surprise ; then he advanced, with 
 an eager smile and extended hand, exclaiming : 
 
 "Why, Everet Mapleson ! Where on earth did you drop 
 from? I should as soon have thought of seeing the Em 
 peror of Russia as yourself this morning." 
 
 Geoffrey lifted his hat and bowed politely to the speaker, 
 as he replied : 
 
 u You have made a slight mistake, sir ; I am not Evsret 
 Mapleson, although this is not the first time that I have 
 been taken for him."
 
 XVERET MAKEH A STARTLING DISCOVERT. 151 
 
 "Nonsense; don't try to play such a joke on me 
 I've known you too many years for you to palm your 
 self oil us any one else," returned the gentleman, laugh 
 ingly, while ne shot an amused glance at the yount; man's 
 companion, as it' he suspected that she was the cause of 
 his wishing to remain incog. 
 
 "I assure you, sir, I am speaking the truth. I am not 
 Everet Mupleson," Geoffrey reiterated. 
 
 Tiie stranger's face grew suddenly overcast. 
 
 "Then wno in thunder are you? 11 he demanded, in 
 sharp, excited accents. 
 
 "My name is Geoffrey Dale Huntress, at your service, 
 sir,'' Geoffrey responded, courteously, although he had 
 flushed hotly at the curt question. 
 
 "Geoffrey Dale ! Good heavens !" cried the man, shrink 
 ing back as if he had been dealt a violent blow, and grow 
 ing deathly pale. 
 
 Geoffrey himself turned white at this. 
 
 He was ever on the alert to gain some knowedge of his 
 parentage, and this man's strange manner made him think 
 that perhaps he might know something of his early his 
 tory. 
 
 " Yes, sir ; I perceive that the name affects you 
 strangely. Did you ever hear it before?" he asked, 
 earnestly, searching the stranger's face. 
 
 "Ah years ago a friend excuse me I am very much 
 overcome," the man murmured, incoherently, as he stag 
 gered to a rustic bench near by, where, sinking upon it 
 and bowing his head upon his hands, he groaned aloud. 
 
 Geoffrey stood transfixed, his face plainly betraying 
 anxiety, dread, and perplexity, while he was inwardly so 
 excited over this strange meeting that Gladys, as she 
 leaned upon his arm, could feel him trembling in every 
 limb. 
 
 "Will you explain yourself, sir?" Geoffrey said at 
 length, and feeling that the silence and mystery were be 
 coming intolerable. "Do you know aught of me of any 
 person named Dale?" 
 
 The gentleman shivered, as if the question had jarred 
 upon some sensitive chord. 
 
 "Yea," he answered, after a moment of hesitation, 
 while he lifted a haggard face to his questioner ; "years 
 fcgo I had a friend by that name ; but but 
 
 "Will you relate the history of that friend to me?" 
 Geoffrey asked, with white lips, and speaking with an 
 effort.
 
 152 EVEBET MAKES A STARTLING DISCO VERY, 
 
 Something seemed to tell him that he was standing on 
 the very threshold of the revelation which he had longed 
 for so many years. 
 
 Again the stranger shrank as if he had been smitten. 
 
 "Why do you ask me that?" be huskily demanded. 
 
 "Because," Geoffrey returned, with grave earnestness, 
 "there is a mystery connected with my own life bo- 
 cause, when I was a child I was abandoned in the most 
 cruel manner, and but for the goodness of the man who 
 found me an outcast in the streets of New York " 
 
 "New York! How came you there?" interrupted his 
 listener, amazed. 
 
 "That is more than I can tell you, sir. This gentleman 
 found me in a state of imbecility, took me to his home, 
 cared for me until I was restored to my right mind, and 
 then adopted and educated me as hia own son; but for- 
 him I should still have been an imbecile, and more piti 
 able than the lowest paupers that wander about the 
 streets ot that city." 
 
 "What ! what is this that you are telling me? An im 
 becile I I cannot understand," cried the man, looking 
 bewildered. 
 
 "I do not know how I came to be in such a state," 
 Geoffrey continued; "the physicians said it was caused 
 by some injury while I was very young, so my life before 
 that time has remained a mystery to myself and those 
 who have befriended me. If you can throw any light 
 upon it, sir, I entreat you to do so." 
 
 The man quickly arose from his seat at this appeal, 
 but staggei'ed like a person who had been drinking deeply, 
 and seemed like one who had sustained a terrible mental 
 shook. 
 
 "I cannot tell you anything now," he said, putting hia 
 hand to his head. "I shall have to ask you to excuse rie. 
 1 cannot think ; I must have time to recover my 
 self." 
 
 " I do not understand your excessive emotion, sir. I d-i 
 not understand your desire to avoid explaining your verj 
 strange words and manner," Geoffrey interposed, looking 
 both pained and anxious ; "but I am terribly in earnest 
 about this matter, and if you know anything about my 
 family or antecedents, I beg that you will not keep me in. 
 suspense." 
 
 "Some other time I will talk with you again, " mur 
 mured the stranger, turning aside, and striving to keep 
 his eyes averted.
 
 GEOFFREY PICKS UP A THREAD. 1&5 
 
 'When? name any place and hour, and I will come to 
 you," said Geoffrey, eagerly. 
 
 The man thought a moment, then said : 
 
 "Come to me at five o'clock this afternoon, at the 
 'United States,' and inquire for room forty-five." 
 
 He turned abruptly away, and would have passed on, 
 but Geoffrey detained him. 
 
 "What is your name, please?" he asked. 
 
 "That you shall know when we meet again," was the 
 evasive reply. 
 
 "Tell me one thing," pleaded the young man, greatly 
 agitated; "did this friend of yours, have a son bearing 
 the name that I have given you /" 
 
 A groan of pain escaped the man. 
 
 "Come to me at five this afternoon. I am not fit to talk 
 more with you now," was the tremulous reply, and the 
 man moved weakly away, seeming more like a person 
 eighty years of age than like the upright, distinguished- 
 looking individual of fifty, whom the young couple had 
 met a few moments before. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 GEOFFREY PICKS UP A THREAD. 
 
 41 Who can he be? How strangely he acts," Gladys 
 said, as she gazed after the retreating form. "One would 
 almost believe he has some personal connection with 
 your history, he TV as so agitated on learning your name." 
 
 "I am sure that he has, Gladys ; 1 believe that man is 
 my father I" Geoffrey replied, with quivering lips. 
 
 "Oh, Geoff!" 
 
 "I do, dear; and I fear, too, that there is some miser 
 able secret connected with my early life." 
 
 "Do not think that," the beautiful girl pleaded;"! 
 will not believe it without the strongest proof ; and even 
 if it should be so, the fact cannot harm you." 
 
 "Gladys," Geoffrey said, in a stern, repressed tone, 
 while his face was dreadful to look upon in its ghastli- 
 ness, "if there is sin connected with my life if I find 
 that my birthright is one of shame I can never ask you 
 to share it." 
 
 Gladys clasped both hands closely about her lover's 
 arm.
 
 154 GEOFFREY PICKS UP A THREAD. 
 
 "Geoffrey, surely you will not ruin both our lives by 
 any such rash decision ?" she pleaded, lifting her trou 
 bled face to his. " It is you whom I love, not an illus 
 trious pedigree. As far as my future with you is con 
 cerned, I care not who or what your parents may have 
 been. Do not let anything of that nature come between 
 us ; it is false pride, and unworthy of you." 
 
 The young man regarded her with exceeding tender 
 ness, but he was still greatly disturbed by his recent 
 interview with the stranger, and could not readily regain 
 his composure. 
 
 He believed that he was on the verge of an important 
 discovery, and he was at the same time impressed that it 
 would only bring him shame and sorrow. 
 
 "Gladys, would you not shrink from marrying a man 
 whose mother had never been a wife?" he asked, a hot 
 flush mounting to his brow. 
 
 "I could never shrink from you, Geoff ery, and I would 
 not accept the proudest position in the land in exchange 
 for your love. I might deeply regret such a circumstance, 
 on your account ; but, dear, my affection for you is far 
 too strong to be weakened by a mere accident of birth. 
 Let us put all such dismal thoughts away from our 
 minds. I will not believe that dishonor has ever touched 
 you or yours," Gladys concluded, looking up with a fond 
 smile. 
 
 "Dear little comforter," murmured the young man, 
 trying to return it, though it Avas but the ghost of one. 
 
 "Do not go near that man, Geoff," Gladys continued. 
 "Let us be happy as we are, and not trouble ourselves 
 about the past." 
 
 The poor fellow sighed, as if it would be a great relief 
 to let it go, to consign it to oblivion, but the anxious look 
 did not leave his face. 
 
 "I cannot, Gladys," he said, with pale, compressed lips. 
 "I shall never rest until all the dark mystery of my past 
 life is explained. I must keep my appointment with that 
 man this afternoon, and I will not leave him iintil I have 
 wrung from him every scrap of information that he may 
 possess regarding me and mine, and if 
 
 "Geoff, what?" cried the young girl, breathlessly, 
 alarmed by his unusual tone, and tho look upon his face. 
 
 "If I find that that man is my fnther, and that he 
 wronged my mother, he shall have reason to regret both 
 those facts for the remainder of his life," was the stern 
 reply.
 
 GEOFFREY PICKS UP A THREAD. 155 
 
 "Geoffrey, surely you will do nothing to compromise 
 yourself?" Gladys pleaded, anxiously. 
 
 u No, dear, for your sake as well as my own, I will do 
 nothing to make myself disagreeably conspicuous. But 
 he will not forget if I find my suspicions are true. You 
 will say nothing to Uncle August or Aunt Alice regard 
 ing this encounter, please, until after I have seen him." 
 
 "No, certainly not, if you prefer I should not tell 
 them," Gladys readily promised. 
 
 They turned to retrace their way to the hotel, both too 
 much disturbed by the occurrence of the morning and 
 by forebodings regarding the afternoon's appointment, to 
 care to prolong their stroll. 
 
 They parted at the ladies entrance, Gladys going up 
 stairs to her mother's apartments, where she tried to. 
 busy herself with some fancy work until lunch time, 
 although her heart was in a continual flutter of appre 
 hension and miserable suspense. 
 
 Geoffrey shut himself up in his own room, alone, for a 
 season, but was too wretched to remain there inactive, 
 and soon went out again. 
 
 When the family went down to luncheon he was still 
 absent, and his seat vacant. 
 
 This was such nn unprecedented occurrence that Mr. 
 Huntress left the table to ascertain the reason. 
 
 He soon returned with the information that Geoffrey 
 had gone rut, but had left word with the clerk, in case 
 inquiries should be made for him, that he might not be 
 back for several hours. 
 
 Mrs. Huntress glanced at Gladj r s as her husband made 
 this report, but she gave no sign of either surprise or 
 disappointment. She had noticed an unusual reserve and 
 quietness about her, ever since her return from her 
 walk, and a suspicion crossed her mind that perhaps 
 there might be some misunderstanding or lover's quar 
 rel, that had caused this unwonted break in the family 
 party. 
 
 She kept her suspicions to herself, however, resolving; 
 to await further developments. 
 
 It was after PI'X o'clook when Geoffrev returned. 
 Gladys was watching for him, at one end of the veranda, 
 and sprang from the chair to ero to meet him, as he came 
 up the steps and then stopped short as she caught sight 
 of his face. 
 
 It was as colorless as marble, and there was a look in 
 his eye that actually made her tremble.
 
 156 . GEOFF1USY PICKS UP A THREAD. 
 
 He did not speak, or even smile, as lie came tip to her, 
 but quietly drew her hand through his arm, led her within 
 the house, and to a small reception-room, carefully shut- 
 tine: the door behind them. 
 
 Then he turned again and faced her. 
 
 "Gladys," he said, in a hollow, unnatural tone, "it 
 is as I feared " 
 
 "Geoffrey !" she cried, in a shocked voice, all her own 
 bright color fading. 
 
 "The worst is true," he concluded, not heeding her 
 interruption. 
 
 "Have you seen him? did he tell you so?" she asked. 
 
 "No, I have not seen him. :: 
 
 "Then how do you know s*' 
 
 "He has fled." 
 
 "Fled?" 
 
 "Yes. I went to the 'United States' at five this after 
 noon. I called a servant to show me the way to room 
 number forty-five, and was told that the gentleman who 
 had occupied it left at twelve to-day." 
 
 "How very strange!" said Gladys, astonished. 
 
 "No, it is not strange," Geoffrey returned, bitterly; 
 "the man is a miserable coward, and he dare not meet 
 me ; his history is doubtless one of shame and wrong he 
 knew that I would force it from him, and he fears to 
 remain and confess it. But, Gladys, I shall find him yet 
 some day I will compel him to face me and own the 
 truth. I will hunt him down ! he shall not escape me !" 
 
 "Oh, Geoffrey, pray do not let it trouble you so there 
 may have been some other reason for his going," said 
 the young girl, laying her hand sympathetically on his 
 arm. 
 
 "No I tell you he was afraid to meet me, and his guilt 
 is evident in his flight; he never would have run away 
 like this, if there had been no guilty secret in his life 
 which he was anxious to conconl from me." 
 
 "Did you learn his name?" Gladys inquired. 
 
 A deep flush arose to Geoffrey's brow, and he gave a 
 Start of annoyance. 
 
 "No," he said, "I was so wretched and angiythat I 
 never thought to ask his name. When the servant told 
 me he was gone, T turned on my heel and walked out of 
 the house and have been walking ever since, trying to 
 recover my composure." 
 
 "That was an oversight, dear," said his betrothed, gent 
 ly ; "you should have secured his name and address."
 
 GEOFFREY PICKS UP A THREAD. 157 
 
 "You are right ; I will go back immediately and ascer 
 tain it." 
 
 "Oh, Geoffrey, perhaps it will be better for you to 
 leave it all just here," the fair girl urged. "'Where ig 
 norance is bliss' you know the rest." 
 
 " But I know too much already ; I can never rest until 
 I sift tin's matter to the very bottom. Could you, dar 
 ling? If you were not Ucle August's own child, and 
 knew tliere was some mystery connected with your 
 birth, would you be satisfied until you knew the truth?" 
 
 "No, Geoff, I don't believe I should," Gladys replied, 
 thoughtfully, "and I know that such a discovery would 
 make me very unhappy," she concluded, with starting 
 tears. 
 
 Geoffrey stoopod and kissed her fondly, then turned 
 abruptly and left the room. 
 
 The young girl sighed wearily as she slowly followed 
 him. 
 
 "I am afraid there is trouble in store for him, for my 
 heart is heavy with forebodings," she murmured. 
 
 Half an hour later, Geoffrey returned, and there was 
 now a savage glitter in his eyes, although his face was 
 pale and full of pain. 
 
 He found Gladys watching for him as before. 
 
 He went up behind her chair, leaned down, and whis 
 pered in her ear : 
 
 "The man's name is William Dale, and he registered 
 from Fort Union, New Mexico." 
 
 Gladys looked around, a startled expression on her 
 face. 
 
 "William Dale !" she repeated ; "then he must be " 
 
 "My father, and a parent to be proud of, surely," the 
 young man interposed, with exceeding bitterness. "Oh, 
 Gladys!" he continued, in an angonized whisper, "I feel 
 OR if I should go mad I can bear anything better than 
 dishonor." 
 
 Gladys turned and laid her soft cheek for an instant 
 against the hand that was resting on the back of her 
 chm'r. 
 
 The involuntary and sympathetic caress comforted him 
 moro than any words could have, done, for it seemed to 
 say. no matter what lay away bnrk among those early 
 years before she knew birr., nothing could chancre her 
 love for him, and he would always be the same to her. 
 
 "I wish I could knoAv the story of my mother's life,** 
 Geoffrey continued, with a sigh, while a moisture gath-
 
 15S GEOFFREY PICKS UP A THREAD. 
 
 ered in his eyes. "Poor woman ' I am afraid that her 
 fate must have been a sorrowful one. Darling, I believe 
 I shall go to New Mexico ai d see what I can learn about 
 this man who registered from Fort Union." 
 
 "Oh, Geoff/ I fear it will only be chasing a ' will-o'-the- 
 whisp !'" Gladys said, looking distressed. 
 
 " I cannot help it. I must go. I shall be wretched and 
 good for nothing until I learn all there is to know. I am 
 going now to tell Uncle August about it." 
 
 He sought Mr. Huntress, and laid ihe whole matter 
 before him, making known his desire, too, to go to New 
 .VIexico to see if he could gain any further clew. 
 
 Mr. Huntress sympathized heartily vith him, and fav 
 ored the project. He could well understand how restless 
 and miserable Geoffrey would be until he had used every 
 possible means to discover his parentage. 
 
 So he did all that he could to hasten and facilitaie his 
 departure, and even offered to accompany him ; but 
 Geoffrey frankly told him that he preferred to go alone. 
 
 He felt that if he must learn that any stigma rested on 
 his birth, he could not bear to have any one, not even his 
 kind friend, witness the struggle that must come with 
 the knowledge. He could fight it best by himself. 
 
 He left the next day but one, but owing to delays both 
 by rail and coach, he did not reach Fort Union until ten 
 days later. 
 
 He made inquiries here for a man named William Dale, 
 but for several days could gain no intelligence whatever 
 regarding such a person. 
 
 At last he fell in with an old miner, by the merest acci 
 dent, who had known a man by that name many years 
 previous, and who directed him to that mining village 
 already described. 
 
 Thither Geoffrey hastened at once, reaching it one 
 evening just at sundown, and only a week after Everet 
 Mapleson's visit to the same place. 
 
 Here he learned something of Annie Dale's story, for 
 Everet's inquiries and interest in the same person had 
 revived memories regarding that sad romance, and it had 
 become a common theme since. 
 
 Annie Dale's g>ave, and the house where she had lived, 
 were pointed out to Geoffrey, and he went by himself to 
 visit them. 
 
 He came to the dismantled home first, and walked 
 round and round it, as Everet Mapleson had done, peer 
 ing in through the windows, noting the position of the
 
 GEOFFREY PICK'S UP A THREAD. 159 
 
 rooms, and wondering if he should ever know if this had 
 really been the home of his mother, and under what cir 
 cumstances she had lived there ; whether stie had been a 
 loved and honored wife, or whether her early death had 
 been caused by some secret sorrow that had broken her 
 heart. 
 
 He knew there had been another visitor there before 
 him although he had been told nothing regarding the 
 stranger's visit of the week previous for the broken 
 step and the trampled grass gave ample evidence of that 
 fact. 
 
 He wondered if it could have been the man who had so 
 suddenly fled from Saratoga after meeting him, who had, 
 perhaps, been driven there by sorrow and remorse to 
 look once more upon the ruin he had wrought. 
 
 He grew more and more fearful that the story of his 
 birth must be a sorrowful one, for it was evident that no 
 one bearing the name of William Dale had ever resided 
 in Fort Union. 
 
 He would not have been able to trace the man beyond 
 that point at all, but for his accidental meeting with the 
 old miner, who had worked in the mines where he had 
 owned an interest, and thus been able to direct him to 
 this remote village. 
 
 If William Dale had never lived at Fort Union, why 
 had he registered from that place if If he was now living 
 at Fort Union, and his name was not William Dale, why 
 had he used that address again after the lapse of so many 
 years? 
 
 Thore was something very mysterious about the whole 
 matter, and it began to seem like a hopeless puzzle to 
 the young man. 
 
 He finally left the house and bent his steps toward that 
 small inclosure where, in the gathering dusk, he could 
 just see the pure white head-stone gleaming among the 
 vines that grew all around it. 
 
 He entered the place and approached the spot, noting 
 that here, too, there were signs of a recent visitor, and 
 knelt down to read the name that had been inscribed 
 upon the spotless marble. 
 
 "Annie, "he read, and the single name sent a thrill 
 through every fiber of his being. 
 
 Here, too, there seemed evidence that there was some 
 sad tale of wrong and suffering connected with the life of 
 the girl who had been buried there, for had she bean a 
 wife and with nothing to conceal., would not a fond hus-
 
 160 A THRILLING STORY. 
 
 band have wished the name that he had given her also 
 chiseled there? 
 
 "Oh, if I could only know !" Geoffrey groaned within 
 himself, as he bowed his head upon the stone, feeling 
 completely baffled, and as if all trace must end here. 
 "Was this woman my mother? She was something to 
 William Dale, and William Dale is something to me, or 
 he would never have betrayed so much emotion upon 
 meeting me, and then fled from me. Was she his lawful 
 wife? Am I her child, and had I honorable birth? 
 
 "Good heavens!" he added, aloud, "there must be 
 some way to solve these questions. Oh, if the Fates 
 would but guide me to some one who could tell me how 
 to unravel this mystery !" 
 
 "Ahem ! Well, youngster, I shouldn't wonder if I was 
 yer man. What'll ye give to hear a prettier love-story 
 than ever was writ? 1 ' 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 A THRILLING STORY. 
 
 Geoffrey starred to his feet as if electrified, as these 
 unexpected words fell upon his ears, and found himself 
 face to face with a man of perhaps fifty yeaz's, his face 
 seamed and browned by hardships and exposure, rough 
 in appearance, uncouth in dress, and with an anxious, 
 alert air about him, which conveyed the impression that 
 he feared being identified and apprehended for some rea 
 son or other. 
 
 "Who are you?" Geoffrey sternly demanded, for he 
 knew that country was not the safest place in the world, 
 and it flashed upon his mind that the man might be a 
 robber, and had followed him there with some evil in 
 tent. 
 
 "I'm all right. I've no wish to harm ye, sir," was the 
 reassuring response, as the new-comer appeared to read 
 his thought, "and I guess it don't matter much who I be, 
 provided I can tell ye what ye seem to want to know 
 about this here grave." 
 
 u No," replied Geoffrey, his suspicions instantly van 
 ishing. "If you can give me the history of the poor lady 
 who lies here, and tell .me where I can find the man who 
 brought her here, I'll pay you ^ell, and ask no further
 
 A THRILLING STORY. 161 
 
 questions about yourself. But how came you to follow 
 me to thin place ?" 
 
 "I didn't fuller ye. I was sittin' yonder, behind that 
 clump of spruce, when ye hove in sight. I didn't mean 
 to show up at all, but when I saw ye so eager by this 
 here tombstone, I was kind o' curious to know what yer 
 game was, and crept on ye unawares. But, I say, young 
 ster," the man added, suddenly taking a step forward, 
 and peering eagerly into Geoffrey's face, "who are you?" 
 
 The rough fellow had actually grown pale, and his 
 breath came in gasps through his tightly locked teeth. 
 
 "I am an Eastern man," answered Geoffrey, evasively. 
 
 "Is is your name Geoffrey?" the man demanded, in a 
 hoarse whisper. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Ha ! Geoffrey Dale ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 u Great Christopher ! I I thought so. Something 
 about yer sent a chill over me the minute I laid eyes on 
 ye," said the man, trembling and terribly agitated. ""Boy 
 boy," he continued, in a tone of fear, "how on earth 
 came ye and me to turn up together here, of all places in 
 the world ?" 
 
 Geoffrey was amazed at his words. 
 
 Evidently the man knew something about him, and 
 with that knowledge there was connected some incident 
 that caused him personal fear. 
 
 Instantly the young man's mind reverted to the condi 
 tion in which Mr. Huntress had first found him a poor 
 abandoned imbecile. Had this rough creature known of 
 that, or had anything to do with it? 
 
 His next words enlightened him somewhat. 
 
 "You're all right, too, in the upper story, and ye can 
 talk," he muttered. " Where ye been all these years?" 
 
 "'All these years,' How many years?" queried 
 Geoffrey, with a rapidly beating heart. 
 
 "It's eight years ago, last spring, since I set eyes on 
 ye, and little thought I should ever see you again ; never 
 with that look on yer face. Where ye been, I say ?" 
 
 "Eight years ago, last spring," began Geoffrey, 
 gravely, while ha closoly watched every expression on 
 his companion's countenance, " I was one day wander 
 ing, a poor, demented boy, in the streets of Now York 
 city. My strange appearance and actions attracted a 
 mob of urchins, who began to make sport of me. They 
 were in tho midst of their cruelty when a carriage
 
 162 A THRILLING STORY. 
 
 stopped near me, and a beautiful little girl beckoned to 
 me, at the same time opening the door of the carriage. I 
 darted away from my tormentors, sprang in beside her, 
 and the next moment was driven away in safety, much 
 to the rage of the boys. The girl's father took an interest 
 in me, consulted a physician, who made an examination 
 of my case, and reported that my demented state had been 
 caused by a heavy blow on the head several years 
 before." 
 
 Geoffrey saw the man shudder, as he made this state 
 ment, while a low exclamation of pain or fear escaped 
 him, and a dim suspicion began to dawn on his 
 mind. 
 
 il It was found," he resumed, still watching the man, 
 "that my skull had been fractured, and that a portion of 
 the bone was pressing on my brain, which caused tem 
 porary paralysis, and made me an imbecile." 
 
 Another shudder, more violent than the other, strength 
 ened his suspicion. 
 
 "This physician and another, 1 ' he went on, "believed 
 that an operation might be performed which would im 
 prove my condition, if it did not fully restore me to my 
 right mind. Mr. Huntress, the man who had taken me 
 under his protection, authorized the doctors to undertake 
 the operation. They did so it was successful, and I was 
 restored." 
 
 "Heaven be praised !" ejaculated his listener, heartily 
 but tremulously. "I haven't that quite so heavy on my 
 conscience any longer." 
 
 Geoffrey started, and bis face brightened. 
 
 He was gaining light, ittle by little. 
 
 "The first words that 1 uttered on coming to myself," 
 he continued, "were something about a woman named 
 Margery " 
 
 At the sound of that name, the man before him 
 bounded from his feet as if he had been shot. 
 
 "Margery !" he repeated, in an agonized voice, his face 
 twitching, his hands clenching themselves convulsively, 
 while his eyes rolled in every direction, a look of wildest 
 fear in them. "Do you remember Margery !" 
 
 He leaned breathlessly toward the young man, while 
 he awaited his answer with trembling eagerness. 
 
 "I remember only this and it is only a confused re 
 membrance, too," Geoffrey replied, "that some one by 
 that name was kind and good to me that she was called 
 Margery, and I loved he 1 " I have a dim recollection that
 
 A THRILLIXQ STOUT. 163 
 
 something happened to her that she was hurt cr 
 
 struck ' 
 
 On hearing this, the man stretched out his hand with a 
 quick, appealing gesture. 
 
 "Don't don't,'' he pleaded, hoarsely. "Do do you 
 remember anything any one else?" 
 
 "Yes, I recollect that there was a man named Jack" 
 another violent start confirmed Geoffrey's suspicious 
 "who was not always good to me, and whom Ifeaic-d 
 and you are Jack !" 
 
 This was something of a shot at random, but it told 
 instantly . 
 
 The man sank to the ground, trembling and urnerved, 
 his face blanched with fear, while great beads of perspir 
 ation started out upon his forehead. 
 
 "Good Heaven! lam lost ! Havel comeback after 
 all these years, just to get caught like a rat in a. crap?" 
 he cried, brokenly. " But," he went on, crouching lower 
 among the tall grass and weeds, "I never meant jeany 
 harm, Master Geoffrey. It was the drink that did :t; it 
 crazed my brain, and I never really knew I done ye such 
 injury, or that I'd killed the girl I loved, till hours tfter 
 twas all over." 
 
 Geoffrey grew pale now, at this revelation. 
 It was far more than he dreamed of extorting when he 
 had charged the man with his identity. 
 
 He was so excited that it was with difficulty he could 
 compose himself (sufficiently to speak. But after a mo 
 ment or two he said : 
 
 "Well, Jack, since it is you, and we have recognized 
 each other, you may as well make a clean breast of the 
 whole story. Owing to the kindness which I bad re 
 ceived, the injury which you did me has not resulted so 
 seriously as it might have done ; but poor Margery !" 
 
 "Boy boy ye will drive me crazy if ye talk like 
 that," Jack cried, in a voice of horror. "I tell ye, I loved 
 the girl, and I'd never have lifted my hand agin her I'd 
 have cut it off first, though we didn't always agree but 
 for the drink ; and if I could only look into her good face 
 once more, and hear her say, 'Jack, I forgive ye!' I'd 
 be willin' to lay down in the grave beside her, though 
 Heaven knows I've never even seen the spot where she's 
 buried." 
 
 Great sobs choked the man's utterance, while tears 
 rolled over his weather-beaten cheeks and dropped upon 
 the ground.
 
 164 A THRILLING STORY. 
 
 Geoffrey pitied him sincerely, while at the same time a 
 feeling of horror crept ov<>r him as he began to realize 
 that the mmi had been making a confession of murder. 
 
 Had lie killed Margery, and attempted his life also? 
 And was that the secret of his having been abandoned in 
 the great city of Mew York? 
 
 He was burning with eagerness to learn all the truth. 
 "I do not \visli to pain you, Jack," he said, "but 1 want 
 you to tell me all thero is to tell. Begin at the beginning, 
 here in this peaceful spot, where no one will come to dis 
 turb us, and ease your conscience of its burden. 1 ' 
 
 Jack looked up quickly as he referred to that sacred 
 inclosure. 
 
 "How came ye to know where to find yer mother's 
 grave ?" he asked. 
 
 Geoffrey's h^art bounded within him at this question. 
 "Annie" had been his mother, then. It was a great 
 thing to have that point settled, and he Celt sure now that 
 the rest would all be explained. 
 
 "Never mind that just now, Jack," he replied, with 
 what calmness lie could assume; "when you have told 
 me all your story I will answer any question you may 
 ask." 
 
 "Ye'll not give me over to the officers, lad?" the man 
 plended, pitifully. 
 
 "'No, jack, you need have no fear of me; as far as I 
 am concerned, ymi may go free for the rest of your life ; if 
 you have wronged any one else, you will have to settle 
 that with your own conscience. All I nsk of. you is to 
 tell me the iiislory of my early life, and what you know 
 regarding my father and mother." 
 
 ''Thank ye. Master Geoffrey," returned Jack, humbly. 
 "I don't deserve that ye should be so considerate. I've 
 had to skulk and hide for more'n twenty years, and 
 though ther* 1 ain't much in th world that. 1 care to live 
 for, yet a feller don't exactly like the idee of bein' put 
 out, of it afore his time. I'll tell ye all I know about yer- 
 self and your folks, and welcome.'' 
 
 "Come over to yonder lotr and let us sit down," 
 Geoffrey snid. indicating a fallen tree, but he was very 
 white, and felt weak and trembling as he moved toward 
 it. 
 
 At last he believed the mystery of his life was to be 
 revealed . 
 
 "T came here to work in thf mines about a year afore 
 Captain Dale that's your dad bought his claim," Jack
 
 A THRILLING STORY. 165 
 
 began, after they were seated. "He bought out old 
 Waters all of a sudden, and, about a fortnight after, he 
 brought the prettiest little woman I ever set eyes on to 
 
 live in that house yonder " 
 
 "His wife?" eagerly queried Geoffrey. 
 "Of course, lad leastwise he said she was, and she 
 was called Mrs. Dale ; and if ever a man set his life by a 
 woman, the captain was that one. He dressed her like a 
 doll, and wouldn't let her do a thing except make little 
 fancy knicknacks, and was forever pettin' and makin' 
 of her as if she was a child. Wai, they kep' two maids 
 at least after a while one in the kitchen and one to 
 wait on Mrs. Dale, who was kind of ailin'. Margery 
 Brown was the waitin' maid, and she and me had been 
 keepin' company for quite a while, and it was agreed 
 between us that we'd marry afore long and try our luck 
 together in California, for I'd scraped together a snug 
 little sum and was tired of mine's. But after she went 
 to the cap's house she began to put me off she grew so 
 fond of his wife that she wouldn't hear a word about 
 marryin' and leavin' her. At the end of a year ye were 
 born a cute little nine-pounder ye was, too, and a 
 prouder man ye never see than the captain \vas after ye 
 came. But it didn't last long, for j-er mother began to 
 fail afore ye were a month old, and in another week or 
 t\vn she was dead. 
 
 "It just broke the captain's heart. He seemed half 
 crazed, didn't pay any heed to his business, and finally 
 said he couldn't stay here where everything kept his 
 mind stirred up with the past. He told Margery he was 
 goin' to break up, only he didn't know what he should 
 do with you, for he hadn't any place or any folks to take 
 you to. 
 
 "I thought my time to speak up had come then, and I 
 told Margery she must take me then or nevpr, and if the 
 captain were will in' we'd take the baby alone: with ra, 
 until he could do better by it. This pleased her, and she 
 said she'd speak to the master about it. He was clad 
 enough to let ye come with us, for he knew my girl loved 
 ye and would take better care of ye than any stranger. 
 He said he'd pay well for it until ye were old enough to 
 go to school, whon he'd take you to some good one to 
 begin yer edication. 
 
 "Well, Margery and I were married, and went to Cali 
 fornia to live on a small farm I'd leased, just out of 
 Frisco, which I worked part of the time and let out the
 
 166 A THRILLING STORY. 
 
 rest, at odd jobs, to get a little ready money. The 
 shipped all his fine furniture off somewhere to be sold, 
 shut up the house yonder, and left for parts unknown, 
 though for the first two years he came every six months 
 to see how his boy was gettin' on. After that he didn't 
 come so often, though he sent money regular. 
 
 "Ye were the smartest little chap I ever did see. Mar 
 gery couldn't have loved ye any better if ye'd been her 
 own, and she made more on ye than I relished, and 1 got 
 jealous sometimes. We got on finely for three years, then 
 hard times came, the crops didn't turn out good, odd 
 jobs gave out, and I la;y idle for weeks at a time. I 
 wasn't long gettin' into bad company those times, and I 
 came home wild with drink sometimes, and Margery 
 would cry and beg me to mend my ways. But! didn't; 
 and at last she got riled, and threatened to give me the 
 slip, which only made me wicked and sullen. 
 
 "One night I came home worse than ever Heaven for 
 give me ! I'd been at the bottle all day long, and the 
 very OM Bo> had got into me. I staggered into the house 
 ugly enough for anything. Margery had the table all 
 laid, the kettle was steaming in on the stove, and she was 
 settin' with yerself in her arms ye were about five then 
 laughin' and playin' with ye as happy as a cat with one 
 kitten. The sight angerod me somehow; I couldn't get 
 reconciled that we'd no tots of our own, and I gave ye a 
 cuff on the ear with an oeth. 
 
 "Margery sprang up, as mad as a hornet, and shoved 
 ye behind her. 
 
 '"Let the child alone, you sot !' she said. 
 
 '"I'll sot ye !' I yelled, and pushed her roughly into a 
 chair by the stove. 
 
 "This roused all yer bad blood, small as ye were. Ya 
 flew at me, peltin' me with yer little fists that couldn't 
 have hurt a flea. Ye called me 'a bad, wicked man,' 
 ordered me to 'let Marerery alone, or ye'd tell ' 
 
 "Ye never finished that sentence, for every word had 
 put me in a worse rage, and I grabbed a stick of wood 
 from the hearth, flung it at ve, and ye dropped without a 
 word, for it hit ye square in the head. 
 
 "My girl gave a shriek I'll never forget. 
 
 '"Oh, ye drunken wretch !' she cried. 'I'll hate ye all 
 my life if ye've killed my darlinV 
 
 "She gave me a push and sprang toward ye, but she 
 never reached ye, for I grabbed her by the throat 
 frightened at what I'd already done, and the heat of the
 
 JACK'S STORY CONTINUED. 167 
 
 room had made a madman of mo and choked her till 
 she grew purple in the face, and then threw her from 
 me. She stumbled, caught her foot in a rug, and fell. I 
 laughed as she went over. Her head hit on the sharp 
 corner of the stove with a sound I'll never forget till I 
 die, and then she, too, lay still and white on the floor 
 afore me." 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 JACK'S STORY CONTINUED. 
 
 When the man had reached the part of his story re 
 corded in the preceding chapter, he was greatly agitated 
 for several moments, as if the memory of that dreadful 
 time was even now, after the lapse of more than twenty 
 year, more than he could bear, while Geoffrey, too, felt 
 as if he ^ould hardly sit there and listen to the remainder 
 of the fearful tale. 
 
 'The horror of it all sobered me a'most as quick as if 
 I'd been struck by lightning," Jack at length resumed, 
 pulling himself together with an effort. "I don't know 
 how long I stood there, lookin' down on them two that I 
 believed I'd sent out o' world without a moment's warn 
 ing. Then I slunk out o' the house, hardly knowin' what 
 I did, and went and hid myself in the barn. I must have 
 gone to sleep, or fell into a stupor from the liquor I'd 
 drank, for I didn't know anything more till the roosters 
 set up such a crowing that nobody could have slept. I 
 never could tell ye what the horror of that wakin' was, 
 sir, and it's a'most like livin' it over again to tell it," 
 groaned the man, with a shudder. "It was only about 
 two in the mornin', but the moon was shinin', and it 
 was most as light as day. I crept out into the yard and 
 listened ; there wasn't a sound except those roosters, and 
 every crow sounded like a knell o' doom in my ears, and 
 made my flesh creep with fear. 
 
 " T stole up to the house and looked in at the kitchen 
 window. I couldn't help it something drove me to it, 
 thouerh I shivered at every step. There tlu-y Iny, just as 
 they Ml. with the light still burnin', and pvorvt^ing just 
 as I'd left it. Bur, while I stood there the little shaver 
 stirred and moaned, and my heart lenpod straight into 
 my throat, near about chokin' me at the sight. It gave 
 me hope p'raps after all I hadn't murdered 'em, and
 
 168 JACK'S STORY CONTINUED. 
 
 they might be brought to. I rushed in, took the boy up, 
 and laid him on the bed in the bedroom just off the 
 kitchen. He moaned all the time, till I got a wet cloth 
 and put it on his head, when he grew o,uiet and dropped 
 off into a stupor again. Then I went to her my girl 
 Margery the woman I'd sworn to love and take care of 
 till I died, and who had done me nothin' but kindness 
 ever since we first met. 
 
 "I lifted her up. but she hung limp and lifeless over my 
 arm. I laid her head on my breast and begged her to 
 come back to me, to call me her Jack once more, and say 
 she'd forgive me, and I'd never lift my hand ag'in her 
 agMn, nor touch another dron as long as I lived. But 
 'twan't no use. She lay there quiet and peaceful enough, 
 but there was that dreadful purple mark and cut on her 
 forehead where it had hit the stove. She wa'n't cold or 
 stiff as I thought dead people always were, but there 
 wa'n't no sign of life about her either and I laid her 
 down again, my heart a-breakin', and feelin' like another 
 Cain, only worse, for I'd killed a woman, and she my 
 own wife ! 
 
 "Then I began to think what would happen if I was 
 found there, and I grew frightened. I couldn't makeup 
 my mind to stay and confess what I'd done, and hang 
 like a dog for it, so I got together a few things and all the 
 money that Margery had in her own little box, and the 
 boy's safe, and Avrappin' him in a shawl for I daren't 
 leave him while there was a breath o' life in him and a 
 chance of savin' him ! stole out of the house, without 
 even darin' to give my girl a kiss after the ill I'd done 
 her. ard made for a station a mile or more away. 
 
 "I had an awful time of it, for the boy moaned every 
 minute of the time ; but I told people on the cars that 
 he'd had a fall and I was takin' him to a doctor. I trav 
 eled all day in the fastest trains, and got to a town just 
 about dusk. H>re I called a doctor to the boy. He 
 doubted if he could save him ; but he pulled through after 
 five weeks of terrible fever and pain, though when he 
 got up ngain, lookin' more like a spirit than l*ke flpsh 
 Bnd blood, he didn't know me or remember anything that 
 bad happened. The doctor said he was a fool, and always 
 would be one." 
 
 Tt seemed very strange to Geoffrey to be sitting there 
 in his right mind and listening to this dreadful svory 
 about himself. It seemed almost like a case of dual exist 
 ence.
 
 J ICE'S STORY CONTINUED. 169 
 
 * As soon as he was well enough," Jack went on, "I felt 
 that we ought to be gettiii' out of that place ; it was too 
 near home to be safe, and the police were liable to get on 
 my track any day. So I began my roamin'. First we 
 went to Texas, where I got work on a cattle and sheep 
 ranch. After a time I scraped together a little money, 
 and started out to raise sheep for myself. It wa'n't easy 
 t 1 ) be with any one, lest somebody should come along who 
 had heard about what I'd done, and I might get snapped 
 up. The boy and me lived in a cabin by ourselves, away 
 from everybody else, but I never let him out of my sight, 
 and I grew that fond of him I would have died rather 
 than let harm come to him, and I'd vowed I'd do the best 
 1 could by him as long as I lived, and get together some- 
 tiling handsome to leave him, to make up as far as I could 
 for the deadly wrong I'd done him. As soon as I could 
 get enough together, I meant to take him to some place 
 where they care for them that have lost their mind. 
 
 "My eheep turned out wonderful ; in five years money 
 began to come in right fast, and I might have kep' oil 
 an' been a rich man by this time, if it hadn't been that a 
 man I knew came down that way about that time. I saw 
 him first at the village, where I went to lay in a stock of 
 provisions. He didn't see me, but I heard him say he was 
 goin' to buy out a cattle ranch ten miles away, and that 
 was enough to give me a scare and unsettle me. 1 feared 
 I'd be recognized and seized as the murderer of my girl, 
 and though life wa'n't much to me with the heavy con 
 science and the grief I had to carry around with me all 
 the time, j'et, for the boy's sake, I was bound to stick to 
 it as long as I could there was nobody else to take care 
 of him, and I knew he'd fare hard without me. 
 
 "The man who owned the ranch next to mine had 
 offered to buy me out the year before, so I went to him 
 and told him I'd made up my mind to go North and see if 
 the doctors couldn't do something for the boy, and if he'd 
 taka everything off my hands I'd sell out cheap. 
 
 " He took me up quick as a wink, and in less than a 
 week the money was in my pocket and the boy and me 
 were on our way to New York. I bought a email farm 
 just across the river in New Jersey. There was a good 
 house and barn on it, and I stocked it well, hired a good 
 strong woman to do the inside work and a man to help 
 me outside, and then settled down to a quiet life ; for I 
 didn't believe anybody would think of lookin' for me 
 there.
 
 170 JACK'S STORY CONTINUED. 
 
 "1 took the name of '.John Landers,' and tried to mako 
 the boy call himself 'George Landers' ; but he didn't 
 know enough to learn it, and seemed to have forgotten 
 how to talk at all ; so I hadn't much to fear from his let- 
 tin' anything out. We lived here for almost five years 
 more, and I got ahead a little every season. But, sir, the 
 horror of that dreadful deed never left me for a minute. 
 My Margery's dead face was always before me, and my 
 heart heavy with its load of guilt and loneliness. If ever 
 a man paid for an evil deed in torment, I paid for mine a 
 hundred times over. 
 
 " But the worst of my troubles was yet to come. The 
 world's a small place to hide in when a man has commit 
 ted a crime. I went to town one day on business, and 
 stepped into the post-office which was in the same 
 buildin' with the railway station to send a letter for the 
 woman at home, when I heard two men talking in a low 
 tone of voice, and one of them spoke the name of Jack 
 Henly. 
 
 " My blood ran cold in a minute. My back was to 
 them, for I was payin' for the postage on the letter, and 
 they hadn't seemed to notice me. I didn't hurry, fright 
 ened as I felt, but took my own time and listened. 
 
 " It was me they were after, sure enough ; they had 
 tracked me all the way from Texas to that place, but, 
 somehow, couldn't get any farther. Nobody had heard of 
 a man named Jack Henly, and no one answered to their 
 description. It was no wonder, for I \vas greatly changed, 
 looking like an old man, for my grief had whitened my 
 hair, wrinkled my face, and bent my form. I walked 
 straight by them on goin' out of the office, but they never 
 suspected me. I'd got another scare, though, that I 
 couldn't get over, and made up my mind that I'd quit the 
 country So I sold off my stock, drew what money I'd 
 laid by in the bank my farm I couldn't sell at such short 
 notice shut up my huose, and, takin' the boy, went to 
 New York, intendin' to take passage in a vessel goin' to 
 Australia, where I meant to go to sheep raisin' again, 
 since I had done so well in Texas, while I thought I 
 needn't fear any man in that country. I took passage, 
 and bought a comfortable outfit for both of us, but the 
 vessel wan't to sail for a week, so I kep' very quiet in a 
 room I'd hired on a by-street, fearin' those men might 
 still be lookin' me up. 
 
 "But I let the boy play out, for he pined in the house, 
 while I sat by a window to watch that he did not get out
 
 JACK'S STORY CONTINUED. 171 
 
 of sight. Wall, one day I must have fallen asleep, for I 
 woice with a start, ami lookiii' out, couldn't see hide nor 
 hair of the boy. I went to the door, but he wasn't no 
 where in sight. I started out to find him, never thinkin' 
 of danger then. I walked for nours, askin' people about 
 him, but nobody could tell me anything of him. 
 
 "Three days I kep' this up, until I nigh about went 
 crazy, and wore myself out with loss or sleep, travelin' 
 about, and with my grief for the little fellow. 
 
 " On t.he last day before we were to sail, while I was 
 rovin' about the streets in seaich of him, I ran against 
 those two men again the ones who were lookin' for me. 
 I knew by their quick, keen glances at me that they had 
 got a suspicion I might be their man, and I got out of 
 thnir way in a hurry. I was discouraged about fiudin' 
 the boy. I didn't dare to look for him any more. I was 
 afraid to go to the police about nim, lest they had been 
 notified to be on the lookout, and should snap me up ; so, 
 half crazed with tear and grief, I staggered on board the 
 vessel I was to sail in, crawled into my berth, and lay 
 there till we were well out to sea. 
 
 "Wall, sir, my heart was broke. I thought I never 
 could hold up my head again, and I wouldn't have turned 
 over my hand to have saved myself from goin' to the 
 bottom ; for I got to lovin' that poor little chap with my 
 whole soul, and I didn't know how to get on without him. 
 
 "But we had a good passage. I was hale and hearty 
 when we landed, and seemed likely to live my lonely life 
 for many a year. I went into the interior, bought a sheep 
 ranch, and set myself to do the work of three men; 
 nothin' else would ease the pain and worry that was 
 oatin' my heart out. 
 
 "Well, sir, to make a long story short, I've been on 
 that sheep ranch ever since, until about six months ago, 
 when a longin' seized me to come home and take a last 
 look at my own land. I've grown to be a well-to-do 
 farmer ; I've plenty of money, and no one to spend it on 
 or leave it to, unless I give it to you, Master Geoffrey, 
 now that I have found you. Heaven be praised for that, 
 and that you've got your mind back ! I've been to New 
 Jersey, found my place there neglected and all out of 
 repair, but still a thrifty little farm if 'twas well taken 
 care of. I've been to Texas for a look at my old ranch 
 there. The man that bought it got rich, sold out, and 
 then went North to live on his money. Then I came on 
 here to see the place where I first found my Margery,
 
 172 JACK'S STOKY CONTINUED. 
 
 and it was nigh this very spot just there by that clump 
 of spruce, wnere I was hid when you came that we 
 plighted our troth. Ah ! my gill ! my girl !" 
 
 The poor man broke down completely here, and sobbed 
 like a child, and Geoffrey's eyes were full of tears, loo, 
 as he witnessed his emotion and realized what he must 
 have suffered during the checkered life that he had 
 led. 
 
 He had been deeply touched by the faithfulness and de 
 votion which he had exhibited in his care of him during 
 all those years while he was such a helpless burden, 
 mentally, on his hands. 
 
 He saw that the man was naturally honorable and kind- 
 hearted, and that he would never have been guilty of the 
 crime which he had just confessed, but for the misfor 
 tunes that led him into evil company and to the use of 
 intoxicating drinks. 
 
 "I'm a broken-down old man, sir," Jack said, after 
 struggling hard for self-control, "or I never should blub 
 ber like this; but this place brings back those old days 
 when my conscience was free when life was bright and 
 full of hope before me and my girl, and it seems more'n 
 I can bear. It's wonderful, though, that I should run 
 across ye here! Oh, sir, I did ye a woeful wrong, in my 
 anger and jealous fit, Avhen ye were a child. I've no 
 right to expect it, but 'twould comfort my poor old heart 
 more'n I could tell ye, if I could hear ye say ye don't lay- 
 it up ag'in me." 
 
 Geoffrey turned frankly toward the humble suppliant 
 beside him. 
 
 "I do not, Jack," he said, heartily ; "you were the vic 
 tim of drink, and were hardly accountable for the deeds 
 of that night ; you condemn yourself more than you 
 really deserve, for if you have told me everything just as 
 it occurred, your wife did not die by your hand her 
 death was caused by an accident." 
 
 The man shook his head sadly. 
 
 "No, no," he said; "I can't get it off my conscience 
 that it was murder : for if I hadn't laid hands on her she 
 might have been living to-day." 
 
 "Still it was not willful or premeditated," Geoffrey per 
 sisted. "However," he added, "I freely forgive you for 
 your share in my misfortune, if that will be any comfort 
 to you." 
 
 "Thank ye, sir; thank ye; and if there is a, God, I 
 thank Him, too, that I've been allowed to set eyes on ye
 
 JACK'S STORY CONTINUED. 173 
 
 once more, and in yer right mind, too," was the fervent 
 response. 
 
 "I reckon," he continued, after a moment of thought, 
 "it might be called tlie work of Providence that I lost ye 
 there in Mew York, for if ye'd gone with me to Australia, 
 I doubt that ye'd ever been curtd, and I'm right sure ye'd 
 never been the gentleman that 3 e are. I'd thank ye to 
 tell me about the good man that befriended ye.'' 
 
 "I will, Jack, piesently, but I first want to ask you a 
 few more questions about the past." 
 
 "All riglu, sir: anything I can tell ye, ye shall know. 
 "Well, then, I'd like you to detciibe the man vho was 
 my father," Geoflrey said, giavtly. 
 
 Jack turned to look \\} on the jci;rg n an beside him. 
 "The best description ye could get of him'd be to go 
 and look at yers-elf in the glass, 1 ' he said, studying 
 Geoffrey's face and form, u h r ye're ae nigh like bin> afi 
 another man could be, -when 1 first taw him after he 
 brought that pretty little won an to live here. He'd been 
 off to meet her somewhere, and he'd shaved off all his 
 heavy beard, had his hair trin.med up in the fashion, and 
 wore a dandy suit o 1 clothes." 
 
 "His name was Dale, you say? Are you sure that was 
 his true name?" the youi g man asked. 
 
 "I couldn't take my oath as to that, sir, but everybody 
 bore knew him as Captain William Dale, though 1 don't 
 know how he came to be a captain. She used to call him 
 'Will,' in a way that made his eyes shine enough to do ye 
 good." 
 
 Geoffrey's ej'es lighted at this. 
 
 It was evident that Captain Dale had truly loved the 
 girl whom hH had brought there, whether she had been 
 his legal wife or not. 
 
 "Do you know what her name was before be married 
 ber?" he asked. 
 
 "No, sir ; that is one of the things I can't tell ye ; even 
 Margery never found out that. They was both very shy 
 of talkin' about themselves afore folks, anc nobody ever 
 knew where they came from, either." 
 
 "Did they never have visitors was there no friend 
 whoever came to see them ?" 
 
 "No, sir; and they didn't seem to want anybody ; she 
 
 was just his world, and he her'n. My girl used to tl ink 
 
 it was kind of strange, though, that they never pot ; i y 
 
 letters; but she never did, and never writ any, either." 
 
 "Did she seem happy?" Geoffrey asked, in a hushed
 
 174 JACK'S STORY CONTINUED. 
 
 tone, as if this was ground he hardly liked to trespass 
 upon. 
 
 " As chipper as a bird," Jack returned ; "and she could 
 sing like one, too. Many's the night the boys have stolen 
 to yonder house to listen while she sang and played to 
 the cap ; he had a pianer sent up from Santa Fe ; and 
 she was always bright and smilin' ; she was like a streak 
 o' sunshine in a dark place, for there wasn't anybody 
 like her anywhere about." 
 
 Geoffrey felt his heart yearn \vistfully for this sweet 
 and gentle woman, who had been his mother, and who 
 had brightened that wild and dreary place with her pres 
 ence for one short year. 
 
 Still the mystery regarding his father, and her rela 
 tions to him, seemed as dark as ever. 
 
 If he could not learn whence they came, it would be im 
 possible to trace his history any farther, and a feeling of 
 depression and discouragement began to settle upon him. 
 
 It seemed as if those two lovers had hidden themselves 
 there, cut themselves adrift from all previous associa 
 tions, and then lived simply for and in each other. 
 
 "Did Captain Dale's mine here pay him well?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "No, sir, it did not; and that is something that always 
 seemed strange to me," Jack said, reflectively. "He 
 couldn't much more'n paid expenses here, but he never 
 seemed to care, and I've always had a notion that be had 
 an interest in other mines." 
 
 '^"hat other mines?" Geoffrey inquired, eagerly. 
 
 "I couldn't say, sir: he was very close, and never 
 talked business afore his help." 
 
 "What made you think he had other claims?" 
 
 "Well, after the first month or two he used to be away 
 considerable not long at a time ; but he went often, and 
 was always so chipper when he came back, I reasoned 
 'twas only good luck could make him so." 
 
 "What arrangements did he make with you when he 
 left me in your wife's care?" 
 
 "There wa'n't anv bargain," Jack said. "Margery was 
 that fond of ye she'd been willin' to kep' ye for nothin' 
 rather than let ye go; but the cap was always generous 
 he gave her two hundred dollars to start with, besides 
 a handsome present on her own account, for what she did 
 for his wife while she lay dyin'. Then, for the first two 
 years he came once in six months to see ye, and always 
 left a good round sum for ye there wa'n't nothin' mean
 
 GEOFFREY VISITS THE SCENE OF THE TRAGEDY. 175 
 
 about Captain Dale and when he didn't come he sent it." 
 "Did he never mention where he spent his time?' 1 
 Geoffrey asked, " or speak of ever taking me away with 
 him?" 
 
 "No, sir, never a word ; the most he ever said was that 
 he should put ye to some school as soon as ye were old 
 enough." 
 
 "Did he did he appear to be fond of me?" Geoffrey in 
 quired, hesitatingly, a hot flush rising to his cheek. 
 
 "That he were, sir ; it was as much as ever he'd let ye 
 out of his arms from the time he came till he went, 
 though he never staid very long, and I've seen the tears 
 a-standin' in his eyes when he parted from ye." 
 "How long before my accident was his last visit?" 
 "It must have been more'n a year, if I remember right ; 
 but the money came regular, and Margery seemed hap 
 pier when he didn't come she was always afraid he'd 
 take ye away from her. I've often wondered what he did 
 when he came again and found ye gone it must have 
 been a mortal blow to him," Jack concluded, and then 
 dropped into a fit of musing. 
 
 CHAPTER xxvrn. 
 
 GEOFFREY VISITS THE SCENE OF THE TRAGEDY. 
 
 "Where do you intend to go from here, Jack ?" Geoffrey 
 asked at length, breaking a silence of several minutes, 
 during which both had been busy with various thoughts 
 and emotions. 
 
 "To California, sir. I'm bound to have a last look at 
 all the places I've ever been in, though it'll be a sad day 
 that lands me there. My poor girl and I saw many 
 happy days on that little farm just out of San Francisco. 
 I didn't own it, we only hired it, for we hadn't money 
 enough then to pay for a home; but I'd gladly give up 
 every dollar I've earned since if I could only have my 
 girl back again," Jack concluded, with another heart 
 broken sob. 
 
 His grief and remorse were painful to witness. His 
 face was almost convulsed, great drops came out upon 
 his forehead, and he trembled with emotion. 
 
 "I believe I will go to California with you, Jack," 
 Geoffrey said, after a season of thought. M I do not be-
 
 176 GEOFFREY VISITS THE SCENE OF THE TRAGEDY. 
 
 lieve it will be exactly safe for you to go there by your, 
 self, to visit your old home. Suspicion might be aroused 
 immediately, and you would be liable to get into trouble; 
 but no one would think it at all strange if I should return 
 to make inquiries regarding my old nurse." 
 
 "Wall, but everybody knew we went off together," 
 said Jack. 
 
 "Very true ; but if unpleasant questions were asked, I 
 could explain that you escaped to Australia, while I was 
 cared for by friends in New York ; all of which would be 
 true," Geoffrey responded. 
 
 "Thank ye, sir; ye're kinder to me than I deserve ; 
 but even if I knew they'd snap me up, I reckon I should 
 go. I can never rest till I know where they've laid my 
 girl," Jack returned, with a heavy sigh. 
 
 "You shall," Geoffrey answered, "we will find out all 
 there is to know ; but I particuarly wish to learn if my 
 father ever visited the place after we left. If he did he 
 probably left some address so that information could be 
 found, in case any trace of us was discovered." 
 
 Jack appeared to be very grateful to have his path thus 
 smoothed for him, and the next morning the two men 
 left the mining village and proceeded directly to San 
 Francisco. 
 
 Before leaving, however, Geoffrey had cut several slips 
 from the ivy that grew all about his mother's grave, and 
 inclosing them wrapped in wet paper, in a small tin box, 
 mailed them to Gladys. 
 
 "My darling," he wrote, "if you can coax any of these 
 to live, pray do so, for my sake. I have a particular rea 
 son for making the request, which I will explain when I 
 return," and Gladys had three of them nicely rooted be 
 fore she returned to Brooklyn, at the rnd of the season. 
 
 Geoffrey and his companion reached the small town, 
 near which Jack Henly had once lived, and only a few 
 miles from San Francisco, about noon one warm August 
 day. 
 
 They had their dinner, and rested for several hours, 
 then when the day grew cooler, Geoffrey started out to 
 alone to visit Jack Henly's former home, and to try to 
 discover the gra.ve of his wife. 
 
 Tie found the place without any difficulty, a small house 
 and barn standing in a lonely location, about two miles 
 from the town, while there were only one or two other 
 dwellings in sight. There was no sign of life about the 
 place, and the buildings were fast falling into decay.
 
 'GEOFFREY VISITS TEE SCENE OF THE TRAGEDY. 177 
 
 Weeds and vines and wild flowers grew all about the 
 yard, and everything looked desolate and forlorn. 
 
 Geoffrey shivered as he stepped up to a window and 
 looked into that small kitchen, and recalled the dark 
 deed which had been perpetrated there. 
 
 He did not believe the place had ever been inhabited 
 since; it had a look of having been shunned, and per 
 haps regarded as a haunted house. He wondered how 
 Margery had been found, and what measures had been 
 taken to discover the author of the crime. 
 
 He did not remain there long ; it was not an attractive 
 spot, and there were no means of learning anything that 
 he wished to find out. 
 
 He resolved to visit some of the neighbors, and try to 
 ascertain what had been done with Mrs. Henly's body, 
 and if Captain Dale had ever visited the place since the 
 tragedy occurred. 
 
 The nearest neighbor was at least a quarter of a mile 
 away ; he could just discern the roof and chimneys over 
 a little rise of ground to the south. 
 
 He mounted his horse again and rode toward it, com 
 ing, in a few minutes, to a large and comfortable farm 
 house, where peace and plenty seemed to reign. 
 
 He found the farmer just driving up his cows from 
 pasture. He was a man apparently sixty years of age, 
 with a kind and genial face, quick and energetic in his 
 movements in spite of his there-score years. 
 
 Geoffrey saluted him courteously, introduced himself, 
 and asked if he could spare the time to answer a few 
 questions. 
 
 The man called a boy to attend to his cows, then in 
 vited Geoffrey to dismount and come with him to the 
 wide, pleasant veranda, where they could converse at 
 their leisure, assuring him that he should be glad to give 
 him any information he might possess. 
 
 Geoffrey accepted his invitation, and then entered at 
 once upon the business that had brought him there. 
 
 "I arn in this locality chiefly to ascertain something of 
 the people who once occupied that house over yonder," 
 he said, indicating Jack Henly's deserred dwelling, "nnd 
 thought my best way would be to apply to some one liv 
 ing in the neighborhood." 
 
 The farmer's face fell at this. Evidently the subject 
 was not a pleasant one to him. 
 
 "You couldn't have come to a better place to find out 
 what you want to know, sir," he replied, "for I've lived
 
 178 QEOtmEY VISITS THE SCENE OF THE TRAGEDY. 
 
 here for the last thirty-five years, and I can tell you all 
 about that sad story at least all that anybody here 
 abouts ever knew ; though it isn't a cheerful subject." 
 
 "lam very fortunate, then, in having come to you," 
 Geoffrey said, in a tone of satisfaction, 'ihen glancing at 
 his watch, he added : "I find it is later than I thought, 
 and as I would like to get back to town before dark, I 
 will ask you to relate in your own way all that you know 
 about the family, and I will restrain all questions until 
 you get through." 
 
 "Well, sir," began the farmer, "the Uenlys came here 
 nigh about twenty-two or three years ego, and we thought 
 we were fortunate in having such thrifty neighbors as 
 they seemed to be. There were only three of them, Jack 
 and" his wife, and a baby only a few months old, that the 
 woman had taken to nurse, its mother being dead. 
 Everything went along smoothly, and they appeared to 
 be doing well for four or five years, when Jack got into 
 bad company and began to drink. Before this he and his 
 wife seemed to think a great deal of eacl other, and in 
 bad weather he would help her about the house, while in 
 good weather she would work with him out of doors. In 
 this way he gained time to do many odd jobs outside, and 
 made considerable money by so doing. 
 
 "After Henly pot in with his -wild companions, we 
 now and then heard that things were not very pleasant 
 between him and his wife, but no one ever dreamed how 
 serious the trouble was until the terrible tragedy burst 
 like a thunderbolt upon us. My wife and Mrs. Henly 
 had been great friends from the first; and had got in the 
 way of borrowing little messes from each other, as neigh 
 bors often do, when they came short and could not get 
 into town to buy what was wanted. So one afternoon my 
 wife said she was out of tea, and would run over to see 
 Mrs. Henly for a little while, and borrow enough for 
 supper. 
 
 "It didn't seem as if she'd been gone long enough to 
 get there, when she came flying back as pale as death, 
 wringing her hands and seeming half-frightened out of 
 her senses. I rushed to ihe door to meet her, when she 
 fell into my arms in a dead faint. When she came to she 
 was so unnerved by what she had seen that we had hard 
 work to get the truth out of her, but we finally made out 
 that upon reaching Henly's she had knocked on the 
 door. No one answered, and she stepppd in, as she had 
 often done, when she saw Mrs. Henly lying on the floor,
 
 GEOFFREY VISITS THE SCEXE OF THE TRAGEDY. 179 
 
 a terrible bruise and gash on her forehead. My wife wag 
 so frightened and shocked that she dropped her cup on 
 the floor, where it broke in a dozen pieces, and then, with 
 a scream, turned and ran, as fast as her trembling limbs 
 would carry her, toward home. I called my son and one 
 of my men, and we started at once for the place. We 
 found the woman Ij'ing as my wife had described her, 
 only instead of being dead, as she thought, she was now 
 rolling her head from side to sideband moaning as if in 
 great pain." 
 
 "Not dead !" interrupted Geoffrey, in a startled tons. 
 "No, sir, praise the Lord ! not dead. We lifted her and 
 laid her on her bed just off the kitchen, when I sent my 
 man for a doctor, and rny son back home to bring his 
 mother, while I got some water and bathed the poor 
 woma'n's head. My wife was too sensible to nurse her 
 own feelings when she found she was needed, and that 
 her friend was not dead, and she came immediately to do 
 what she could for her. 
 
 " When the doctor came he said it was doubt nl if the 
 poor thing could live ; the blow on the head had bee a a 
 fearful one, and it was a wonder that it had not killed her 
 outright. Besides that, there was the print of three fin 
 gers on her throat, showing that there had been a strug 
 gle with some one, and pointing to foul play. 
 
 "Of course when we found that Henly had decamped^ 
 taking the boy with him, we suspected him of having 
 done the deed, and the authorities were at once set on hia 
 track. But nothing has ever been heard of him or the 
 child from that day to this; at least not to my knowl 
 edge. His wife had a tough time of it. We had her 
 brought over here, and my wife and daughter took care 
 of her through a three month's illness, and when she did 
 get up again she was but the shadow of her former self." 
 "Did she get well?" Geoffrey exclaimed, amazed. 
 "Yes; she recovered her health, though she was not as 
 strong as she had been, and her head was apt to trouble 
 her at times. But her heart was broken over the disap 
 pearance of her husband and the boy. It was a long time 
 before we could make her tell how she had been injured, 
 and then she excused Henly. She said he had come 
 home the worse for liquor, and did not know what he 
 was about. She said he must have been frightened, be 
 lieving ho had killed her, and then taken the boy and 
 tied. I suspect there was something more to it, but that 
 was all we could ever get out of her."
 
 180 GEOFFREY VISITS THE SCENE OF THE TRAGEDY. 
 
 "Ah !" thought Geoffrey, "she shielded him from the 
 suspicion of having murdered me also, and she must have 
 suffered torture on my account as well as his." 
 
 "As soon as she was able to gee about," resumed the 
 farmer, "she insisted upon going away altogether from 
 the place. She could not go back to her home and live 
 there alone, she said, and she wanted to search for her 
 husband, to let him know that he had not killed her, as 
 he must believe. I imagined, too, that she couldn't bear 
 to meet the boy's father wiien he should come again and 
 find that he had disappeared. She sold all her household 
 goods, offered a reward of a thousand dollars having de 
 posited that amount in a bank in San Francisco tor the 
 purpose to anv one who should find her husband or se 
 cure any definite information regarding him, and then 
 she left the place herself. We have never seen her since, 
 nor heard what became of her/' 
 
 " Did she leave no address ?" Geoffrey inquired. "If not, 
 how could she expect to be communicated with in case 
 any tidings of her husband were obtained ?" 
 
 "I believe a personal of some kind was to he inserted in 
 certain papers in the leading cities of the count7-y by 
 those who had charge of the affair," replied the farmer, 
 "but I guess it iias never been printed. Their house has 
 never been occupied since. A good many people believe 
 that Henly murdered the hoy also, and concealed the 
 body somewhere on the farm, PO the place has had the 
 reputation of being haunted, therefore we have never 
 had any neighbors there." 
 
 "Since Mrs. Henly was not murdered, I am at liberty 
 
 to set your heart at rest upon that subject," Geoffrey 
 
 responded. "The boy is alive and well. I am that boy !" 
 
 The farmer started from his chair and stared at him in 
 
 open-mouthed astonishment at this electrifying statement. 
 
 U I can't believe it," he said, at last, and bending to look 
 
 more closely into his visitor's face, "and yet you said 
 
 your name was Huntress." 
 
 "Yes, my name is Geoffrey Dale Huntress," Geoffrey 
 replied, with a smile at his host's astonishment. 
 
 "That was the child's name, Geoffrey Dale it must be 
 true; do tell me how you happen to come back here after 
 all these yearn?" the farmer urged, in an eager tone. 
 Geoffrey felt that he was warranted in so doinjr, since 
 Margery Henly had lived, and there was no longer any 
 need of concealment on Jack's part. 
 
 " Jacli escaped all pursuit," he said, "wandering from
 
 GEOFFREY VISITS THE SCENE OF THE TRAGEDY. 181 
 
 place to place ; went to Texas on a sheep ranch for a, few 
 years, and finally turned up in New York, where 1 be 
 came separated from him, and could not be found. Just 
 about this time he became convinced that the officers* 
 were on his track they must have been those who were 
 working for Mrs. Henly's thousand-dollar reward and 
 he was so frightened he suddenly shipped lor Austra 
 lia." 
 
 "Poor fellow," said the farmer, sympathetically, ' he 
 must have suffered keenly. But this is tne strangest part 
 of the whole story. I never imagined that we should get 
 the sequel to that tragedy over yonder. Was the man 
 kind to you? I used to think he was not over fond of you 
 when you were a little fellow." 
 
 "No one could have been more kind than he was, as 
 long as I was with him," Geoffrey said, gravely, as-he 
 recalled all that Jack had so recently told him. 
 
 He thought, too, as long as Margery had kept the secret 
 of his having been nearly murdered also, it would be best 
 to still preserve silence upon that point. 
 
 "It was my own fault," he continued, "that I was lost, 
 for I wandered away without his knowledge, and he was 
 not able to find me, although he labored faithfully to do 
 so, until driven to desperation by the belief that he was 
 being tracked." 
 
 "How did you learn that he had sailed for Australia, if 
 you were lost before he went?" 
 
 "I learned that later," Geoffrey briefly replied. 
 
 "And what became of you?" 
 
 "A philanthropic gentleman became interested in me, 
 adopted me, and has given me a good education." 
 
 " Well, well, well ! wonders will never cease ! It's a 
 strangely romantic tale, young man. But how about 
 your own father?" questioned the farmer. 
 
 "That is a mystery which I came h^re to try to solve," 
 Gfoffrey returned, looking troubled, for he seemed to be 
 no nearer the solution than ever. "All that I really know 
 about my father is that he was called Captain William 
 Dale, and that he at one time owned shares in some of 
 the mines of New Mexico, where my mother died. I have 
 been there trying to gain some trace of him, but without 
 success. Then I came o?i here, hoping to learn something 
 of him through people who had known the Henlys. I 
 thought it probable that he would come here, sometime, 
 to see me, as he had previously been in the habit of do 
 ing, and, finding that I had disappeared, would leave his
 
 18J UEOFFREY VISITS THE SCENE OF THE TRAGEDY. 
 
 address so that he could be informed if anything was 
 learned of my fate." 
 
 "He has been here," the farmer replied ; "he came only 
 about two months after Mrs. Henly left. I saw him and 
 conversed with him. He appeared to be overwhelmed with 
 grief upon learning of your strange disappearance. He 
 instituted inquiries, offering a reward of five thousand 
 dollars for your recovery, living, or one thousand for 
 positive proof of your death, and under these circum 
 stances I have often wondered why some clew to your 
 fate was not ascertained." 
 
 Geoffrey did not think it strange. He knew that no one 
 would have recognized in the poor little imbecile whom 
 Jack Henly had cared for, the bright, happy child wiio 
 had been Margery's joy and pride. 
 
 He was touched, too, by the evidence of his father's in 
 terest in and love for him, and yet it seemed inexplicable: 
 for, if the man whom he had met at Saratoga was his 
 father, and he was anxious to find him, as the farmer 
 said, why should he have avoided him as he had done. 
 
 "But did he leave no address?" he eagerly questioned. 
 
 "There was something a little queer about that," said 
 the farmer, "for he did not give any, really. I asked him 
 where a communciation would reach him, and he replied 
 that anything directed simply to Lock Box 43, Santa Fe, 
 would be all that was necessary." 
 
 Geoffrey's face fell at this. 
 
 He Avas terribly disappointed, for he had confidently 
 expected that he would find something tangible through 
 this man, by which he could trace Captain William Dale. 
 
 "Lock Box 43, Santa Fe," he repeated, thoughtfully, 
 "and that was all?" 
 
 "That was all; but perhaps the man didn't want his 
 name known all over the country, in connection with this 
 tragedy here," suggested his host. 
 
 "That is so," Geoffrey returned, brightening, but he 
 said to himself that he would yet know who had held 
 that post-office box in Santa Fe twenty years ago, if it 
 was in the power of man to discover it. 
 
 "Has he ever been here since?" he asked, after a pause. 
 
 "Yes, twice: and the last time he remarked, 'I shall 
 never see the child again I believe he is dead.'" 
 
 "What was the date of his last visit?" 
 
 "It was about ten years ago, and I have never seen 
 him since. I am very sorry, Mr. Huntress, that I can tell 
 TOU no more," said the man, evidently feeling for his
 
 AN UNEXPECTED MEETING. Ib3 
 
 Visitor's discomfiture, "and it really must be a great trial 
 to you to have such a mystery enshrouding your par 
 entage." 
 
 "It is, but it must be solved sooner or later,* 1 Geoffrey 
 said, resolutely. 
 
 He arose to go as he spoke, thanked the farmer heartily 
 for his kindness in telling what he wished to know, then 
 mounted his horse and rode back toward the town, 
 greatly perplexed and somewhat disheartened. 
 
 "Lock Box 43 is a slender thread to lead to much, but 
 I'll follow it until it breaks," he said to himself, as he 
 went on his way. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 AN UNEXPECTED MEETING. 
 
 The sun had long since gone down, and darkness was 
 rapidly settling over the country, as Geoffrey pursued 
 his way, grateful indeed that he had such good news to 
 take back to JacK, but well-nigh discouraged on his own 
 account. 
 
 It had been agreed that he should learn all he could 
 about Henly's old home, and where Margery was bur 
 ied, and that Jack should himself revisit the place after 
 nightfall, upon his return, since he did not dare to make 
 his appearance there by daylight. 
 
 The road to the town lay through a heavy growth of 
 timber, and, as Geoffrey came into it. the darkness was 
 BO intensified that at first he could hardly distinguish the 
 way, when, suddenly, his horse gave a slartled snort and 
 shied one side, nearly throwing bis rider from the sad 
 dle. 
 
 "Gently, gently, sir," he said, reassuringly, as he 
 quickly recovered himself. "What is the trouble, mv 
 boy ?" 
 
 He glanced searchingly about him, and saw a murtled 
 figure sitting upon a rock under the shadow of a gn-jit 
 tree. 
 
 Geoffrey's hand instinctively caught the handle of the 
 revolver that he always carried when traveling, and then 
 he rode directly up to the figure. 
 
 "Who are you?" he demanded, "and why are you sit 
 ting here alone in the darkness?" 
 
 "Do not fear, sir," responded a quiet, honest voice. "I
 
 184 AN UNEXPECTED MEETING. 
 
 am only a woman on my way home from town, and sat 
 down here to rest for a moment." 
 
 "I beg your pardon, madame, for accosting you as I 
 did," Geoffrey returned, apologetically, "but I confess I 
 was startled, as well as my horse, for a moment, ^re 
 you not afraid to be traveling this lonely way at this 
 time of the evening?" 
 
 "No, sir, I am not afraid. I know every step of the 
 road, but I am not so young as I was once, and it tires 
 me to walk," the woman replied, with a weary note in 
 her voice, accompanied by a hea^y sigh. 
 
 "Have you far to go?" the young man asked. 
 "No, only to the second house from here to Farmer 
 Bruce's." 
 
 " Ah ! You are going to Mr. Bruce's. I have just come 
 from there. I will turn about and see yru safely to the 
 house; or, if you could manage to sit on a man's saddle, 
 you shall ride, and I will lead my horse," Geoffrey said, 
 kindly; for now that he had been accustomed to the dim 
 light he could discern that the woman looked worn and 
 weary, and his sympathies were enlisted for her. 
 
 "No, no; thank you, sir, I will not trouble you," the 
 woman returned. "But tell me," she continued, rising 
 and coming toward his side, "is Farmer Bruce still 
 alive? Is tha family well?" 
 
 Something in her anxious tone and her agitated man 
 ner, as well as these questions, sent a sudden thrill 
 through the young man's heart. 
 
 He bent and looked searchingly into her face, which 
 was upraised to his. 
 
 "Yes, Farmer Bruce is living. You said you were on 
 your way home. Do you belong to the family?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "No T T used to live near them ; I have come for a 
 visit," was the confused replv. 
 
 Geoffrey bent still nearer to her, when the woman sud 
 denly uttered a startled cry, and laid her hand upon his 
 arm. 
 
 "Oh, sir! who are you?" she cried. "I am sure you 
 must be Master Geoffrey. You are so like your father. 
 T. should know you anywhere, and I never could forjret 
 the boy I loved. You are Geoffrey, aren't you? and don't 
 you remember Margery?" 
 
 She pndert with a sob, and her hold tightened on his 
 arm as if she fpnrpo" to lose him. 
 
 Geoffrey had half-suspected her identity when she had
 
 AN UNEXPECTED MEETING, 185 
 
 inquired so eagerly about Farmer Bruce ; but it was a 
 shock to him, neverthel2ss, to find his suspicions thus 
 verified, and be felt that, if he should never learn any 
 thing more definite regarding his father, he should feel 
 more than repaid for his journey hither, just to have 
 found Jack and Margery, seen them restored to each 
 other, and the shadow removed from their lives. 
 
 He seized the trembling hand that lay upon his arm, 
 and shook it heartily. 
 
 "Yes, I am Geoffrey, and I do remember Margery," he 
 said, in a glad, earnest tone. 
 
 The poor, long-suffering, wandering creature dropped 
 her head against his horse's neck, and burst into a pas 
 sion of tears. 
 
 "Heaven bless you, Master Geoffrey, for owning it at 
 last my heart's been well-nigh crushed since you denied 
 it, and ran away from me in New York," she said, bro 
 kenly, between her sobs. 
 
 " Denied it, and ran away from you in New York I" 
 repented the young man, astonished. 
 
 "Yes, sir; sure you haven't fogotten that day when 
 you bought the roses of me, and I asked you if you 
 wasn't Geoffrey Dale? You told me no your name was 
 Everet, and you didn't know anything about Jack, nor 
 about any of the other things I talked of." 
 
 A light broke upon Geoffrey's mind. 
 
 She had seen Everet Mapleson, and made a very nat 
 ural mistake ; she had believed him to be the child she 
 had loved and cared for, and it was no wonder she was 
 pained by his refusal to recognize her. 
 
 "I never bouerht any roses of you in New York, Mar 
 gery," he said, kindly. "I have never seen you until 
 now since I was a small boy of five years." 
 
 The woman looked up at him amazed. 
 
 Geoffrey smiled frankly into her upturned face. 
 
 "The young man whom you met was a Mr. Everet 
 Mapleson ; we were in college together, and we look so 
 much alike that we are often mistaken for each other," 
 be explained. 
 
 "Ah ! dearie, my heart is lighter now you've told me 
 this," Margery said, with a long-drawn sigh. "I was 
 cruelly hurt when I thought you wouldn't own me, and 
 I was so sure, too, that you could tell me something 
 about Jack can't you tell me where he is? Where, 
 where have you been all these years. Master Gooff rey. 
 Ah, I feared that cruel blow that Jack .r,v" you had
 
 186 AN UNEXPECTED MEETING. 
 
 killed you, and I'd never see you again ; but poor man ! 
 he'd never have lifted his hand against you if he'd been 
 himself. Heaven pity him ! wherever he is, if he's living 
 at all." 
 
 She had rambled on in this disconnected way without 
 even waiting for a reply to any of her questions, and 
 Geoffrey felt the tears rise to his eyes, as he realized 
 something of the burden that lay so heavy on her her.rt, 
 and had made the long, long years so dreary and oppres 
 sive to her. 
 
 He dismounted from his horse, and taking her by the 
 arm. said, gently : 
 
 "Come back to the rock, Margery, where you were sit 
 ting, and I will tell you all you wish to know. It is a 
 long story, and you will be weary with standing." 
 
 She looked up appealingly. 
 
 "One word, Master Geoffrey. Jack " 
 
 Her trembling lips refused to utter another word, and 
 the young man thought he might as well tell her at once 
 about her husband and sot her heart at rest. 
 
 "Jack is living and well, and within a mile of you at 
 this very moment," he said, in a cheerful tone. 
 
 "Oh, dearie! Heaven reward you for those blessed 
 words," Margery murmured ; then her head sank upon 
 her breast, and, tottering weakly forward, she dropped 
 upon the rock where Geoffrey had first seen her, &nd fell 
 to sobbing like a tired child. 
 
 Geoffrey waited until she had grown somewhat calmer, 
 and then told her, as briefly as he could, something of his 
 own and Jack's history during the last eighteen years. 
 
 She never interrupted him during the recital, but 
 seemed to drink in every word, as one perishing from 
 thirst would drink in pure, life-giving water. 
 
 When at last he had told her all, she lifted her face, 
 and, while she wiped the streaming tears from her eyes, 
 she exclaimed : 
 
 "Ah ! Master Geoffrey, I feel almost as if I was draw 
 ing nigh to heaven, after all the waiting, the wandering, 
 the loneliness, and misery, to find my Jack again, and 
 know that he has been true to his love for me all the 
 time. Poor fellow ! his fate has been harder than mine, 
 after all. for he's had to carry a burden of guilt with 
 h m ; but it is all over now, thank Heaven ! You will 
 take me straight to hirn ?" she concluded, eagerly. 
 
 "Of course I will," Geoffrey replied, heartily, "he is 
 waiting at the public house in the town for me ; waiting
 
 AN UNEXPECTED MEETING. 187 
 
 for me to come and tell him about his old home, from 
 which he fled so many years ago, and about a certain 
 grave, which he has imagined has lain lonely and neg 
 lected all that time, and which he was to go to visit, 
 under cover of the darkness, upon my return." 
 
 "Poor man ! poor man !" sobbed Margery, all unmind 
 ful of her own long suffering, in her sympathy for her 
 erring husband, "but, praise the Lord, there's no grave 
 for him to weep over, and he can walk the earth 
 once more and fear no man." 
 
 She arose and drew her cloak about her preparatory to 
 going back to the town with her companion. 
 
 Geoffrey insisted that she should ride, while he walked 
 beside her and guided the horse. 
 
 He saw that she was very weary, as well as weak, from 
 her recent agitation, and not fit to walk the long dis 
 tance. 
 
 She demurred at first, but he would listen to no objec 
 tions, and she permitted him to put her into the saddle, 
 and then they started on their way. 
 
 Geoffrey questioned her about her life during the past 
 eighteen years, and he maveled, as he listened to her 
 story, at the woman's unwavering dev.otion and love for 
 the man whose hand so nearly deprived hor of life. 
 
 She told him, as Mr. Bruce had already done, that, as 
 soon as she was able, she had sold off all her household 
 goods and the farm-stock, and realized over a thousand 
 dollars. She deposited all but enough for her immediate 
 needs in a bank of San Francisco, where she already had 
 some money laid by, and instructed a lawyer there to 
 use it as a reward for the discovery of her husband. 
 
 She then began her own tiresome pilgrimage to search 
 for him herself. She roved from one large city to an 
 other, stopping some time in each, now taking in wash 
 ing and ironing to support herself and earn money to 
 continue her search in the next place where she should 
 go ; going out as a servant in other places, or selling 
 flowers or confectionery upon the corners of the streets 
 for the same purpose, while she eagerly scanned every 
 face she saw in the hope of somewhere and sometime 
 coming across either Jack or the boy ; she had never 
 believed, as others did, that the latter was dead. She felt 
 Bure that Jaek must have discovered some sign of life 
 about him, and taken him away with the hope of having 
 him restored. 
 
 In this way she had visited every large city in the
 
 188 AN UNEXPECTED MEETING. 
 
 United States. She had been in different mining districts 
 also, thinking that perhaps her husband might have gone 
 back to his old business, hoping thus to hide himself 
 more securely. She had even been in Canada and other 
 British provinces, but had never met with the least 
 encouragement in her search, until that day when she 
 had seen Everet Mapleson in New Yoik and believed him 
 to he Geoffrey. Her disappointment and grief, at his per 
 sistent denial of all knowledge of her, had actually pros 
 trated her for the first lime during all her tireless search, 
 and she had not been able to leave her lied for several 
 weeks, which accounts for young Mapleson's inability to 
 find her. 
 
 At length, during the last few months, she had relin 
 quished all hope ; but an insatiable longing seized her to 
 visit her old home once more, and the kind family who 
 had befriended her in the hour of her soi-e need. After 
 that, she meant to draw her money from the bank in San 
 Francisco, and with it purchase a ri^ht in some home 
 for the agod. where she could peacefully spend the re 
 mainder of her life. 
 
 The woman was not old, being only about forty-five 
 years of age, but her sorrow and the laborious existence 
 she bad led had aged her far more than even another 
 decade could have done. 
 
 She could tell Geoffrey nothing more regarding the 
 identity of his father than he already knew. She had 
 never seen him sin^e his last visit to her home, more 
 than a year previous to the tragedy, and she had never 
 known any other address than the one of wbich Mr. 
 Bruce had spoken. He had told her to send a letter to 
 "Lock Box 43, Santa Fe," if anything should ever happen 
 to his boy, and she wished to summon him. 
 
 But she had gone away without communicating with 
 him; she had been eager to get away before he could 
 come again, for she had not courage to meet him and tell 
 him the dreadful story about his child, which she alone 
 knew. 
 
 "Margery," Geoffrey said, gravely, after she had con 
 cluded her account, "have you never thought that there 
 was something very strange in thf> fact that my father 
 should have been so reserved about himsplf, and kppt his 
 only child so remote and concealed from all his 
 friend s ? r 
 
 "Yes, Master Geoffrey, it did strike me as queer, at 
 times; but I reasoned that perhaps he hadn't any very
 
 AN UNEXPECTED MEETING. 189 
 
 near friends, for he talked of putting you to some school 
 as soon as you were old enough to go away from me." 
 
 "Do you think that everything was all right between 
 him and my mother?" 
 
 "How right, sir?' the woman asked, with surprise. 
 
 "Do you think that they were legally married!? Did 
 you never see or hear anything while you lived with 
 them, to make you suspnct that they might not he hus 
 band and wife? It is a hard question for a son to ask, 
 but the secrecy, with which my father lias seemed to 
 h'-dire himself about, has led me to foar that there was 
 some grave reason why he could not, or wouid not, have 
 me with him and openly recognize me. Why was he 
 unwilling to have you use his name if you had occasion 
 to write to him, but instead gave you n blind address, 
 which no one could recognize, and to which, doubtless, 
 he alone had the key?" 
 
 "Good lord, Master Geoffrey, never have any such 
 thoughts entered my head before!" Margery exclaimed, 
 in a tone of startled amazement. "I never saw a man 
 fonder of his wife than Captain Dale was of your mother; 
 and he had reason to be fond of her, too, for she wor 
 shiped the very air he breathed, and was always so sweet 
 and mei'ry that a man would have been a brute not to 
 have loved her. But " 
 
 "Well?" queried Geoffrey, eagerly, the hot Mood surg 
 ing to his brow, with a feeling of dread, as she stopped, 
 a note of sudden conviction in her tone. 
 
 " Well, I do remember, once, that she did not seem 
 quife happy, but I have never given it a second thought 
 until now." Margery said, reflectively. 
 
 "Tell me about it," the young man commanded, briefly. 
 
 "They had be<n out for a walk one night after tea, and 
 it was quite dark when they returned. They stopped a 
 moment on the steps, before coming in, and I Was at an 
 open window up stairs just above them. Your mother 
 had boon crying I could tell by tho sound of her voice 
 all at once she turned and threw her arms around the 
 captain's neck and sobbed : 
 
 ''Oh, Will, I wish you would, for my sake and for our 
 baby's sake.' 
 
 "'I will, my darling,' the captain told her, 'it shall be 
 done just as soon as 1 can turn mysolf, but it would ruin 
 me to do it now. Have patience, my pet. and it will be 
 all right in a few months more, at tho furthest.' 
 
 "She didn't say another word, only uttered a tired
 
 190 A STARTLING RECOGNITION. 
 
 kind of sigh, kissed him softly, and then they went in. 
 But I never thought much about i*< afterward. I didn't 
 know but what she had been coaxing him to leave the 
 mines and go back to where they came from, foi' I'm 
 sure it couldn't have been nice for her to live there where 
 there wasn't hardly another woman fit to associate with 
 her," Margery concluded, thoughtfully. 
 
 But Geoffrey believed his gentle mother bad been ask 
 ing for something far more important than a change of 
 residence ; that would have been of comparatively little 
 consequence to her, loving his father as she did. He 
 imagined that sue had been pleading to be recognized 
 as Captain Dale's lawful wife, so that her child might 
 have Honorable birth. 
 
 He sighed heavily, for the farther he went in his search 
 the darker and more perplexijig grew the way. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 A STARTLING RECOGNITION. 
 
 Reaching the public house where he had Left Jack, 
 Geoffrey quietly drew Margery into the small parlor, 
 where he made her lay aside her bonnet and cloak, put 
 her into a comfortable rocker to rest, and then went out 
 to break the g!ad tidings of her existence and return to 
 her husband. 
 
 He found him sitting alone on the porch outside the 
 bar-room nothing ever tempted him inside such a place 
 nowadays looking wistfully out toward the east, where 
 the full August moon was just rising above the horizon 
 in all i4s splendor. 
 
 "Well, Jack, has the time seemed very long to you?" 
 Geoffrey asked, in a cheerful tone, as he sat down beside 
 him. 
 
 " It has, sir ; I've had hard work to wait. I've a 
 strange hankerin' after the old home to-night. If I could 
 only wake up and find I'd been dreamin' all these years, 
 and the old place just as it was, with my girl wait-in' at 
 the door for me, I'd almost be willin' to give up my hope 
 o' heaven. But when I think it's only an empty house 
 a cold hearth-stone, and a grave somewhere nigh, that 
 I'm goin' to find, 1 feel a'most like givin' up the battle." 
 
 The man's head sank upon his breast in a disconsolate
 
 A STARTLING RECOGNITION. 191 
 
 way, while i-t seemed as if he had no heart to ask Geoffrey 
 anything about the trip from \vhich he had just returned. 
 
 The young man waited a lew moments, hoping he 
 would question him ; but as he still remained absorbed 
 in his own sad thoughts, he at length remarked : 
 
 "Well, Jack, I found Farmer Bruce." 
 
 " Ay ! then he's alive yet ; he must be nigh on to sixty," 
 the man replied, looking up now with a gleam of inter 
 est. 
 
 u I should judge him to be about that ; but he's hale 
 and hearty, and seems like a very kind-hearted man, 
 too." 
 
 "A better never lived!" Jack affirmed; "rnany's the 
 good turn he and his wife has done me, and ah ! " 
 
 A shiver completed the sentence, as if those by-gone 
 days were too painfu.l to dwell upon. 
 
 Geoffrey pitied the poor fellow from the depths of his 
 heart, and yet he hardly knew where to begin, or how 
 to break his good news to him. 
 
 "Shall I tell you what Mr. Bruce told me, Jack?" he 
 at length asked. 
 
 The man nodded, and, by the light of the moon, his 
 companion saw a gray pallor sett.le over his face, which 
 seemed to have grown almost rigid in its outlines. 
 
 Geoffrey began by telling him how Mrs. Bruce had gone 
 over to borrow some tea of Mrs. Henly, the day follow 
 ing Jack's flight; how she knocked and there came no 
 response, when she stepped into the kitchen and found 
 Margery lying on the floor, and becoming so frightened 
 at the sight, she had turned and fled back to her home, 
 with hardly more than a glance at the prostrate woman. 
 
 "Farmer Bruce," he went on, "at once went back to 
 your house, taking his son and a hired man with him. 
 They lifted Margery and laid her on her bed, and then 
 John Bruce rode off with all his might after a doctor 
 
 "Doctor! What could they want of a doctor? a cor 
 oner, ye mean," interrupted Jack, in a thick, hoarse 
 voice. 
 
 "No, a doctor, Jack she needed one ; she didn't need 
 a coroner." 
 
 u Ha !" 
 
 The man started wildly to his feet as the hoarse cry 
 burst from njui ; th*n he sank back again, pressing his 
 hands hard against his temples and scaring 1 about him in 
 a half-dazed way, as if he had not comprehended what he 
 had heard.
 
 192 A STAKTL1XG RECOGNITION. 
 
 "Master Geoffrey, don't don't tell me no more," he 
 pleaded, in an agonized tone, "I can't bear it; they 
 didn't need tiny doctor to tell tliem that she was dead 
 jast leli me where to find her grave. I'll go and take one 
 look at it ; then I'll make tracics again for Australia; I 
 can't slop lit- re." 
 
 The man's tone was so despairing, his attitude so hope 
 less, and his words so heart-broken, that Geoffrey had 
 hard work to preserve his own composure. 
 
 "But, Jack, there there isn't any grave," he said at 
 last. 
 
 Jack lifted another vacant look to the young man's 
 face. 
 
 "No grave! no coroner! a doctor!" lie muttered, then 
 suddenly he seemed to comprehend, and was galvanized 
 into Hie. 
 
 He sprang up ; he seized Geoffrey by the shoulder. 
 
 " B;>y ! boy!" lie cried, in a strained, unnatural voice, 
 M ye can't mean it! ye can't mean that she didn't die! 
 that that i didn't kill herafierall! Teil me tell me 
 quick! if ye'vo brought me such blessed truth as that, 
 I'm yer slave as long as I live." 
 
 He was terribly agitated. He shook as if he had sud 
 denly been attacked with violent ague, and Geoffrey 
 could see his broad client rise and fall \\ith the heavy 
 throbbing of Ins startled neart. 
 
 "Sit down, Jack," he commanded, rising and putting 
 him back into his chair; "you must be more cnlm, or 1 
 cannot tell you anything. Margery was not dead, but 
 she \Vas dreadfully hurt, and was ill for a long time, so 
 ill that for more than a month they thought every day 
 that she must die." 
 
 " And she didn't r 
 
 The words were almost inarticulate, but Geoffrey 
 understood him by the motion of his lips. 
 
 "Don't tell me," lie continued, catching his breath in 
 a spasmodic wa> , a look of horror in his eyes, "don't tell 
 me that she lived to be like ns you was." 
 
 "No, no, Jack, she got well," Geoffrey replied, but his 
 own voice shook over the words. 
 
 "O-h ! my girl :" 
 
 Jack Henly slipped from his chair, falling upon his 
 knees beside his companion, while his head dropped a 
 dead weight Mgainst his arm. 
 
 "Lock here, icy man," Geoffrey now said, with gruff 
 kindness, though he was nearly unmanned himself, "this
 
 A STARTLING RECOGNITION. 193 
 
 isn't going to do at all. You must brace up, for there is 
 a lung siory to be told yet." 
 
 He lifted him to his feet by main force, drew his arm 
 within his own, and compelled him to v\alk up and clown 
 the porch two ur three times. Then he seated him again, 
 ami began at once to tell poor Margery's story. 
 
 The man listened as if spell-bound ; he scarcely seemed 
 to breathe, so intent was he to catch every woid. He did 
 not move, even, until Geoffrey mentioned meeting the 
 strange woman in tlie wood, when lie looked up, a wild 
 gleam in his eye, a cry of joy on his lips. 
 
 \Vhen Geoffrey repeated what she had told him about 
 her traveling from city to city, searching tor her hus 
 band, working at whatever her hand could find to do, to 
 earn the money necessary to ktepupher tireless quest, 
 he could control himself no longer. Great sobs broke 
 from him. 
 
 "My girl ! my girl ! I never deserved it of her ! Where 
 is she, Master Geoffrey? tell me and I'll creep on my 
 knees to her feet and ask her forgiveness!" he wildly 
 Cried. 
 
 "Jack, she is here !" 
 
 "Here! "Where?" and he glanced about him in fear 
 and awe. 
 
 "Here, in this very house ! waiting, longing to Fee you ! 
 to ease .your conscience of its burden, and tell you that 
 phe freely forgives everything !" 
 
 "Can she?" the trembling husband breathed in an awed 
 tone. 
 
 "Come and see," Geoffrey returned, and taking him by 
 the arm, he led him toward the parlor where Margery 
 was anxiously awaiting him, her patience neaily ex 
 hausted by the long delay. 
 
 Reaching the door Geoffrey opened it, pushed Jack 
 inside the room, then shut the two in together. 
 
 "Jack!" 
 
 'Madge ! my girl !" 
 
 The glad, fond cry of the wife, restored at last to her 
 long-sought loved one, the pleading, repentant intona 
 tion of the erring husband, were the only sounds that he 
 caught, as he turned away, and with tears in his eyes, 
 went out alone into the quiet summer night leaving them 
 in their joy. 
 
 Two hours later, Jack came to seek him, but he v alked 
 like a drunken man, weakly and unsteadily. 
 
 His unexpected happiness was almost more than he
 
 194 A STARTLING RECOGNITION. 
 
 had strength to bear, and he seemed weak and shaken as 
 if f-om a long illness ; but on his rough and weather- 
 beaten face there was a look of peace and joy that 
 Geoffrey never forgot. 
 
 "Master Geoffrey," he said, in an humble tone, though 
 there was a ring of gratitude and gladness in it ; "it's all 
 right at last, thank God ! I'll never say there ain't a 
 God again. I can face the whole world, now that my 
 Mad go lives and loves me the same as ever. I can breathe 
 free once more, since I know her blood ain't on my hands 
 oh i it's too good a'most to be true !" he continued, dra\v- 
 insr a long, full breath, "and bless ye, sir, all I've got in 
 the world wouldn't pay ye what I owe ye." 
 
 "Jack, you owe me nothing," Geoffrey responded, 
 grasping him heartily by the hand. '*! do not forget who 
 cared for me during the first few yeais of my life, and 
 if I have helped in any way to restore peace to you and 
 happiness to Margery, I am more than paid already." 
 
 "Thank ye, sir; but won't ye come in and sup with 
 us that is if ye haven't had something already." 
 
 Juck pleaded with an air of humility. 
 
 "No. I've br>en too busy with my thoughts to care 
 anything for eating, and I'll join you with pleasure,' 1 
 Geoffrey answered, cordially. 
 
 He returned to the parlor with Jack, where he found 
 Margery with a beaming face, and the landlady laying 
 the table for three. 
 
 It was two hours later before they separated for the 
 night, and during that time many plans for the future 
 were discussed by the reunited couple. 
 
 Neither Jack nor Mar.erery felt inclined to remain in 
 tha West, where they had suffered so much, and where 
 there would be constant reminders of the painful past, 
 and it was finally decided that they should proceed at 
 once to the farm which Jack still owned in Nf\v J -rsf-y, 
 and if Margery was pleased with the place they would 
 settle ^here and spend the remainder of their lives upon 
 it. The next morning they wpnt to pay Farmer "Bruce a 
 visit, and inform him of the happy ending to all their 
 trouble. 
 
 The following day thev went to San Francisco, whore 
 thev drew Margery's money from tho bank, in which it 
 had remained so loner, and a snug little sum it was, too, 
 having accumulated for so many years. A week Inter 
 t hey all turned their backs upon the Pacific coast and set 
 their faces toward the East. Geoffrey accompanied them
 
 A STARTLING RECOGNITION. i 1 
 
 as far as Cheyenne, Wyoming, where he took leave of 
 them, as he was going southward into New Mexico again. 
 But he promised to pay them an early visit when he 
 should return to Brooklyn. 
 
 While these events were transpiring in the far West, 
 an interesting incident occurred in the far East in no 
 other city than Boston which has its bearing on ouf 
 story and properly belongs here. 
 
 On a bright, beautiful summer morning, in the month 
 of July, a lady entered a handsome drug store on Wash 
 ington street, and asked permission to look at a city 
 directory. 
 
 She was a finely formed, brilliant-looking woman, ele 
 gantly dressed, and bearing herself with the ease and 
 self-possession of one accustomed to the most cultured 
 circles of society. 
 
 A portly gentleman, with a wealth of white hair 
 crowning his shapely head, and wearing gold-bowed spec 
 tacles, stepped from behind his desk as the Jady marie 
 her request, and politely laid the hook before her. As 
 he did so, and his keen glance fell m on her face, lie 
 started slightly, but was far too well-bred to betray his 
 surprise at her appearance, if he experienced any, and 
 immediately returned to his post at his desk. 
 
 But he managed to place himself where he could sc-e 
 his Adsitor, without being himself observed. 
 
 The woman turned to the D's in the directory, and 
 ran her neatly gloved finger slowly down the line, paus 
 ing here and there as a name appeared to attract her 
 special attention. 
 
 After carefully searching several pages, she turned 
 back and began to go over the same ground again, while 
 a faint line of perplexity and annoyance appeared 
 between her finely-arched brows. 
 
 This second search seemed to be as unsuccessful as the 
 previous one had been, and for the third time she re 
 viewed the list of names under the letter D. It was use 
 less, however; the name she sought WHS not there. Shn 
 Stood musing for a few moments, then opening her 
 pooket-book an elegant affair of Russia leather with 
 clasps of gold she took from it a card to which aba 
 referred. 
 
 "The name is surely not in the directory," she mur 
 mured.
 
 J96 A STARTLING RECOGNITION. 
 
 There was a moment of silence, then the distinguished- 
 loolting gentleman behind the desk stepped forward 
 again. 
 
 "Did you speak to me, madame?" he inquired, blandly. 
 
 The lady 8tarted and looked up quickly, the color on 
 her cheek deepening a trifle at his query. 
 
 "I did not know that I spoke at al), v she replied, with 
 a brilliant smile, which revealed two rows of white, 
 handsome teeth, every one of them her own. 
 
 "I beg your pardon," said the druggist, with a bow 
 and M backward step, as if to beat a retreat again. 
 
 Madame made a motion with her faultlessly gloved 
 hand to detain him. 
 
 "I was looking for the name of August Damon," she 
 Baid, her eyes wandering again to the directory : "but I 
 do not find it there." 
 
 "Ah ! some one whose residence you wished to find in 
 the city?" the gentleman remarked. 
 
 "Yes. I imagined .1 should find him here," said the 
 lady, thoughtfully. 
 
 The druggist drew the book toward him, ran his eyea 
 through the names under the D's. 
 
 "The name is not here," he said at last, as he raised 
 his glance and fixed it with keen scrutiny upon that 
 beautiful face before him. 
 
 Madame tapped her foot impatiently and somewhat 
 nervously on tlie floor. 
 
 "I am greatlv disappointed," she said. 
 
 "You are sure that you have the correct name you 
 have made no mistake?" the gentleman inquired, glanc 
 ing at the card in her hand. 
 
 "Yes : but you can see for yourself," and she passed it 
 to him, with a smile. 
 
 It was a common visiting card, yellow, and defaced 
 with age and handling, and it bore the name of "August 
 Damon," written with ink in a fine, gentlemanly haftd. 
 
 "Do you know that your friend resides in Boston, mad 
 ame?" the pharmacist asked, as his keen eyes rixed them 
 selves again upon her countenance. 
 
 "They used to ; it is some years since I last visited 
 th city, and it is possible they have removed to some 
 other place. They must have done so," she concluded, 
 with a sigh, "or I should surely have found their name 
 in the directory." 
 
 "Were Mr. and Mrs. Da tn on the parties to whom you 
 gave your child, Mrs. Marston?"
 
 A RETROSPECTIVE Gl <FCE. 197 
 
 The question was very quietly, very politely put, but it 
 was like the application of a powerful galvanic battery 
 to the woman on the other side of the counter. 
 
 A shock a shiver ran through her entire frame. 
 
 She grew deadly Avhite, and for a moment seemed 
 ready to drop to the floor. 
 
 Then she rallied. 
 
 " Sir 1" she said, with a haughty uplifting of her proud 
 head . 
 
 "Madame!" 
 
 "I do not understand you." 
 
 "Did you not? Shall I repeat my question?" was the 
 quiet query. 
 
 She made a gesture of impatience. 
 
 "You have made a mistake," the lady returned, but 
 her eyes were searching the druggist's fare with a light 
 ning glance, while that deadly paleness again overspread 
 her own. 
 
 "Nay, madame," was the bland rejoinder; "I am one 
 of the few men in the world who never forget either a 
 face or a name! Mrs. Marston, surely you have not for 
 gotten Doctor Thomas Turner who waited upon you at 
 the House one bitter night in the winter of 18 ." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 A RETROSPECTIVE GLANCE. 
 
 It was indeed Doctor Turner, although twenty years or 
 more had changed him greatly. 
 
 They had given portliness to bin form, turned his dark 
 brown hair to a silvery whiteness, and seamed his face 
 with many^a line of thought and care. 
 
 He now wore, too, a full beard, which was also very 
 gray, although not as white a,s his hair, while the gold- 
 bowed spectacles, which had become a constant neces 
 sity, added to the strangeness of his appearance. 
 
 Ho had given up his practicp some ten years previous, 
 and was now the sole proprietor of the handsome drug 
 etoro on Washington street, already mentioned. 
 
 But, although Doctor Turner had spoken with the ut 
 most confidence in addressing the lady before him, charg 
 ing her with her idontitv, he wag nevertheless somewhat 
 staggered when she looked him calmly in the eye and 
 replied, without a tremor, in her full, rich tones :
 
 tVy A HKTHOXPECTIVE OLA'ffCE. 
 
 "You are mistaken, Doctor Turner if that is your 
 name mine is not 'Mrs. Mnrston,' and never was." 
 
 "I know that your true name is not Mrs. Marston and 
 never was," the physician replied, after a moment's quiet 
 Study of his companion; ''but you are nevertheless the 
 
 woman whom I attended at the House on the 
 
 date I have mentioned. You are ve'y little changed, and 
 I could not fail to recognize you anywhere.'' 
 
 The woman's face prew crimson, then startlingly white 
 again ; her eyes drooped beneath his steady gaze, her lips 
 trembled from inward excitement. 
 
 "You have a remarkable memory," she murmured, 
 and stood confessed before him. 
 
 "No better than your own, mad am e, if! had changf d as 
 little as yourself. Time has dealt, far less kindly with 
 me. Not a thread of your hair has silvered, your color is 
 as fresh, your face as fair as on the day of our last meet 
 ing. Pardon me," continued the doctor, with a deprecat 
 ing gesture, "for reminding you so abruptly of the past, 
 but 1 have never ceased to feel a deep interest in the 
 mysterious case to which I have referred, and I could not 
 refrain from renewing the acquaintance." 
 
 "With what object?" queried ir.adarne, with cold 
 dignity. 
 
 "I cannot say that 1 have any definite object in mind," 
 responded the physician, suavely : "possibly I imagined 
 I might be on the brink of a discovery. However, that is 
 neither here nor there ; if you are desirous of finding the 
 gentleman who adopted your child, it may be thai I can 
 assist you, if, after you confide in rre .your reasons for 
 seeking him, I shall drem it advisable." 
 
 Mrs. Marston started slightly at this. 
 
 "Do yon know August Damon?'' she asked. 
 
 Doctor Turner smiled. 
 
 i; Madame," he said, "did you imagine that the gentle 
 man who took your babe would be ar-y less caution R than 
 yourself in such a transaction? You wf-re known ns Mrs. 
 Marston, bxit frankly confessed that the name was an as 
 sumed one. Your object was to find the child a good 
 home and then drop out of sight altogether, so that those 
 who took it should never be able to identify yon after 
 ward. Did you suppose it was to be a one-sided affair, 
 that you were to have all the power and advantage in 
 your own hands? that if you withheld your true nrme 
 they would give you theirs?" 
 
 Mrs. Marston, as we must still call her, flushed hotly.
 
 A RETROSPECTIVE GLANCE. 199 
 
 "Then Tamon was not the true surname of those peo 
 ple," she said, in a crest-fallen tone. 
 "No, nmdame." 
 "What was it?" 
 
 Doctor Turner did not reply for a moment. 
 Finally lie said : 
 
 "Mrs. Marston, pray do not let me keep you standing; 
 corne into my private office and be seated ; we can con 
 verse much morn comfortably there and be free from 
 intrusion, if customers should come in.' 
 
 Mrs. Marston shivered slightly, although the day was 
 an unusually warm one. She did not wish to talk over 
 the long-buried past, and this recognition had been a bit 
 ter blow to hor ; but her curiosity regarding her child's 
 fate was so great that she could not resist the physician's 
 invitation, and she followed him to a small room beauti 
 fully fitted up as a consulting office, at the rear of the 
 store. 
 
 Doctor Turner politely handed her a luxurious chair, 
 and then seated himself opposite her. 
 
 " It is doubtless a great surprise to you to find me situ 
 ated as I am," the physician remarked, by way of open 
 ing the conversation ; "but some years ago my health 
 gave out under the strain of a large and constantly in 
 creasing practice, and I was forced t~> relinquish it, al 
 though I still receive some office patients." 
 
 Mrs. Marston merely bowed in reply to this informa 
 tion, her manner indicating that she cared very little 
 about Doctor Turner's personal history. 
 
 She glanced at August Damon's card, which she had 
 recovered when Doctor Turner relinquished it. 
 
 "You were going to tell me the real name of the per 
 son whom this card represents, I believe," she said. 
 
 The druggist amiled, yet bit his lip with vexation at 
 himself for having intruded his own affairs upon her, 
 even for the purpose of making her feel more at her ease. 
 He might have spared himself that trouble. 
 
 "That will depend entirely upon your motive in seeking 
 them," he replied. 
 
 Mrs. Marston flushed again. 
 
 She was an exceedingly high-spirited woman, one 
 could perceive at a glance, and it galled her beyond ex 
 pression to have any one make conditions for her like this. 
 
 "How can it matter to you what my motives are?" she 
 demanded, imperiously. 
 
 'A physician has no right to betray the confidence of
 
 200 A HETROSPECTIVE GLANCE. 
 
 his patients," cal'nly responded the doctor; "and unless 
 you Have some urgent re<ison tor y(ur request, 1 shall not 
 feel at liberty to give you the information you desire." 
 
 "Are you their physician ?" 
 
 "1 was, for a time. 1. was first called to the child not 
 three davs after it had been given to them." 
 
 "How co.ilcl you r-ell Miat it was the same child? Babes 
 of that age look much alike." 
 
 "Do you suppose that a man in my profession could be 
 so lacking in ooservution as not to recognize a babe at 
 whose birth he had officiated, and in which so much of 
 unusual interest seemed to center?" queried Doctor 
 Turner, with a slight curl of his lips. "1 knew her the 
 moment I saw her ; but they do iiot know, to this day, 
 that I had evtii a suspicion that she was not their own 
 flesh and blood." 
 
 "You never told them?" said Mrs. Marston, quickly. 
 
 "Madame." returned the gentleman, with dignity, "need 
 I remind you again that an honorable physician never 
 betrays the confidence of his patients. You confided in 
 me to a certain extent, and I knew that you wished to 
 drop entirely out of existence, as far as your relation with 
 the child and its adopted parents were concerned. I knew 
 also that they wished its adoption to remain a secret 
 Consequently my lips were sealed." 
 
 The lady's eyes drooped and all the haughtiness van 
 ished at these words. 
 
 "Thank you, Doctor Turner, for your consideration for 
 me, and 1 am glad. too. that one so conscientious has 
 been intrusted with the care of the child," she said, earn 
 estly. "Is she still living?" 
 
 "Yes, and as beautiful a young lady as any one would 
 wish to see." 
 
 Mrs. Marston's face clouded, and a sigh escaped her 
 red lips. Her companion thought it one or regret and 
 yearning. 
 
 " Has she been well reared ? Has she had advantages?" 
 
 "The very best that money could piocureor fondest 
 affection could suggest. Mr. August ah Damon 
 the doctor caught himself just in season, for the gentle 
 man's true namo h:d almost escaped him, "has become a 
 rich min, and no parents could have done more for the 
 welfare of their own child than they have done for 
 yours." 
 
 "Are there otlun 1 children?" 
 
 "No ; that in. they have none of their own, though I be-
 
 A RETROSPECTIVE GLAKCK 201 
 
 lieve. they havo been giving a poor boy of great promise a 
 home and an education during the last eight or ten 
 years." . 
 
 Does she the daughter know that she is an adopted 
 child?" Mrs. Marston inquired. 
 
 "I cannot say positively fis to that," Doctor Turner re 
 plied. "She did not know it a fe\v years ago, and 1 imag 
 ine she has never been told. I hope not, at all events ; it 
 would be better for her never to know it," he concluded, 
 with significant emphasis. 
 
 "Yes," returned his companion, "I suppose it would. 
 But you have not yet told me the name.'" 
 
 "And you have not told me your motive in wishing to 
 learn it.' 1 
 
 "1 do not know that I have any special motive, other 
 than a curiosity and a natural desire to know how n-y 
 child is living, and how lite has dealt with her," the lady 
 answered, musingly. "I was traveling this summer and 
 thought I would take Boston in on my route, ascertain, if 
 I could, the residence of the people 10 whom my babe 
 had been given, and perhaps obtain a glimpse of her." 
 
 "That is your only motive, your only reason?" the doc 
 tor asked, bending a searching glance upon her handsome 
 face. 
 
 "It is." 
 
 "Then pardon me, madame, if I tell you that I do not 
 consider it of sufficient importance to gratify your de 
 sire," Doctor Turner returned, gravely. "1 can under 
 stand and sympathize with you it is but natural that a 
 mother should yearn for her child, even after a separa 
 tion of more than twenty years; but I know well enough 
 that Mr. Da'non would not have "withheld his true name 
 from you unless he desired to cut you off from all future 
 knowledge of the child whom you had given him. You 
 also wished to drop entirely out of their orbit, to leave 
 no trace by which they could ever find yon, to learn the 
 secret you were so careful to preserve, and they have 
 only aided you by concealing their own identity. If you 
 should put yourself in their way and try to see their 
 daughter, they could not fail to recognize you, as I have 
 done, and it would greatly disturb their peace; while i 
 anything should occur to arouse the young lady's suspi 
 cions that she does not really belong to the parents whom 
 she so fondly loves, I am mire it would cnupe her a great 
 deal of unhappinesR, while it might result in inquiries 
 mid discoveries t hftf would b<* embarrassing to yourself."
 
 202 A HETUOSPECTIVE (JLAXCE. 
 
 Mrs. Marston sat proudly erect at this, her eyes flash 
 ing w ami ugly. 
 
 "Such inquiries might be embarrassing, it is true, but 
 they could result in nothing that would bring discredit 
 upon either the child or me," she said, with conscious dig 
 nity. 
 
 "I do not question that, madame, yet it would seem to 
 be the wiser course to let everything rest just as it is," 
 said the physician, thoughtfully. 
 
 "Perhaps you are right," responded his companion, 
 with a sigh, "but I would like to see her." 
 
 "Allow me to ask, Mrs. Marston," Doctor Turner re 
 sumed, after a minute of silence, "is your husband still 
 living?" 
 
 The woman flushed, a startled, painful crimson, to her 
 brow ; then she straightened herself haughtily. 
 
 "Yes, my husband is living,'' she icily replied. 
 
 "And, excuse me, but having been your medical at 
 tendant, I feel something of an interest in the case how 
 vras he affected by the the loss of his child ?" 
 
 Doctor Turner knew that he was trespassing on danger 
 ous ground, but, under the circumstances, he felt that he 
 might be pardoned for asking the question. 
 
 "I do not feel that you have aright to interrogate me 
 thus," Mrs. Marston responded, with some excitement, 
 "nevertheless, I am somewhat in your power, and " 
 
 "Madame," interrupted the physician, with an air of 
 pride, "you need not go on ; if a little bit of your life is 
 in my keeping, I assure you it is in the keeping of a con 
 scientious man. Whatever I may possess regarding any 
 patient, I could never use it in a dishonorable way." 
 
 "I beg your pardon," his companion said, instantly dis 
 armed and secretly ashamed of her sudden anger. " I am 
 very quick, and you touched a sensitive nerve. Doctor 
 Turner, my husband never knew of the birth of that 
 child, and he can never know of it. 
 
 "You look at me with horror," she proceeded hastily, 
 as she met his astonished gaze, " as if you imagine that I 
 must ha T - .3 been guilty of some great crimft ; but I have 
 not, unless giving away my babe was one. I was a lawful 
 wife, as I convinced you at the time, and the child had 
 honorable birth ; but there were reasons which made it 
 absolutely necessary that I should conceal m.y maternity 
 from every one who knew me. I did, from all but my sis 
 ter, who has since died." 
 
 *' Ah ! then 'he lady who was with you at the time was
 
 A RETROSPECTIVE QLAKUE. 203 
 
 your sister. I could not believe her to be simply a maid," 
 the doctor interposed. 
 
 Mrs. Marstou bit her lips with vexation at having thus 
 thoughtlessly committed herself even in so small a 
 point. 
 
 "Yes," she said, after considering a moment, "she alone 
 knew my secret, and I believed it safe from all the world 
 until I stumbled upon you to-day." 
 
 "It is safe even now," the physician hastened to assure 
 her. " believe me, I shall never betray it you may set 
 your heart wholly at rest upon that point." 
 
 "Thank you I am very grateful for your past silence, 
 Doctor Turner, and your assurance of future secrecy. I 
 am not a heartless woman, nor devoid of maternal affec 
 tion,'* she went on, her lips quivering painfully. ''I could 
 have loved my baby as fondly as any mother ever loved 
 her child, if I had been allowed to open my heart to her; 
 but I could not. I had to steel it aeainst her. I never 
 dared even to allow myself to kiss her until the moment 
 they took her away for fear that I should begin to love 
 her and refuse to part with her. I cannot tell you why I 
 can never explain it to any living being. I am hedged I 
 have always been hedged about by circumstances that 
 made it impossible, and as long as I live I must carry the 
 secret locked within my own heart." 
 
 She stopped for a moment, overcome by the sad memo 
 ries and emotions which this retrospective glance aroused, 
 while the good doctor felt more genuine sympathy than 
 he had ever experienced for her over that mysterious oc 
 currence so many years ago. 
 
 "I will try to be content with what you have told me 
 to-day," she resumed, presently, "although it wns my in 
 tention, when I came here, to see for myself how my 
 child had been reared I am glad to know that she has 
 been tenderly shielded by parental love that life lias 
 been made bright and beautiful for her ; may it ever he 
 so, and perhaps, some time, in the great future, whore 
 there can be no secrets, I may be allowed to recognize nnd 
 love the daughter which stern fate decreed I could not 
 have in this life." 
 
 Tears actually arose to the physician's eyes at this little 
 glimpse of the innermost sanctuary of the beautiful wo 
 man's heart ; but he marveled more than ever at the ter 
 rible secret which must have well-nigh blighted her early 
 life. 
 
 She looked up, c^uc-ht his sympathetic glance, and was
 
 204: GEOFFREY FINDS A RKLTC. 
 
 instantly the proud, self-possessed woman of the world 
 again. 
 
 u And now, Doctor Turner," she said, rising and drawing; 
 her elegant lace mantle about her shapely shoulders, "I 
 trust wo may never meet again. If chance should throw 
 us together in the presence of others, I be<r, as a personal 
 favor, that you will not recognize me without a formal 
 introduction." 
 
 "I will not, madame ; and for the sake of your peace of 
 mind, I, too, hope that our paths may never ugain cross," 
 he replied. 
 
 lie accompanied her to the door, where they bow^d po 
 litely and formally to each other, and then the handsome 
 woman swept out upon the street, as composed and self- 
 possessed as if she had merely been purchasing some tri 
 fling article for th toilet, instead of rolling away the 
 stone from a sepulcher where, for more than twenty 
 years, a corroding secret had lain concealed. 
 
 Doctor Turner went hack to his private office, where he 
 sat a long time, musing over the wonderful mystery 
 which had stood the test of nearly a quarter of a century, 
 and wondering if he should ever learn the solution to it. 
 
 "It was the most perplexing, yet romantic, incident 
 connected with my whole life as a physician." he mur 
 mured. "If I could but get at the inside history of it I 
 could write a book worth reading. 
 
 "It was almost too bad," he added, some minutes after 
 ward, "not to tell her about Huntress it is possible no 
 harm would havo resulted from the knowledge : but if 
 there had I should have blamed myself. It was better 
 not." 
 
 He watched the passers in the street for several days, 
 hoping to get another glimpse at his visitor. 
 
 But he did not he never saw her again. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXTI. 
 
 GEOFFREY FINDS A RELIC. 
 
 Geoffrey Huntress arrived in Santa Fe late one even- 
 Ing, and in the mid^r of n driving storm, about a week 
 after parting: from Jack and Margery Henlv. 
 
 Ho was glad to peek shelter in the nearest public house, 
 which proved to be an adobe, and was kept by a good-
 
 GEOFFREY FINDS A RELIC. 905 
 
 naturcd Spaniard and his wife, both of whom could speak 
 English passably well. 
 
 Everything was in the most primitive style, yet com 
 fortable, and the house was a most acceptable refuge 
 from the raging temnest without. 
 
 Geoffrey slept well, and awoke to find a bright, beauti 
 ful morning breaking, and all nature fresh and attractive 
 in its newly washed attire. 
 
 He ate heartily of the savory breakfast that had been 
 prepared for him, and then started forth in search of the 
 post-office to learn what he could regarding the history of 
 Lock Box 43. 
 
 He was somewhat disappointed to find that the post 
 master was a man only about thirty -five years of age, 
 and, upon inquiry, learned that he had served in that ca 
 pacity not more than five or six years. 
 
 Of course he knew at once that he could tell him noth 
 ing that he wished to know, and he began to fear that his 
 journey hither had been all for naught. 
 
 "Who was postmaster here before you received your ap 
 pointment?" he inquired, after making some general talk 
 about, the city. 
 
 "Old Abe Brown, sir, and I only hope I may be as lucky 
 as he was; he held it for more'n fifteen years." 
 
 Geoffrey felt his courage rise at this information. 
 
 If he could only finl old Abe Brown, doubtless he could 
 tell him something interesting about Lock Boz 43. 
 
 "Is he living? 1 ' he asked. 
 
 "Yes. sir. and hale and hearty, too," and going to the 
 door, the obliging postmaster pointed out the rude dwell 
 ing which his predecessor occupied. 
 
 Geoffrey at, once bent his steps thither, and was soon 
 knocking at Mr. Brown's door. 
 
 "Come in," was the somewhat gruff, but hearty invita 
 tion, and pushing open the door, which was already aiar, 
 Geoffrey saw an old man of perhaps sixty seated on a 
 rudo bench, weaving hats from a bundle of touch gras 
 that lay beside him, while his wife, a woman somewhat 
 younger, sat near him. sewing bands around nnd putting 
 coarse linings into a pile of finished hat. 
 
 "Come in, stronger, come in !" repeated the man, as 
 Geoffrey paused upon the threshold: "don't stand on 
 ceremony, 'ennse we can't, for we've got to get this cn^e 
 of hats off before dinner, and we'll hnv^ to work right 
 smart to do it. too. Have a chair, sir ; guess, though, you 
 don't belong in these parts," and the old man gave the
 
 20fi GEOFFREY FIXDS A RELIC. 
 
 younger one a searching glance from a pair of keen eyes 
 that gleamed benoath his sha.ggy, overhanging brows. 
 
 "No, sir, I do not belong here; I am a stranger," 
 Geoffrey answered, as he entered the room and took the 
 chair indicates]. "I was directed hither to make inquiries 
 regarding some circumstances connected with your serv 
 ices as postmaster several years ago." 
 
 "Eh !" ejac:;lalrd Mr. Bro\vn, in an astonished tone, 
 and suspending his employment to eye his visitor with 
 an indignant glance, while his wife turned a pale, startled 
 face to him. 
 
 Geoffrey smiled, as he realized that they imagined he 
 had come in an official capacity. 
 
 "My inquiries are of a strictly private nature, and re 
 late fo a gentleman for whom lam searching," he ex 
 plained to relieve their anxiety. 
 
 "All right, ; fire away tnen, lad," returned Mr. Brown, 
 coolly resuming his work. "I thought if them chaps at 
 Washington had sent any one down here at this late day 
 to rake over old coals it was mighty queer, for there 
 wasn't, a single dts-crip-ancy from the time I went into 
 the office till I came out. Old Abe Brown is honest if he 
 ain't handsome," he concluded, with a. merry twinkle in 
 his eye. 
 
 "I do not doubt it. sir," Geoffrey replied, with a quiet 
 laugh, " but I wish to ask you if you remember a man 
 who hired Lock Box 43 for several vears in succession 
 during your term, and who had his letters, or at least, 
 some of them, directed simplv with that inscrip 
 tion ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir, I do remember him a tall, handsome chap, 
 with blue eyes, and brown hair, and he had the finest beard 
 1 ever saw on a mnn, the first time I saw him ; he had it 
 all shaved off, though, after a while. I say, stranger, I 
 reckon he must have been something to you, for I'm 
 bless'd if you don't look like him !" 
 
 The man dropped his hat. upon this discovery, and 
 leaned forward for a better view of Geoffrey. 
 
 "Go on, if you please," the young man said, briefly. 
 
 "Well, as I snid, I remember him : I don't often forget 
 anybody that I've ever had any dealings with," Mr. 
 Brown resumed. "He was a generous follow, too : had 
 plenty of money, and scattered it right and left like a 
 prince. It wn,s r> curious conceit, though, his having bis 
 letters sent j-ist to the box some of 'em ; they didn't all 
 come that way."
 
 OEOFtKEY F1XDS A RELIC. 207 
 
 "No?" cried Geoffrey, eagerly. "To whom were they 
 directed? What was his name?" 
 
 "Well, now,'' said the old man, again laying down his 
 hat, and scratching his head meditatively. " I shouldn't 
 wonder if you'd got me this time. I'm pretty good at 
 spotting a face, but when it comes to names and figures 
 un'ess somebody happens to be owing me" he inter 
 posed, with a sly smile, "I don't amount to much. 'Pears 
 to me. though, his first name was William William 
 hum ! I don't know William something; and there was 
 a general or captain I can't remember which tacked 
 on to it besides." 
 
 "Was his last name Dale, do you think?" Geoff re j 
 asked. 
 
 Mr. Brown shook his head doubtfully. 
 
 "I couldn't swear 'twas, or 'twasn't," he said. "Some 
 how, that don't strike me as sounding just natural I'\e 
 a notion there was more to it." 
 
 "I am very anxious to know it, and would be willing to 
 give a great deal to be sure of it. Could you find out in 
 any way what it was?" the young man inquired, anx 
 iously. 
 
 "I don't beieve there's a single soul in Santa Fe to day 
 who was here as long ago as that, except my wife here. 
 Maria, do you remember that handsome gentleman who 
 used to have Lock Box 43?" the old man asked, turning to 
 his wife. 
 
 "I used to see him now and then when I helped yon. in 
 the office, but I've forgotten his name, if I ever heard it," 
 the woman replied, in a quiet tone. "But," she added, 
 a moment later, as if some thought had suddenly oc 
 curred to her, "didn't you find something once that he 
 lost ?" 
 
 "Lor'! yes; so I did. But I'd never thought of it 
 again if you hadn't mentioned it, and there's something 
 marked on it, too. Perhaps that'll tell the young man 
 what he wants to know." 
 
 Mr. Brown laid down his work, and rising, turned to 
 ward an old-fashioned secretary that stood in one corner 
 of the room. 
 
 But he suddenly stopped, and looked searchingly at 
 Geoffrey. 
 
 "I hope, if you find out what you want to know here, 
 it ain't, goinrr to get tho gentleman into any trouble." he 
 said ; "he wn a pood friend to me, and I should hate to 
 do him an ill turn."
 
 208 GEOFFREY FINDS A RELIC. 
 
 "You need not fear." Geoffrey answered, thinking it 
 best to deal frankly with these honest people; "the man 
 was my father at least, I have stroner reasons for believ 
 ing so; he disappered several years ago, and my object 
 in coming to you is simply to try to get some clew that 
 will help me to trace him." 
 
 "I'm afraid, sir, you've come to a poor place to find 
 out very much,'' Mr. Brown remarked, and apparently 
 satisfied with his visitor's explanation. 
 
 He proceeded to the secretary, opened one of its draw 
 ers, and took an old leather wallet from it. 
 
 Unstrapping this, he laid it open before him, and after 
 searching son e time in its various pockets, he drew forth 
 something wrapped in hrown paper. 
 
 This he carried to Geoffrey, and laid it in his hand. 
 
 "There you have it, and it's the be^t I can do for you," 
 he said. 
 
 The young man quickly removed the paper, and found 
 a portion of a golden charm or emblem ; in the form of a 
 knight-templar's cross; very handsomely enameled and 
 engraven. 
 
 It had been broken diagonally acrops. 
 the left and lower arms comprising the 
 portion which the postmaster had found. 
 
 Geoffrey turned it over and found Ibe 
 name "William" all but the last letter 
 engraved on the back, something after 
 the fashion of the accompanying diagram. 
 
 The "m." and probably the surname of the owner was 
 to be found on the other half of the cross, wherever that 
 might be. 
 
 The roung man sighed wearily, for if this was all the 
 information which be was to obtain from his visit to 
 Santa Fe, he would be as much in the dark as ever. 
 
 "Where did you find this?" he asked, at length, turn 
 ing to Mr. Brown. 
 
 "On the floor, just Tinder his box." 
 
 "Was he in the habit of wearing an emblem of this 
 kind ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir; he bar! a fine one on hie watch-chain, but it 
 wasn't like that." said Mr. Brown. 
 
 "Then how do you know that he lost this? It might 
 have belonged to some one el^e.'* 
 
 "No ; I am sure it was his, for I found it just after he'd 
 been into the office to look after his letters, and there
 
 G EOFFR ET F1XDS A R EL 1C. 209 
 
 hadn't been another soul in the room for nigh an hour. I 
 reckon it was one of them things like what he wore, that 
 had been broken, and lie tucked it into his pockec and it 
 fell out when lie took out his keys to unlock his box," Mr. 
 Brown explained. 
 
 "That might have been the way of it," Geoffrey said, 
 thoughtfully. 
 
 "I went to the door to call him back," the old gentle 
 man continued; "but he'd got out of sight, so I put it 
 away, thinking I'd give it to him the next time he came, 
 and it you'll believe it, I've never set eyes ou him from 
 that day to this. 1 ' 
 
 "Did he never come again?" Geoffrey asked, surprised. 
 
 "Yes, twice, though there was a good while beuveeu ; 
 but, as it chanced, I was away both times, and or course 
 the boy I hired to help me and take my place at such 
 times the same one that's there now didn't know him. 
 The last visit he made he gave up his key?." 
 
 "How long apco was that?" 
 
 "That must have been as many a fifteen years ago. I 
 hotildsay; I can't just remember, though," replied Mr. 
 Brown. 
 
 Geoffrey reasoned that probably his father had visited 
 the place while on his way back from California, after he 
 had been to make inquiries regarding his own mysterious 
 disappearance, and having despaired of ever gaining any 
 knowledge of him through Lock Box 43, had surrendered 
 his keys. 
 
 "Dili he ever reside here in Santa Fe?" he asked. 
 
 "I don't think he did, sir he always looked s if he 
 came from, a distance, and he didn't come regular, either. 
 I used to think he was up among the mines in the moun 
 tains." 
 
 "Did he receive many letters through this office?" 
 
 "At first he did, but not more'n three or four the last 
 year or two, and I was to let them lay until they were 
 come for. When he come last he said he was goin' to 
 leave this country altogether." 
 
 "It is very strange," nu.sed Geoffrey, ,is he sat turning 
 over that little piece of gold and enamel. 
 
 "If ib could but speak," ho thought, "all my trouble 
 and search would be over." 
 
 "Will you sell me this little relic?" he asked, at last, 
 turning to the ex-postmaster. 
 
 "Bl^ssyou! no, sir. I shouldn't think of selling it to 
 anybody ; but if you're that man's son, as you say, it's
 
 210 GEOFFREY FINDS A RELIC. 
 
 yours by right, and you can have it and welcome." 
 
 Geoffrey thanked ihe honest old gentleman hearuiy for 
 it and his kindness in answering his inquiries, and then 
 arose to take his leave. 
 
 lie picked up one of the hats that Mrs. Brown had just 
 completed, asking if she \\ould make him one and have it 
 read v by the time he got around to Santa Fe again. 
 Sue said she would, and at his request named the price. 
 
 Geoffrey dropped a golden coin into her hand, remark 
 ing, with a SMiile, that she could give him the change 
 when he came for the hat, or if he didn't come by the end 
 of six weeks she would be entitled to the whole of ic. He 
 took tiiis way to make these good people a little present 
 without wounding their feelings, for he had no intention 
 of ever returning to Santa Fe. 
 
 He WHS very much depressed by his failure to obtain 
 any definite information regarding his father, and he 
 found it hard to be reconciled to the fact that the ex-poet- 
 master could not remember the name which it was so im 
 portant he should learn. 
 
 He attached vry little significance to the finding of the 
 broken cross, for it proved nothing; still he put it care 
 fully away, resolving to keep it as a curious relic. 
 - But it was destined, insignificant as it seemed, to play 
 an important part in the chain of evidence that was 
 eventually to prove his identity. 
 
 It was the middle of September when he reached Sara 
 toga again, \\here he found Mr. and Mrs. Huntress and 
 Gladys, all impatient over his long absence, and over 
 joyed at his return. They had remained there far beyond 
 the date they had intended, and they had only waited for 
 his coining to go home. 
 
 They left immediately and arrived in Brooklyn the 
 twentieth of the month, and were all delighted to be be 
 neath (heir own "vine and fig tree" once more. 
 
 When Geoffrey told Mr. Huntress how fruitless had 
 been his search, except for what he had learned from the 
 Henlys, he replied, as he laid his hand affectionately on 
 the young man's shoulder : 
 
 " For your sake, Geoff, I am sorry, for I know that you 
 are sensitive regarding the subject of your parentage; 
 but for rny part, my boy, I am content, for I am free to 
 own that I should feel a trifle jealous of any other man 
 who should claim you and occupy the place of a father to 
 ward you." 
 
 All this was very pleasant to Geoffrey, but he knew
 
 GEOFFREY FINDS A KEL1C. 211 
 
 that nothing would ever satisfy him until he could learn 
 the whole secret; and he was now convinced that there 
 was a carefully guarded secret regarding his birth. 
 
 The week following the return of the family to Brook 
 lyn, Mr. Huntress came home from his office somewhat 
 earlier than usual, and drawing Geoffrey into the library, 
 he said : 
 
 "Geoff, you have had a good deal to say about business 
 this summer; how would you like to get into something 
 right away ?" 
 
 The young man's face was instantly all aglow. 
 
 "First rate," he replied, eager!}-. "I don't care how 
 soon I begin to do something for myself. I've been an 
 idler long enough."' 
 
 '"An idler !' good gracious ! Geoff, I wonder what your 
 idea of work is, if you have been idle during the last 
 four years !" exclaimed Mr. Huntress, with elevated 
 brows. 
 
 "Well, I mean that I've been dependent lonjr enough," 
 Geoffrey corrected. 
 
 "Now, my boy, you couldn't hurt me worse than to talk 
 like that. I have been paid a dozen times over, for all 
 you have cot me, in the pride I've taken in you," his 
 friend replied, reproachfully. 
 
 "My debt is a heavy one all the same, Uncle August- 
 one that I can never pay though I shall never cease to 
 be grateful for your kindness. But about this business 
 prospect, what is itf 
 
 "Well, you see, tho firm wants me to go to Europe," be 
 gan Mr. Huntress, u to look after some of our interests 
 there, which have been causing us some anxiety of late ; 
 but I have a perfect horror of the Sf a, and can't make up 
 my mind to take the voyage. No one else can be spared, 
 and so, if I cannot get a substitute, I suppose I shall 
 have to sere vr my courage tip tt> it somehow. Now, any 
 man of ordinary intelligence can transact the business 
 the chief requisites are energy, honesty, and interest 
 and I want you to go in my place, Geoff. Your business 
 career and your salnry shall commence from the moment 
 you give me your decision." 
 
 Geoffrey was all enthusiasm at the proposition, most 
 delightful to him both as regarded business r.r;d the Euro 
 pean trip, which hud always been a coveted pleasure. 
 
 k l should like the trip, and m<>rf than nil. I .-hould lifce 
 tho business, if yon think me competent to tr;-, ::sact it," 
 he said. " Here I have been racking my br.n : all sum-
 
 212 'A WEDDING IN PKOSPJSCT. 
 
 mer to try to think of something to set myself about, and 
 How it comes to me without aw effort." 
 
 "You'll find that it will require effort enough before 
 you get through," returned Mr. Huntress, smiling ; ''but 
 it is a great relief to my mind to have you willing to un 
 dertake it. The only drawback," he added, growing seri 
 ous, "is that Gladys may object to your running off in 
 this unceremonious style, antt for such a long trip ; it 
 would take five or six months to do all we want done." 
 
 Geoffrey's face fell at this. 
 
 In the enthusiasm of the moment over having some 
 real business, he had not thought of this separation, and 
 be knew well enough that Gladys would be very much op 
 posed to it. 
 
 "True," he began, and then stopped. 
 
 11 Gladys will surely oppose it with all her will," said 
 Mr. Huntress, observing him closely. 
 
 Geoffrey made no reply, he was schooling himself to do 
 his duty. He believed that he had no right to refuse this 
 golden opportunity. 
 
 " I wonder," mused Mr. Huntress, a sly smile curling 
 the corners of his mouth, "how it would do to let Gladys 
 go with you ; she has always been sighing for European 
 travel."' 
 
 Geoffrey sat erect in his chair, as if suddenly galvan 
 ized, and shot a look of astonishment at bis companion. 
 
 "Uncle August! you know that wouldn't do at all, un 
 less Aunt Alice should accompany us," he said, in con 
 fusion. 
 
 Mi . Huntress burst into a hearty laiigh. 
 
 "I imagine it could be managed without depriving me 
 of my wife as well as my daughter. How would it do to 
 liave that young lady go along as as Mrs. Geoffrey Pale 
 Huntress ?" 
 
 CHAPTER XXXITI. 
 
 A WEDDING IN PROSPECT. 
 
 At that moment a servant appeared at the door and 
 was about to enter upon some trifling errand. Seeing the 
 eager, intent look upon the faces of both men, she quietly 
 withdrew, unobserved. 
 
 Geoffrey sat up, amazed. 
 
 "Surely you cannot mean that that Gladys is to go as 
 my wife i" he exclaimed, flushing hotly.
 
 A WEDD1SG IN PROSPECT. 213 
 
 "And why not? You expect to marry Gladys some 
 tinie," was the calm reply. 
 
 "Yes, I hope so, Uncle August ; but I am not now in a 
 position to properly take care of a wite." 
 
 "But we are going to pay you a good salary and defiay 
 your traveling expenses also, it you go abroad for us." 
 said Mr. Huntress. " You will have to be aw a 3* for sev 
 eral months, and I know that Gladys will grieve sadly 
 over the separation. I have given the subject a good deal 
 of thought; and I have talked it over with mother. 
 Gladys wants a trip abroad, we want her to have it, too, 
 and neither of us feels like crossing the ocean ; therefore 
 we have decided that the best arrangement, for all parties, 
 will be to have a wedding and send you two off together 
 on a bridal trip. Of course we shall rr.iss our daughter 
 we shall miss you both for that matter; but the earlier 
 you go the sooner we shall have you back again. "What 
 do you think of the proposition *" 
 
 "Nothing coul'i give me greater happiness than to have 
 my dearest hopes realized in tins unexpected manner; 
 but I had made up my mind not to claim the fulfillment 
 of Gladys 1 promise to me until I could make a place for 
 myself in the world, and provide a generous support for 
 her,'' Geoffrey replied, with still heightened color. 
 
 "Nonsense!" began Mr. Huntress, and then j-uddenly 
 checked himself. "No, it isn't nonsense, either," he added, 
 "such a resolve was both a wise and a noble one, ard 
 worthy of you, Geoff. Under different circumstances I 
 fih on Id feel that it would be wiser for you to wait i ntil 
 you were established in some profitable business. Seme- 
 body, however, must go abroad for the firm. I do not 
 want to, neither of the other partners can leave, and so 
 we have agreed to send some one in my place. Besides 
 this, I am what would be termed a rich man, thouuh I 
 haven't as mu<-h as the Astors or Vanderbilts, and all 
 that I have will some day belong to Gladys except a lit- 
 'tle slice that I had made up my mind to lay aside for > cii 
 and she may as well begin to reap the benefit of it now. 
 I want her to see tho old country : she is just fresh from 
 school, and in the right trim and mood to enjoy it; she 
 would grieve and mops to have you go and leave her be 
 hind, so I want you to go together. I know that you 
 would have a jolly time of it. So wo will have a littlo 
 knot tied beforehand, to make everything all right and 
 proper, and then you may emov your honeymoon tc 
 your heart's content."
 
 211 A WEDDIX& IN PROSPECT. 
 
 Geoffrey's heart was beating with great, heavy throbs 
 of joy over these plans. 
 
 No thought of any such delightful scheme had for an 
 instant entered his mind ; indeed, he had feared that it 
 would be a long time before he should feel that he had a 
 right to ask Gladys to be his wife, and now every obstacle 
 had been removed, and an easy path to the very summit 
 of his hopes laid out for him. 
 
 "Well, Geoff, 1 ' continued Mr. Huntress, who had been 
 watching him while something of this was passing 
 through his brain, "what lies heavy on your mind now? 
 You look as somber as if I had beem plotting to separate a 
 pair of lovers, instead of giving them to each other with 
 my fondest blessing." 
 
 Geoffrey looked up with gleaming eyes. 
 
 "lam anything: but 'somber' over your proposition, 
 Uncle August. I am simply trying to realize my great 
 happiness, 1 ' he snid, in a voice that vibrated with joy; 
 "but what will Gladys herself say to this plan ?" 
 
 "Go ask her, my boy. I'll bet a big apple she won't say 
 no," returned the gentleman, with a sly wink and a 
 chuckle. "Hold on a minute, though, Geoff," he added, as 
 the young man sprang to his feet to obey him, "I want 
 to tell you a l\ttle more about the business part of the 
 plan, before you get immersed in the love-ly part of it. 
 YouVe three months yet before you, as we do not want 
 you to sail before the last of December, or the first of 
 January rather cold weather for a pleasure trip across 
 the Atlantic;, eh ?" and he shivered at the thought ; " but 
 we can't have everything just as we want it. Another 
 thing; owing to some details connected with our Boston 
 house, you will bo obliged to sail from that city instead 
 of going direct from New York." 
 
 " We occasionally have some very pleasant weather in 
 January ; perhaps the fates will be propitious and give us 
 a pleasant passage," said Geoffrey, smiling ; "besides, I 
 think T have heard that some of those Boston steamers 
 are fully as comfortable and safe as those running from 
 New York." 
 
 "Well, comfort yourself all you can, my boy. I don't 
 envy you, however." retorted the elder gentleman, with 
 a grimace. "Meantime," he continued, "we shall want 
 you over at the office to receive instructions and gnin a 
 little knowledge regarding your duties on the ot':er 
 si do." 
 
 '' T do. not care how soon you set me at work," Geoffrey
 
 IX PftoSFEVT. 215 
 
 eagerly replied, for he was longing with all his heart to 
 become a man of business, and to feel that he \\ as really 
 doing something toward providing for his bride. 
 
 "I imagine that we shall all have enough to do if there 
 is to be a wedding." said Mr. Huntress, smiling, "for 
 mother and I want to marry our only daughter off in good 
 shape, you know. There, that is all just now ; you may 
 go and find out how Gladys feels about it. 1 ' 
 
 Geoffrey departed with a bounding heart, yet hardly able to 
 realize the good fortune that Lad so unexpectedly fallen to his 
 lot. 
 
 He fonnd Gladys in the music-room, running through some 
 Dew pieces which lie liad purchased for her the day before. 
 
 He went, np to her. cnptnred <he two small hands that were 
 evoking such sweet strains from the piano, and drew her to a 
 small sofa, that stood near. 
 
 "My darling. I have a very important communication to make 
 to yon," he said, bending toward her and fondly touching ber 
 forehead with his lips. 
 
 " ' Very important?' " she repeated, archly. "You look as if it 
 was very pleasant, too." 
 
 "Tt is to me, and I hope it will prove the same to yon. What 
 do yon suppose onr paterfamilias IIPS been proposing to me this 
 morning?" the young man asked, with a luminous face. 
 
 The beautiful girl thought a moment before replying, the 
 quick color leaping to her cheeks. 
 
 'I believe I can gup*n it!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands 
 with a gesture of delight. "Oh, Geoffrey, is he poing to take 
 us all to Europe? That is it!" she added, exultantly. "I know 
 by yonr tell-tale face. How perfectly charming!" 
 
 Geoffrey smiled wisely. 
 
 "You have guessed too much and too little, my sunbeam," he 
 said. 
 
 "What a paradoxical statement, my learned Bachelor of 
 Arts! I expected better things of you," retorted Gladys, 
 merrily. 
 
 "You have yet, to find my statement. t7-ue, in spite of fhe 
 seeming paradox." he replied, with mock dignity. "Somebody 
 is going to Europe we are not all going, however." 
 
 "Ol>. Geoff! you are not to be left at home, are yon?" cried 
 his betrothed, in a disappointed tone, her face paling at the 
 thought. 
 
 "Gu^ss again, my Indy," he said, teas.. :< crly. 
 
 "Well, I know that papa would not go without mamma, and I 
 am snre she would never cross the ocean without him, and they 
 certninly would not lake such a trip and leave me behind," re 
 sponded Gladys, with a puzzled air. 
 
 " 'Plato, thou reasoned well,' " quoted Geoffrey, an amused
 
 216 A WEDDING IN PROSPECT. 
 
 twinkle in his eyes ; "and not fo keep yon longer in suspense, 
 I will inform you that Uuele Angnst lias some business abroad, 
 which, as ho cannot make up his mind to the voyage, he thinha 
 I can attend to, nnd 1 e lins proposed tlmt I tnke yon nlong with 
 me. We are to have a six months' trip, combine l>nsiness with 
 pleasure, sii)d get all tlie enjoyment we can ont of it." 
 
 Gladys gave one startled, astonished plnnco at he* lover's 
 face as he concluded, and then her face, clouded and her eyes 
 dropped I'eneath his. 
 
 "Did papa, pr'-pos* that to yon?" she asked, in a low tcne, a 
 burning Hush suffusing her face. 
 
 ''Yea, dear He said YOU l:ad long wanted to po abroad, nnd 
 he thought tin's would b<- a tine opportunity for both of us. 
 Doesn't the idea please you?" 
 
 Geoffrey 1<new well enough what was passing in her mind, 
 but, lie was HO jnliilant :nnl so confident of the issue of the inter 
 view that :> spirit of mischief possessed him to tease her a liltlo. 
 
 ''I should love to po abroad I have always longed to po. as 
 papa says," Gladys answered, gravely, and with still downcast 
 eyes ; "but I do not think I can go without papa and 
 mamma." 
 
 "Why?" returned Geoffrey, in a pretended surprise. "Uncle 
 August thought, as you nnd I were both fresh from school, we 
 should appreciate and enjoy the sight-seeing much better to go 
 together." 
 
 "It would be lovely, but Geoff, yon know I cannot go so," 
 she persisted, with a crimson face, and a suspicious tremor in 
 Ler voice. 
 
 Be gathered her close in his arms, and laid hir head against 
 liis b'-pnst. 
 
 ; Darling, forgive mo for tensing yon," lie said. "Of course, 
 you cannot go 'so'; but, Gladvs, will yon go witji me as my 
 wife ?" 
 
 He could feel the quid? bounding of her heart at this unex 
 pected proposition, and he knew well enough that she would 
 raise no moiv objections to the trip j?broid. 
 
 He then repented the conversation that had passed between 
 her father and himself that morning, telli.ig hf r how surprised 
 he ha<! been at the plan. f nd how. at first, he had hardly feH it 
 richt to ndo^t it, considering his rather doubtful position in 
 life Still, he had reasoned, if he could save Mr. Huntress 
 from a dreaded journey in the dead of winter, and if his services 
 we-e to be worth the generous sum he had named as Irs salarv, 
 he might feel justified in waving his own scruples and in ac 
 cepting the prent happiness offered him. thonsrh he never would 
 have dreamed of proposing such a measure himself. 
 
 "Mv Gladys," V< --nid. in conclusion, "it is verv sudden, and 
 there is ordv a 'o time, before I must go. Will yon come 
 with me, or rmist I yo by myself?"
 
 A WEDDISG IN PROSPECT. 217 
 
 Thr-re was a minute of silence, then Gladvs raised her head, 
 and laid her lips softly against her lover's chrek. 
 
 "Under such circumstances, von may lie -very snre that. I shall 
 not lot you go alone," she murmured, with a happy little 
 hutch. 
 
 His arms closed more fondly about her. He bent and kissed 
 her lips, his f;iee radinnt with joy. 
 
 'Oli! my darling, wlio would have believed eight or nine 
 years ago that such happiness could fall to the lot of the poor 
 boy wliom yon rescued from a mob in the fctieet," he said, in a 
 tremulous tone. 
 
 They discussed their anticipated trip fully an:1 freely after 
 this, laid out their route, and formed main u pleasunt plan for 
 the coming years. 
 
 The whole family held a council that evening, and it was 
 decided that preparation* for the wedding should be entered 
 tipon immediately, and that the marriage should occur just pre- 
 TIOUS to the sailing of the steamer ou which the young couple 
 would embark for Europe. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Huntress found it somewhat trying to contem 
 plate the loneliness which they knew would follow the de 
 parture, of their children, but they believed that the arrange 
 ment would be for their interest and happiness, and they would 
 not mar their joy by giving expression to any feeling of sorrow 
 or regret. 
 
 Geoffrey at once entered upon his duties, and with an enthus 
 iasm and ener<ry that promised well for the future; while. Mrs. 
 Huntress and Gladys busied themselves about, the interesting 
 mysteries of a wedding trousseau and preparations for the prrand 
 reception, that was to follow the marriage ceremony in Plym 
 outh Church somewhere about tha last of December or the first 
 of January. 
 
 While all these events were transpiring in Brooklyn, Everet 
 Manlesou was living in a state of depression and unrest in his 
 beautiful home near Richmond. 
 
 After his trip to thnt mining district in New Mexico, where 
 l)e had visited the grave nnd former home of Annie Dale, he 
 returned immediately to Vue de 1'Enu, where he remained, 
 appearing very little like the free and ea^y student who had 
 been so full of life and hope at the conclusion of his college 
 
 Colonel Maploson nnd his wife returned from Newport about 
 the a mo time, and both wondered what could have occurred to 
 change their POM thus in so short a time. 
 
 Mrs. Maoleson attributed it to his hopeless nftnrhment to 
 the beautiful girl whom she had seen at Yn'e. nnd for whom 
 Everet had confessed his love; bat she could not get one word
 
 218 A WEDDING IN PEOSPECT.' 
 
 from him on the subject, although she had tried to gain his 
 confidence upon several occasions. 
 
 "Father, 1 ' said the voung man, coming into the library one 
 morning, after the household had settled into its usual routine, 
 "while von were away I visited the Hermitage, and made a 
 singular discovery there." 
 
 "All! I imagined everything of a singular character had 
 disappeared from that place when Robert Dale departed this 
 life. "What was the nature of your discovery, pray?" Colonel 
 Mapleson remarked, looking up from the newspaper that he was 
 reading, and removing his spectacles. 
 
 Everet described his visit to the place, told of his energetic 
 blow upon the desk and its results, and then produced the pack 
 age of certificates and the picture which he had found, to prove 
 his statements. 
 
 "Well, this is a singular discovery, I confess," paid his father, 
 when he had finished. "Let me have a look at that picture." 
 
 He held out his hand, and upon receiving it he turned to 
 the light to examine it. 
 
 "Yes, this must be a likeness of Mrs. Dale; it resembles her 
 Striking! v, although she was greatly changed, and this must 
 have been taken many years previous to my acquaintance with 
 her." 
 
 "Then you knew her?" said his son. 
 
 "Oh, yes; I've eaten many a fine cookie baked by her hands 
 during my boyhood," replied Colonel Mapleson, musingly. 
 "Poor Robert Dale! so he treasured his love for her as long as 
 he lived !" 
 
 "And he has left all his money to her daughter," said Everet, 
 touching the package of certificates that lay on the table. 
 
 "It would have been more to the purpose if he had given the 
 famifv some of it while they were suffering the stings of pov 
 erty," Colonel Mapleson remarked, jis attention still riveted 
 Upon the picture. 
 
 "Did you know the daughter?" Everet inquired. 
 
 "Yes; I had some acquaintance with her." 
 
 "Were they so very poor?" 
 
 "Well, they had a pretty hard time of it, I reckon, for a 
 while; bnt I did not realize it at the time, for I was very young, 
 only visited Uncle Jabez during my vacation; you know he ^ent 
 nie to Baltimore to school. Uncle Jabez gave them a cottage 
 rent, free, and g?ve them something besides to help eke cut a 
 small annuity that Mrs. Dale had, and that was all they had to 
 live upon until they opened a small private school. After I came 
 into possession of the estate T allowed them to remain in the 
 cottage, the same as before, although they would not accept 
 from me the money that they had received from Uncle Jabez; 
 thev were very proud. 
 
 "Then that cottage belongs to you?" Everet remarked.
 
 A WEDDING IN PROSPECT. 219 
 
 ( Yes." 
 
 'Has it ever been occupied since the Dales left it?" 
 'No." 
 
 'To whom does the furniture belong?" 
 
 'How do you know that it is furnished?" Colonel Mapleson 
 asked, turning around and glancing sharply at his son. 
 
 Everet colored. 
 
 "I was riding by there, one day, and felt a curiosity to look 
 inside the house " 
 
 "But the curtains are all drawn," interrupted his father. 
 
 "True; but I managed to get a glimpse for all that, "the young 
 man returned, lightly, although he did not care to tell just how 
 he had learned that thehouse was furnished. "By the way," he 
 continued, "there is some strange story about the disappearance 
 of Mrs. Dale's daughter, isn't there?" 
 
 "Yes, I believe so ; she went away somewhere to get a place 
 as governess, and, as she never came back, people imagined there 
 was some mystery about it." 
 
 "What is your theory regarding it?" Everet asked. 
 
 "My theory? I don't know as I have any ; I was away travel 
 ing at the time. She may have gone as governess into some 
 family, who afterward went abroad, taking her with them ; or, 
 what is more likeJy, she in ay have married and removed to some 
 distant portion of the country." 
 
 "One would suppose that she would have wished to dispose of 
 the furniture in her home before going away permanently," 
 Everet observed. 
 
 "Oh, the furniture belongs with the cottage didn't I tell 
 you?" replied his father. 
 
 "No, you didn't," said Everet, dryly, and thinking old Jazeb 
 Mapleaon must have been pretty lavish with his money to have 
 furnished the cottage in such a luxurious style for his poor rela 
 tives. "At all events," he continued, "it is strange that ske did 
 not communicate her plans, whatever they were, to some one 
 whom she had known, isn't it?" 
 
 "Well, perhaps; but it seems to me that you are strangely in 
 terested in the fate of this girl, Ev," and his father turned 
 about again and looked him squarely in the face, as he said 
 this. 
 
 Again the young man colored. 
 
 "I don't see anything very remarkable about it, when I have 
 just discovered a fortune for her," he replied, after a moment 
 of hesitation. 
 
 "Well, no; there is something in that argument, surely," re 
 turned his father, in a tone of conviction. "How much does.it 
 amount to?" and Colonel Mapleson took up the certificates and 
 began to examine them.
 
 220 KOSJCRT VALE'S WILL BEOUQUT TO LIGHT. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 ROBERT DALE'S WILL BROUGHT TO LIGHT. 
 
 He looked each paper cai'afnllj throngh, writing down tha 
 amounts represented, ami finally adding them to liud the sum. 
 
 "Well, it makes quit ) a handsome little fortune, when we 
 take into consideration the fact th;it it has been accumulating all 
 theso years," he said, as he pushed toward his son the paper 
 upon which he had been figuring. "And yet," lie added, "I 
 know that this cannot represent one-half of Robert Dale's for 
 tune. What can have become of the rest?'* 
 
 'He may have given it away during his life," Everet sug 
 gested. 
 
 "Possibh : and yet I do not believe it," said Colonel Mr pie- 
 son, thoughtfully. "He \vas a strange character, .is the hiding 
 of these documents proves, and I am convinced there are ruoro 
 concealed somewhere else." 
 
 "I do not see what the man cnnld have been thinking of, if he 
 \vas in his right mind, to hide his property in such a way, with 
 out leaving some clew to it! How could he expect his heir 
 would ever be benefited by his money, when what represented 
 it was concealed in that secret compartment?" said Everet, im 
 patiently. 
 
 "That is a question, and the aofc was only one of the many 
 queer tilings that made the man what he was," replied hi3 fa 
 ther. 
 
 "What will you do with these papers?" the young man in 
 quired. 
 
 "1 do not know what to do with them," returned the colonel, 
 a perplexed frown on his brow. 
 
 "Who would inherit the property in case the direct legatee 
 cannot be found?" 
 
 "I suppose I am the nearest of kin," said Colonel Maploson. 
 "It was so decided when thu question as to who should inherit 
 the Hermitage and laud belonging to him, came up after his 
 cleat li." 
 
 "Then all this money will be yours also, if neither Annie Dale 
 nor any of her heirs can be found?" said Everet, with suppressed 
 eagerness.' 
 
 "I suppose it will; but " 
 
 "But what?" 
 
 "I do not want it, Everet; I have enough without it. I would 
 much prefer that the rightful heir should have it." 
 
 "I suppose jou will advertise for Annie Dale, or for her near 
 est of kin?'' Everet said, bonding a keeu look upon his father.
 
 ROBERT DALE'S WILL BROUGHT TO LIGHT. 221 
 
 "I don't know. I shall have to think the matter over first 
 perhaps consult my lawyer about it," Colonel Mapleson replied, 
 meditatively. 
 
 He fell into deep thought, and neither spoke for several min 
 utes. 
 
 At length the colonel glanced np at the clock. 
 
 "Well," lie retuurked, with a sigh, "I have business to attend 
 to, and I must be off." 
 
 He arose, gathered up the papers, carefully wrapping them all 
 together, then, locking them iuto a drawer of Ins desk, he 
 abruptly left the room. 
 
 Everet sat there for more than an hour afterward, his head 
 bowed upon his hand, thinking deeply, his brow contracted, his 
 whole face we<tri.>g a perplexed and troubled look. 
 
 At length, lie, too, left tlie house, ordered his horse, uud rode 
 away in tiie direction of the old mill. 
 
 Reaching the Dale cottage, which was evidently his destina 
 tion, he dismounted, fastened liis horse, and then bent his steps 
 around to the back door, intending to force an nitrance, as be 
 fore; and yet, if any one had asked the question, he could not 
 have told why he had come there again. 
 
 But, as he was passing the window of the little bedroom, he 
 was sure that he saw one of the curtains move. 
 
 "Aha!" he said to himself; "either a mouse or some human 
 being was the cause of that. 1 do not believe there is anything 
 inside that empty house to attract a hungry mouse, so 1 will be 
 cautious in my movements, and maybe I shall make a discov 
 ery of some kind." 
 
 He slipped off his low shoes, stepped noiselessly upon the 
 Veraiid.i, keeping out of the range of the window so as not to 
 cast a shallow within the room, and crept clo.se up to the low 
 sill. 
 
 The curtain had been thrust aside a trifle, so that he could 
 easily see the interior of the room, and he beheld that which 
 riveted him, spell-bound, to the spot, and drove every drop of 
 blood to his heart. 
 
 He saw his father sitting close beside the window, so close, 
 that his lightest movement caused one of his arras to hit the 
 curtain. 
 
 On the floor, before him, there stood an open trunk, of medium 
 size, which, apparent.lv, !iad been pulled from beneath the bed, 
 and from which Colonel Mapleson had taken it portfolio, while 
 he wan ohsorbed in looking over a package of letters which it 
 contained. 
 
 He was very pale, and his son could perceive traces of deep 
 emotion on his face, which seemed to have grown strangely old. 
 during the last two hours. 
 
 The young man drew hack, after that one look, the color all 
 jont. from his own face, and his lips strangely compressed.
 
 222 ROBERT DALPTS WILL BROUGHT TO LIGHT. 
 
 Without making tho slightest noise, he stole from the veranda 
 picked up his shoes, and hurried from the place. 
 
 Outside the gate, he paused long enough to replace his shoes 
 on his feet, when he again mounted his horse, and rode quietly 
 away. 
 
 Half an hour later Colonel Mapleson emerged from the front 
 door of the cottage, and, after looking cautiously around, as if 
 he was afraid of being observed, he passed quickly down tha 
 steps, out of the gate, carefully closing it after him, and then 
 strode rapidly toward a thick growth of trees and bushes, behind 
 "which he had fastened his horse. 
 
 Springing into his saddle, he spoke sharply to the animal, and 
 rode away at a brisk trot in the opposite direction from that 
 which Everet had taken a little while before. 
 
 Bnt at the end of a mile or so, he turned abruptly into an 
 other cart path, and, after nearly an hour's ride, came in sight 
 of the Hermitage. 
 
 Dismounting, he led his horse behind the house into the di 
 lapidated ptable, where he would be sheltered and concealed 
 from sight, if any one chanced to pass that way, and then he 
 made his own way inside the Hermitage. 
 
 It was evident, from all his movements, that he had come 
 there with some settled purpose, for he drew a hammer and 
 chisel from one of his pockets, and then commenced a system 
 atic examination of the room that had been Robert Dale's 
 sanctum. 
 
 Bnt it proved to be a rather discouraging undertaking, for 
 there was very little about the room to suggest a place of con 
 cealment for anything of a valuable character. 
 
 There was so little wood-work about the house that there was 
 not much chance for secret panels or closets. The doors were 
 of oak solid oak, for he tested them thoroughly with his ham 
 mer. The book-cases offered not the slightest evidence of any 
 hiding-place; the desk he examined several times, finding the 
 compartment of which Everet had told him, but no other, al 
 though he critically examined every portion of it. 
 
 The floor was of brick, paved in herring-bone patterns, bnt 
 there was no indication that a single brick had ever been removed 
 for any purpose whatever, although he inspected the whole sur 
 face with the utmost care. At last, wearied out with his fruitless 
 efforts, he sat down in the chair before the desk, to rest and to 
 think. 
 
 "I am confident," he muttered, "that the man must have 
 made a will, and that there are other papers existing, represent 
 ing a large amount of property. I believe he cunningly con 
 cealed them during his lifetime, thinking that, when he came to 
 die he would have warning enough to enable him to confide his 
 Becret to some trustworthy person." 
 
 He looked up at the ceiling; he closely scrn tin i:;pd tho window
 
 ROBERT DAL fTJi WILL BROUGHT TO LIGHT. 223 
 
 casings and tlie fire place. Bnt there wasn't a crack nor a 
 crevice that promised revelation of any kind. 
 
 Suddenly au idea struck him, aud he hastily arose from his 
 chair. 
 
 It as a stout office chair, cushioned with leather tht \vaa 
 nailed to the frame. He turned it bottom side np. Nothing 
 but solid wood met his gaze. 
 
 He set it upright atrain and passed his hand over the cushion. 
 It was springiest* and to all appearance had never been dis 
 turbed since it was first nailed to the chair. 
 
 After thinking a moment, Colonel Mapleson took his jack- 
 knife from his pocket and deliberately cut the cover entirely off. 
 
 Only a scant layer of curled hair lay beneath, closely matted 
 and tilled with dust. H^ removed this, and instantly an ex 
 clamation of satisfaction escaped him, for there, in the bottom 
 of the chair, he had discovered a square lid, so cunningly and 
 smoothly fitted in its place that no one would ever have sus 
 pected it was there. 
 
 A tiny leather strap indicated how it was to be lifted from its 
 place. He eagerly removed it, and, underneath, discovered a 
 small japanned trunk about twelve inches .square. 
 
 It was the work of but a moment to take it from its cunning 
 place of concealment, where it had lain undisturbed for so many 
 years, and set it upon the desk before him. 
 
 Then he sat down again, and gravely looked at it, while he 
 actually trembled with excitement, and drops of perspiration, 
 stood all over his face. 
 
 It was strange that the unearthing of another man's secrets 
 should affect bin; thus, and it almost seemed ns if be shrank 
 with a sort of supen-titious terror from examining the contents 
 of that inoffensive-looking trunk. 
 
 At length he raised the hasp, and threw back the lid. The 
 first tiling that met his eye was a document lal>eled, " Will of 
 Robert Dale," with the date, showing that it had been made only 
 a few years previous to the man's death. 
 
 With a slight shiver of repugnance, Colonel Mapleson laid it 
 unopened on the desk. 
 
 Underneath he found several bank-books and certificates, all 
 in Robert Dale's name. Then, to his astonishment, he found a 
 lady's kid glove that once had been white; a handkerchief, h'na 
 and sheer, edged with soft lace, and marked with the initials, 
 "N. D. ," worked in with hair. A little package, containing a 
 few faded flowers, lay at the bottom of the trunk, and the secret 
 of Robert Dale's hermit life, and of the disposal of bis property, 
 was a secret no longer. 
 
 An examination of the bank-books and certificates revealsd 
 the fact that many thousands of dollars would fall to Robert 
 Dale's heir or heirs, whoever they might be, and that point 
 doubtless the will would settle.
 
 224 ROBERT DALE'S WILL BROUGHT TO LIGHT. 
 
 Colonel Mapleson iv placed the contents of the trunk just nci he 
 had found them, until he came to the will, whicli lie hold irres 
 olutely in his hands for a long time, and apparently absorbed in 
 thought. 
 
 "Somebody has to know first or last,*' he at length muttered, 
 with a long-drawn sigh, but lie shivered with a sort of nervous 
 dread as he unfolded the document, whicli was not sealed, 
 and began to rea;l it. 
 
 It was verr brief and comprehensive, bequeathing all that the 
 testator possessed, unreservedly, to "Annie Dale and her heirs 
 forever," and naming us lii.s executor a certain man residing iu 
 Richmond Richard Douglas, to whom alone had been con 
 fided the secret of the concealment of the will and other papers. 
 "Ah!"' said Colonel Miipleson, "this accounts for their never 
 having been discovered before. Richard Douglas was very ill 
 at the time of Robert Dale's death, and was himself buried only 
 a week later." 
 
 There was a codicil to the will, mentioning some later depo*its 
 which had been made in the name of Annie Dale, "certificates 
 of which would be found beneath a movable panel in one end of 
 the writer's desk, there being no room for them iu the trunk 
 with the others.' 1 
 
 Colonel Mapleson looked greatly disturbed when he finished 
 reading the document. 
 
 ^ "It would have been better for me had a mountain fallen 
 upon me, than the duty whicli this discovery imposes." he 
 groaned, as he laid it back in its place and closed the trunk. 
 "I must either do it, or commit a crime by withholding a for 
 tune from the lawful heir." 
 
 He fell into a pr-.. found reverie, which lasted until the sun 
 went down and the light began to grow dim and the air chil) 
 within that lonely dwelling. - 
 
 An impatient and prolonged whinnv from his horse at length 
 aroused him from his painful musings, when he arose, and, 
 taking the trunk with him, he left the house, brought forth his 
 horse from his long fast, and started on his homeward way. 
 
 It was quite dark when he reached Vue de 1'Eau, and, by 
 exercising a little caution, he managed to effect an entrance to 
 his library unobserved, where he immediately concealed the 
 trophy which he had that day discovered. 
 
 While Colonel Mapleson had been engaged with his laborious 
 search at the Hermitage, his son was earnestly pursuing investi 
 gations elsewhere. 
 
 Aft?r stealing noiselessly away from the cottage, where he 
 hail discovered his father within it looking over that trunk, he 
 only proceeded as far as the old mill, where heagain dismounted, 
 and leading his horse beneath a shed that was attached to it, and
 
 ROBERT DALE'S WILL BROUGHT TO LIGHT. 226 
 
 which was so thickly overgrown witli vines that it made a very 
 secure hiding-place, he fastened him to a pout, after which he 
 dimmed the stairs to the main |>oriin of t lie crnzy structure, 
 and remained there, watching until lie saw Colonel Maplesou 
 leave the cottage, and when he was well out of sight lie stole 
 back to the mysterious little house, r :sol\ed not to leave it again 
 until he, too, had Keen the contents of that hitherto unsuspected 
 trunk, and learned the secn-t of its being there. 
 
 He effected an entrance the same way that he had done before 
 by shaking loose tne bolt on the kitchen door made his war 
 to the bedroom, lifted the valance of the couch and looked 
 eagerly beneath it. 
 
 Tiie truuk was there. 
 
 It was the work of but a moment to pull it forth from its hiding- 
 place, but it was not so easy to open it. 
 
 He pried patiently at the lock for a h>ng time before be suc 
 ceeded in forcing it ; but it. gave way at last, and. with a thrill 
 of expectation, mingled with something of awe and dread, he 
 laid back the lid to examine the contents. 
 
 It. was packed full of clothing. 
 
 Thers were dainty dresses of different materials silk, and 
 \vnol. and muslin. There wer<* mantels and jackets, with under 
 clothing, finely embroidered >md tiimmed with lace, besides 
 many other accessories of a refined lady's toilet. There were 
 ] -rettv boxes filled with laces, ribbons, handkerchiefs, and 
 ploves. Tlisire was n small jewel casket, in which there were a 
 few but expensive articles of jewelrv-- a wntch case, containing 
 a small enameled and jeweled watch and chain, and many other 
 articles in that closely-packed trunk. 
 
 Hut Evereb cnr^d tor none of these tilings; he wa bunting 
 for. and at last he found, that, portfolio over which his father 
 lind been so much absorbed, and IIP seized it with an air of tri 
 umph, for he believed it mu*t contain th solution of the secret 
 which of late bad caused him many sleepless nights and anxious 
 days.
 
 226 TWO LETTERS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 TWO LETTERS. 
 
 The portfolio was not locked, and within it Everet discovered 
 numerous letters, nil of which were addressed to "Miss Annie 
 Dale." Most of them were in ladies' handwriting, and a planoe 
 sufficed to show that they were from schoolmates and girlish 
 friends. 
 
 There were also several essays, which had evidently been writ 
 ten bv Annie herself, when she was at school, and these were 
 carefully tied together with a narrow and faded bine ribbon. A 
 package of little billets contained locks of hair of various colors 
 and shades, fancifully braided and glued to the paper, each with 
 the name of the donor written underneath, liiere were a few 
 drawings, very neatly done, some of landscapes, others of 
 flowers, ferns, and grasses, and one that brought a startled cry 
 from Everet Mapleson's lips, for it was a faithful representation 
 of that very house in the mining village of New Mexico, that he 
 had visited only a few weeks since. The same hand had done 
 this that had drawn the others, there could be no doubt, even 
 if the initials "A. D." at the bottom had not testified to the 
 fact. 
 
 " 'A. D.,' " murmured the young man. "The puzzle is slowly 
 unweaving itself. This trunk must have been brought here 
 after she died ; but by whom?" 
 
 His face was very grave and troubled, for disagreeable 
 thoughts and suspicions came crowding thick and fast upon 
 him. 
 
 He put the drawings carefully back into the pocket from 
 which ho had taken them, and then continued his examination 
 of the portfolio. But he found nothing in the other pockets, 
 save a goodly supply of stationery, and ha finally came to the 
 conclusion that if there had been any papers of importance in 
 the receptacle they had probably been removed by his father 
 that very day. 
 
 He began listlessly turning over the blotting leaves that were 
 attached to the middle of the portfolio ; there was now and 
 then a half sheet of paper between them, but nothing else, until 
 he came to the last two, when a scrap of paper with some writ 
 ing upon it in a bold, masculine hand, fell fluttering to the 
 floor. 
 
 Everet stooped and picked it up to return it to its place, but 
 the instant the writing met his eye, the hot blood mounted to 
 his brow, and he exclaimed, in a startled tone : 
 
 "At last I have found it!"
 
 TWO LETTERS. 227 
 
 It was the* other half of that letter, which had been torn in 
 two, and which lie had found caught in the writing-desk during 
 his previous visit to the cottage. And this is how it appeared : 
 
 "SANTA FE, June 10, 18 . 
 NIE: 
 
 It is with deep pain and 
 
 just learned of the death of 
 
 se I know that this leaves 
 
 annuity which was hers 
 
 se and your future is 
 
 tie friend ! I can say 
 
 n how vain and 
 
 me; but, believe me, my 
 
 you, and were it pos- 
 
 and strive to cheer 
 
 I am now going to ask a 
 
 6 been friends during all our 
 
 not refuse me. 
 
 the cottage. Let it be still 
 
 as it has been in the 
 
 any restrictions . 
 
 alone, for it would 
 
 secnre some com- 
 
 n yourself who will . 
 
 . Do not mind the 
 
 that we are relatives 
 
 in this extremity 
 
 ck sufficient for 
 
 when I return 
 
 ent arrangement 
 
 I shall be very 
 
 you. 
 
 our friend, 
 
 " WILLIAM MAPLESON." 
 
 Everet merely glanced at this, then taking his wallet from 
 one of his pockets, he drew from it a folded paper. 
 
 It was the other half of the torn letter. 
 
 He laid the two portions together; the nigged edges fitted ex 
 actly, the writing was identical, and the epistle was complete, 
 and read thus: 
 
 "SANTA FB. June 10, 18. 
 "My DBAB ANNIE: 
 
 "It is with deep pain and 
 
 regret that I have just learned of the death of 
 your mother. Of course I know that this leaves 
 you alone, and that the annuity which was here 
 for life only must now cease, and your future is 
 unprovided for. My poor little friend, I can say 
 nothing to comfort you, for I know how vain and 
 cold words are at such a time; but, believe me, my
 
 TWO LETTERS. 
 
 heart is with you. I sorrow with yon, and were it pos 
 sible I would come to yon and strive to cheer 
 yon iu this sad hour. .but I am now going to ask a 
 favor of you, Annie we have been friends during all imr 
 life, and surely you will not refuse me. 
 
 "I want yoo to remain in the cottage. Let it be still 
 your home for the future us it has been in the 
 past It is yours without any restrictions. 
 
 "You must not, however, stay there alone, for it would 
 not be safe, and I want you to secure some com 
 panion - some one older than yourself, who will 
 be a sort of protector to you. Do not mind the 
 expense, Annie, for you know that we are relatives. 
 1 have a right to care for you in this extremity. 
 
 "Inclosed you will find check sufficient for 
 your present necessities, and when I return 
 I will make some permanent arrangement 
 for you. Write me at once, for I shall be very 
 anxious until I hear from you. 
 
 "Ever your friend, 
 
 " WILLIAM MAPLESON." 
 
 "I thought the writing was familiar to me. I suspected my 
 father wrote it from the first, and yet his hand has changed very 
 iniiv-li since this was written. But surely there is nothing in this 
 merely friendly epistle to warrant swell dreadful suspicions as 
 liave nearly driven me wild during these last few weeks. I have 
 believed tlie wry worst that it was he wno enticed her away, 
 and then betrayed her confidence. I know that he was in New 
 Mexico at that time; I know that she went there and lived with 
 Borne one for a year; and then that ring seemed to prove every 
 thing to me. Still, this is not a lover's letter; it is simply a 
 friendly expression of sympathy and interest, and a desire to 
 provide for a relative who had no one to rely upon. Heavens! 
 will this mystery never lie solved?" he concluded, rising and 
 shutting Hie portfolio, but retaining the scrap of paper he had 
 found. 
 
 He replaced everything in the trunk, closed it, though he 
 could not lock it again, then pushed it back under the bed; after 
 which lie went quickly out of the house, feeling depressed anfl 
 bitterly disappointed that he had discovered nothing tangible, 
 either to prove or dissipate his supicions. 
 
 As he stepped off the veranda, something white fluttered ill 
 the tall grass at his feet. 
 
 It was another letter. 
 
 A thrill went tingling all along his nerves, as lie stooped and 
 picked it up. 
 
 It was addressed to "Mi*s Annie Dale, Richmond, Va.," and 
 bore the date of Ju'y 15tli, of the same year as the other one 
 already in his possession.
 
 TWO LETTERS. 229 
 
 It was also in the flame handwriting, and had been mailed from 
 Santa Fe. 
 
 'This is one of the things that he came hither to secure, and 
 jbe must have dropped it as he passed ont," Everet mnnnmvd, 
 as lie sat down upon a step, drew the letter from iU envelope, 
 aud began to read it 
 
 "My DEAB ANNIE," it began, like the other, "your reply to my for- 
 mer letter has hurt me keenly. I cannot bear the thought of yoni 
 going ont into the world alone to earn your own living. I hoped that 
 you would be content to remain in your own home, and let me pro 
 vide for you as a brother would do. But since you refuse how cold 
 and dignified your refusal was, too! I am forced to break all barriers 
 down and make a confession that for years I had yearned to make and 
 dare not. Annie, you must not become a governess; I should be 
 wretched to think of yoii in such a situation. If you will not let nie 
 take care of you there at home, in a friendly way, you must come to me 
 here; for, darling, I love you I have always loved you, ever since we 
 played together, as childrec by the brook near the old mill, sailing 
 our tiny ships side by side, ani premised each other that, when we 
 were older, we would 'be married, and make a voyage round the world 
 together.' Come and redeem that promise to me now, Annie, darling. 
 Do not hesitate because it wi 1 involve the sacrifice of the fortune be 
 queathed to me, under certaia conditions, for I cannot- I will not 
 marry my Cousin Estelle while I love another as I love you; and what 
 is all the wealth of the world compared with our happiness? I am 
 doing finely here in the mines. ia,a few years, at this rate, I shall be 
 worth even more than I shill have to forfeit by this step, BO I will 
 gladly relinquish every dollaj to Estelle for you, my darling. 
 
 "Annie, I believe that you .ove me I have long believed it- and I 
 have yearned to make this confession, and to hear a similar one from 
 
 Jorr lips, for a long, long time. Had I not been hampered by Uncl 
 abez's will, and an unworthy vacillation on account of it, I should have 
 tolJ you this that last delightful summer we spent together. But I 
 have passed the Rubicon now, so do not ruin all my hopes. I am 
 iorry that I cannot come to yon, my own love. But my presence is ab 
 solutely necessary here, and I cannot leave for such a long trip; but if 
 your heart responds to mine if you will come to me and give your 
 self to me, I will meet you on the way, at Kansas City, and from there 
 I will take my little wife to her own home among the mountains of 
 New Mexico, where we will be all in all to each other. You will not 
 mind the isolation for a little while, will you, love, until I can make 
 my fortune, when we will return again to our own dear sunny South? 
 Annie, will you trust me? Will you come? If you do not, I believe 
 my life will be ruined. Do not think, for a moment, that I shall ever 
 regret Jabez Mapleson's money. I shall not if I can have you. Judge 
 me by your own heart. 
 
 "Inclosed you will find the route you are to take, carefully mapped 
 aut, and the check that you would not keep before my proud little 
 woman! I feel sure that you can come with perfect safety alone as far 
 as Kansas City, where I shall be surely waiting to receive you. Send 
 a telegram naming the day and the hour when you will start. 
 
 "One thing more, love -say nothing to any one of yonr plans; leave
 
 230 TWO LETTERS. 
 
 that to me, to explain after we are one. Annie, you will not fail me. I 
 could not bear it now, for I have set all my hopes upon you, I shall 
 not rest until i receive your telegram. 
 
 "Ever your own, WILL." 
 
 Everet Mapleson's face was as white as that of the dead as he 
 finished reading this epistle. 
 
 "It is all true, after all," he said, with blazing eyes and through 
 his tightly locked teeth. "It was he who enticed her away in 
 secret, hiding her in that ont-of-the- way place literally burying 
 her alive. I have been convinced of it ever since I found that ring 
 with those initials 'W. M. to A. D.' engraved within it, and 
 yet I kept hoping it could riot be proved. So she went to him 
 foolish girl! believing that he'd marry her and give up his 
 money; and she only lived one short year! 
 
 "Now Geoffrey Huntress* strange resemblance to me is all ac 
 counted for," he went on, after a fit of musing; "he is my father's 
 sou and my half broiher, and to him will belong all Robert 
 Dale's ' fortune if he should ever learn the secret of his birth. 
 Now I understand why he was given into Jack and Margaret 
 Henly's cnre. It would have been very awkward for the heir 
 of half Jabez Mapleson's fortune if that New Mexican escapade 
 Lad leaked out. But I cannot comprehend how the boy became 
 an imbecile an accident, Mr. Huntress said and I suppose 
 those people got tired of caring for him and cast him off. No; 
 that can't be, either, for that woman seemed terribly upset about 
 it. It's all a wretched puzzle, anyhow. 
 
 "Zounds!" he continued, with sudden energy, "the governor 
 is a wonderful actor. He never betrayed himself by so much as 
 the quiver of an eyelid, this morning, when we talked about this 
 girl's disappearance. I wonder what he will do about that 
 money? Will he dare keep it? or will he try to find the boy and 
 make it over to him in some roundabout way? No; I do not be 
 lieve he will ever run any risk of having that New Mexican es 
 capade revealed. He couldn't quite stand that, and my hatightr 
 mamma would never forgive him. He will keep the money, ami 
 say nothing. Geoffrey Huntress will never get his fortune, fop 
 / shall keep the secret that I have this day discovered closely 
 locked in my own breast. Neither he nor ray father shall ever 
 learn through me that he is an heir of the houses of Dale aud 
 Maplsson. 
 
 "He loved her, though I am sure he loved her!" he resumed, 
 his eyes falling upon that still open letter. "This shows it in 
 almost every line; aud his face to-day, as I caught a glimpse of 
 it through the window, as he bent over that trunk, looked as if 
 he hud just buried the dearest object of his life. It must have 
 been hard to look at all her pretty fixings and remember that one 
 short, happy year; for they were very happy, according to Bob 
 Whittaker's story. That is the reason he keeps this house, aud
 
 "HE IS NOT NAMH.LES&" 231 
 
 all in it, so sacred. Why couldn't lie htive married her, like a 
 man? Money! money! 1 believe it is only a curse to half the 
 people in tlie world." 
 
 He arose, folded the letter, and put it in his pocket; then 
 going to thoold mill, he unfabtened his horse, mounted, and rode 
 back to Vue de 1'Eau, looking stern, aud grave, aud unhappy. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 ''HE IS NOT NAMELESS.' 
 
 October and November passed without any event of special 
 interest occurring in connection with any of our characters. 
 
 In Brooklyn, in the home of August Huntress, these were very 
 busy days, but every member of the household was full of hope 
 and happiness. 
 
 Gladys and Geoffrey saw but comparatively little of eacli other, 
 except during the evening, for Geoffrey went early to the office 
 in New York every morning, and did not return until dinner 
 time at nix; but both were looking forward to the thirtieth of 
 December, the date set for their uniou, with all the fond antici 
 pations of young and loving hearts. 
 
 Their engagement was formally announced immediately after 
 it was decided that Geoffrey was to go abroad, aud cards for the 
 wedding were issued by the first of December. 
 
 Congratulations poured in upon the young couple from all 
 quarters, and, the winter being an exceptionally gay one, invi 
 tations abroad were numerous and pressing, their friends urging 
 their presence, since they were to lose their society entirely dur 
 ing their long absence in Europe. 
 
 Everet Maploson, while reading the fashionable items in a 
 New York paper one morning, came across the announcement 
 of this approaching marriage. 
 
 He bounded from his chair with a muttered imprecation. 
 
 "So soon!" he said, with a frowning irow. "They are in a 
 great hurry, it seems to me; but perhaps the trip abroad explains 
 it. Let me see they are to be married on the thirtieth," he 
 continued, referring to the paper again, "and will sail the next 
 day on the Scythia. The Scythia? That is not a New York 
 steamer that sails from Boston; so, of course, they will have to 
 leave New York immediately after their marriage to be in season 
 for it." 
 
 He paced up and down the room, with bent head and ullen, 
 thoughtful brow. 
 
 All at once he gave a violent start. 
 
 "I wonder," he muttered, stopping short in bis pacing; "I 
 wonder if it would be possible to manage it?" 
 
 He tossed back the disheveled hair from bis forehead; his
 
 232 "HE IS NOT NAMELESS." 
 
 eyes blazed with some sudden purpose, his lips were Bet in a 
 lii in. liviil line. 
 
 "/ sludl tru for it," he said, in a low, hoarse whisper. "I have 
 everv tiling to \vm or lose, and I will not yield without a desper- 
 ate struggle." 
 
 Two hours later his portmanteau was packed, and he was tak 
 ing leave of his father and mother. 
 
 They expressed great surprise over his sudden departure, and 
 protested against his leaving home before the holidays, since they 
 had uiiidf arrangements for u gay time at Christmas, chiefly oa 
 bis account. 
 
 But he was resolute, and would not be turned from his pur 
 pose. 
 
 'There is to be a great wedding in New York on the thirtieth, 
 for which 1 am booked," he explained, though lie did not say 
 who was to be married; "and 1 would not miss it for anything.'* 
 
 "Weil, but you could easily reach New York in season for this 
 wedding, even if you do not leave until alter Christmas." his 
 mother pleaded, for she was greatly disturbed to have him leave 
 Lome at this time, while she suspected, from his gloomy face, 
 who was to be married, and felt sure he was only heaping up 
 misery for himself in going to New York. 
 
 "Perhapn I will come back just for your grand party at 
 Christmas," he said, to appease her and be allowed to get off 
 without further objections; "but I must run up North fora 
 week or two, anyhow." 
 
 He readied the city on the morning of the sixth, and proceed 
 ed directly to the club, of which he was a member, and where 
 be KOOII learned all that was going on among the bon ton. 
 
 During the following day lie called upon Gladys' friend, Miss 
 Ad die Loring, from whom he meant to get all the particulars 
 of the approaching wedding. 
 
 Miss Loring received him with evident pleasure. 
 
 "Where have you kept yourself nil winter, Mr. Mnpleson?" 
 ghe questioned, brightly, as she cordially grve him her hand. 
 "J feared you had deserted us altogether since leaving college." 
 
 "1 have been in the South most of the time, but something, 
 more powerful than home influence, constrained me to come to 
 New York for a little taste of society and city life," Everet re 
 turned, in a tone and with a look that made the young lady's 
 bright eyes droop consciously. 
 
 "Will you remain until the end of the season?" 
 
 "That depends," he replied, with a significant smile, which, 
 made her hcsut flutter strangely. 
 
 "New York is very gay this winter, and there will be plenty 
 
 to entertain you for as long as you choose to remain," Miss Lor 
 
 ing promised, wi'.h a charming smile. "I suppose," she added, 
 
 "you have heard of the great wedding that is to come off on 
 
 'the thirtieth?"
 
 IIS IS NOT NAMELESS." 233 
 
 "The great wedding' Whose?" Everet questioned, feigning 
 ignor.uu-e, ulthungh the chief object of his call was lu learn all 
 he ciuild about it. 
 
 "Why, thut of your classmate and double, Mr. Geoffrey Hunt 
 ress, and my dear friend, Gladys. I am astonished that you have 
 Dot heard of it," said MissAddie, really surprised that he should 
 not iiave received cards for the marriage. 
 
 "All! So Huntress is going to marry Miss Gladys, is lie? 
 Pray, what name will he bestow npon the lady?" the young uinn 
 asked, with a curl of his handsome lips. 
 
 "Why, of course, there will be no change of name Geoff was 
 legally adopted by Mr. Huntress, so that makes everything all 
 right," returned Miss Loru,g, looking a trifle displeased at the 
 slur that had been cast at her friend's betrothed. 
 
 "Then the groom-elect has never been able to discover the 
 secret of his parentage?" Everet remarked, inquiringly. 
 
 "1 think not." 
 
 "Are you pleased with this match, Miss Loving?" 
 
 "Of course I am I tbi;k Geoffrey Huntress is a magnificent 
 man," she affirmed, emphatically. "It would, doubtless, be a 
 great comfort to him to have the mystery of his birth solved ; 
 but it doesn't matter, really they love each other devotedly, 
 and \\ill make a splendid couple." 
 
 Evei-et winced under these last words, but deemed it wiser 
 to keep his s'-eers and slurs to himself. 
 
 "I suppose it the welding will be a very grand affair?" be 
 remarked. 
 
 'Very ; there are to be six bridesmaids, of whom I am to be 
 the chief," responded Miss Addie, with animation. "They will 
 be married in Plymouth Church." 
 
 "In church!*' interposed Everet, with an eager look. "Will it 
 be in the evening?" 
 
 'Yes, in the early evening at five o'clock and they will re 
 ceive from six until eight. Mr. Huntress lias spared no expense 
 to make it a very brilliant affair. But I am surprised I sup 
 posed, having been a classmate, yon would have received cards 
 for the wedding, Mr. Mapleson," Miss Ijoring concluded. 
 
 "No, I have not been honored. Will the happy couple settle 
 in N-\v York? ' 
 
 "R'-ally, Mr. Mapleson, you are behind the times," laughed his 
 companion. "No, indeed, they sail the next day, at twelve, for 
 Europe, to be gone for six months. Will not that he delight 
 ful? If the con rue of true love never ran smoothly before, it has 
 done so in this rase, for there has been nothing to mar it from 
 the beginning." 
 
 Everet Mapleson's eyes gleamed sfrangely at this, and a spot 
 of bright color leaped into his cheeks. 
 
 'On what steamer do they sail?" he inquired. 
 
 "Ou the Scythia, from Boston, owiug to Borne business con-
 
 234: "HE IS NOT NAMELESS." 
 
 nected with that city. That is why tlio marriage and reception 
 are set so early ; they leave New York on an evening train, and 
 will arrive in Boston early the next, morning;. Oh!" conc-lniled 
 the young lady, with a sigh, "1 shall miss Gladys more than I 
 can tell you." 
 
 "No doubt." Everet observed; and then, after conversing a 
 few moments longer upon indifferent topit-.-, huviug obtained all 
 the points he wished, he arose to take his leave. 
 
 His chief object in calling had been to assure himself that, ha 
 had not been misinformed regarding any of the details of the ap 
 proaching marriage. 
 
 His next plan was to meet Gladys somewhere, if possible. 
 
 It was easy enough to do this, by securing invitations to the 
 receptions among the elite, and a few evenings later he found 
 her at a fashionable party on Lexington avenue. 
 
 She seemed lovelier than ever, with the rosy glow of perfect 
 health on her face, her beautiful eyes gleaming with happiness, 
 and her lips wreathed with smiles. 
 
 Her dress, on this occasion, was vastly becoming, consisting 
 of a deep shade of ecru, embroidered with a delicate shaiie of 
 blue intermingled with silver. Ornaments of silver in rilijrree, 
 and set with diamonds, were on her neck and arms, while a 
 graceful aigrette of blue and white was fastened in her hair by a 
 Star, to mate! i her other ornaments. 
 
 She started slightly as she met Everot Mapleson's glance fixed 
 upon her. He was HO much like Geoffrey that it was almost im 
 possible, even now, for her to distinguish them apart. 
 
 The next moment he was bowing before her, with extended 
 hand. 
 
 "It seems a long time since we met, Miss Huntress," he said, 
 in a tone which deepened the color in her checks, for it reminded 
 her vividly of not only their last meeting, but also their part 
 ing. 
 
 But she thought best to ignore it all, and so returned his greet 
 ing with lady-like courtesy. 
 
 "i suppose you have been in yonr Southern home, Mr. Ma- 
 pleson," she said. "I should think yon would hardly like to 
 leave its genial climate for our rigorous winter here." 
 
 "There are sometimes stronger attractions than a genial cli 
 mate in winter," he replied, with an earnest look into her lovely 
 eyes. 
 
 "Yes, New York is very attractive just now," she returned, de 
 termined not to appropriate his significant remark to herself. 
 "Do you remain here long?" 
 
 "I think I may stav through this inonfh " he answered, with 
 an emphasis upon the last two words that brought the quick 
 blood again to h^r cheeks, for she knew that he was thinking of 
 her approaching marriage. 
 
 Still, she waa willfully obtuse.
 
 "HE IS NOT NAMELESS." 236 
 
 "What!" she exclaimed, archly. "Can you content yourself 
 away from home during the holidays?" 
 
 "Yes at least for this year. Miss Huntress, will yon give my 
 name a place upon your dancing-list?" he asked, glancing at the 
 card that was suspended by a silken cord from her corsage. 
 Gladys opened and held it up before him, with a smile. 
 It was full, and she was glad it happened so. 
 His face fell, for his quick glance detected Geoffrey's name 
 against several dances 
 
 "I am too late, I perceive," he said, with a bow; '-but, per 
 chance I may be more fortunate before the month is out." 
 
 Something in his tone more than the words made her regard 
 
 him closely, and a sort of chill smote her heart as she marked the 
 
 peculiar gleam in his eye and the resolute lines about his mouth. 
 
 Some one claimed her just then, and, with a polite bow, sbe 
 
 excused herself and left him, glad to get awav from his presence. 
 
 The next time they met was more than a week later, at the 
 
 opera. 
 
 Gladys was spending a few days with her friend, Addie Lor- 
 ing. It was to be her last visit before her marriage, and the two 
 girls were making the most of it. 
 
 Mr. Loving invited them to accompany him to bear Parepa 
 Rosa, and sent word to Geoffrey to join them; but he had an en 
 gagement for the first half of the evening, and could not; he 
 would, however, joiu them later, he said in the note that he sent 
 his betrothed. 
 
 Mrs. Loring was not well, and did not feel equal to going out, 
 and so her husband had to be both chaperon and escort for the 
 young ladies. 
 
 Everet Mapleson saw them the moment they entered their box, 
 while it was not long before Miss Loring discovered iiis vicinity, 
 when she bowed and smiled most cordially. A moment later she 
 leaned forward and whispered to hrr father, who nodded assent, 
 and then made a signal for Everet to come and join his party. 
 
 The voting man needed no second invitation, and was soon 
 seated between the two young ladies, payly parrying Miss Lor- 
 ing's witty shots at his having come to the opera nil alone, when 
 there were so many belles and beauties who would have been de 
 lighted to share the pleasure with him. 
 
 Gladys drew herself a little apar 1 :. 'She felt uncomfortable to 
 have him there, under any circum stances, while, too. she w;is in 
 terested in the opera, and it annoyed her to have those around 
 her conversing, even though it wns scarcely above their breath. 
 When the curtain went down, after the second act, Addie Lor- 
 inc raided her gl-.iss and began gazing about her. 
 
 Suddenly her face lighted, and^ending forward, she waved 
 her hand to some one in the audience near them. 
 
 'Oh. papa," she said, turning eagerly to her father, "thero is 
 Sadie Nutting! She must have. "returned on the last steam, r.
 
 236 "HE IS NO T If A MELES?. " 
 
 See! she is beckoning to me. Will yon take me to her just, fora 
 few moments, while tlie curtain is down? 1 am sure Gladys 
 and Mr. Mapleson will exsnse us and entertain each other while 
 we are gone, and we won't be five minutes." 
 
 Mr, Loring glanced nt Everet, hoping he would offer to es 
 cort liis daughter, for he was too comfortably seated to care ti> 
 be disturbed, 
 
 But the young man had HO such intention; this was just the 
 opportunity he had been wanting, ever since he came to New 
 York, inn! lie meant to improve it, even though he should have 
 only "live minutes." He said: 
 
 "Certainly, certainly," to Miss Loring, "go, by all means, to 
 Bee your friend, if yon wish," and he watched the father anil 
 daughter with a secret thrill of triumph as they weufc out, leav 
 ing him alone with Gladys. 
 
 She was greatly disturbed by the incident. 
 
 She could not blame Addie, for she knew that she was ignor 
 ant of her feelings toward Everet Mapleson; but she wished, 
 with all her heart, that Geoffrey would come, so that she need 
 not be alohe with Everet. 
 
 The moment the doors closed upon Mr. Loring and his 
 daughter, Everet turned smilingly toward his companion, and 
 drew his chair nearer to her. 
 
 "Thank the fates, and that giddy girl, for this supreme mo 
 ment," lie began, in a low, passionate tone; adding: "Gladys, 
 Lave yon forgotten our last private interview at Vassar?" 
 
 Ghvdvs looked up ut him, .both startled and indignant. 
 
 "I should be ghid to lorget it, Mr. Mapleson, if you would 
 allow me to do so, for your sake as well as niy own," she re 
 turned, with cold dignity. 
 
 "I do not wish you to forget it, Gladys," he returned, with 
 increasing fervor, "for I love you a hundred fold more to-night, 
 and I must unburden my heart to you, or it will burst." 
 
 "Mr. Maplesou!" Gladys said, half rising from her chair, a 
 flash of anger in her eyes, "you shall not say such things to me; 
 you know you have no right '* 
 
 "I have a right,'' he interposed, hotly; "a right because of my 
 deathless love and my indomitable purpose to win yours in re 
 turn." 
 
 "Y<>u cannot! how dare you?" Gladys began again, but he 
 Would not 1ft her go on. 
 
 "I dare, because I must dare or die! oh! Gladys, I love you 
 so! have pity on me!' he said, and his voice died away in aa 
 agonized whisner, showing how terribly in earnest he was. 
 
 The yoi.ng gill was deathly pale now, and trembling in every 
 limb; but she faced him witk blazing eyes and curling lips, her 
 perfect form proudly erect. 
 
 "Yon are no gentleman," she said, scornfully, "to fmy such 
 words to one who, in less thau two weeks, will be the wife of an-
 
 "HE IS NOT NAMELESS" 257 
 
 other man; to take advantage of roe during the absence of nay 
 friends, and in a place like this force such a declaration up 
 on me." 
 
 "I conld not help it; I had no other time; you avoid me upon 
 every occasion," he returned, the blood flushing his face hotly 
 at her scorn. 
 
 "I have uo choice; your looks, your acts all compel ma 
 to " 
 
 "I cannot help them when I nm near you I forget every 
 thing l>nt that I love you!" he pleaded in excuse. 
 
 "Shame! Where is your sense of honor, that you persist in 
 such language to the affianced of another?" she panted. 
 
 "Twice you have thrown that in my teeth," he retorted, 
 fiercely, and fast losing eou*rol of himself. "Have you no 
 shame, that you confess yourself the affianced of a nameless out 
 cast?" 
 
 "He is not nameless, and you have no authority for calling 
 him an outcast," retorted Gladys, proudly, all her spirit rising 
 to arms at this attack upon her absent lover. 
 
 "Haven t I?" sneered the hot-headed young man. "Listen. 
 I have been looking up Geoffrey Dale's pedigree, since 1 saw 
 you last. I have traced him to his Uirthplt.ce. His mother 
 was a poor, but beautiful girl, without a home, without friends. 
 She had a rich lover, who could not marry her without sacrific 
 ing a fortune, and he loved his money t<>o well to do that, so ha 
 sacrificed the girl instead. Ho took her to a remote mining 
 district, where, hidden away from every one who ever knew her, 
 ehu lived with him for one short year, nnd died when her child 
 was only a month old. That child was Geoffrey Dale; his moth 
 er's name was Annie Dale, and he has no right to nny other, ex 
 cept the one that has been given him for charity's sake. You 
 have a right to be proud of your betrothed, Miss Huntress." 
 
 "I am proud of him! ' Gladys returned, in a firm, even tone. 
 Astonishment at Ev^ret Mapleson knowing so much about Gof- 
 frey had contributed more toward calming her excited nerves 
 than almost anything else could have done. "Yes, I am proud 
 of him, "she repeated, with a change of emphasis, "and you Iniva 
 told me nothing new, Mr. Mapleson. excepting that this young 
 girl had no home or friends, and that the man who took her to 
 New Mexico was rich, and willfully wronged her. Indeed, I 
 know- even more than you have told me." 
 
 "Mora! Do you know who his father was?" Everet Mapleson 
 exclaimed, with a start. 
 
 "No, nor do I wish to, if he was guilty of the atrocious act you 
 have named," Gladys returned, with 'itluM'ing scorn. "But tha 
 Bin will some day recoil upon hw o vn head; it can never change 
 my regard for one who is innately no 1 le and true." 
 
 "And you do not shrink from In-coming the wife of one upon 
 whom shame has rested from the hour of his birth?" demanded
 
 238 A THREAT AND A WH.DDING-RJNG. 
 
 Everet Mapleson, regarding the beautiful girl with astonish 
 ment. 
 
 "No," she replied, steadfastly; "no shame restsupon him; that 
 all belongs to the preceding generation; but I should shrink 
 with loathing from the man who betrayed Annie Dale, as you 
 represent, were he lord or prince he is only worthy of my con 
 tempt, and I would scorn him as I would the veriest blackleg in 
 this city." 
 
 Thp young man flushed hotly. It was not pleasant to listen to 
 such words, believing what he did; they touched a sensitive 
 Bpot. 
 
 "But this man of whom I have told you is a gentleman, never 
 theless," he said. 
 
 "A gentleman ?" 
 
 The words were uttered in the quietest possible tone, but the 
 contempt which trembled through it was matchless, and made 
 the young man wince as under a lash. 
 
 "Your distinctions are more nice than wise, Miss Huntress; 
 but, mark my words, yon shall never marry this man's illegiti 
 mate son!" he hissed, driven almost to a frenzy by her words, 
 her look, and tone. 
 
 She turned upon him, her face colorless, but with eyes gleam 
 ing like two points of tire. 
 
 "Yon insult me, sir! Yon insult one who is a hundred fold 
 more noble than yourself, by the use of such vile language. 
 Bnt." and she raised one daintily gloved hand to enforce her 
 words, "were his name doubly tainted by the sin of others, it 
 could not smirch the man I honor the man I love. It will he 
 the proudest day of my life when I wed Geoffrey Dale Huntress, 
 a.s Ishall, in spite of all that you have told me to-night, ay, even 
 though you should do your worst, and proclaim it from every 
 house-top in this city." 
 
 She was glorious, in her haughty pride and indignation, as she 
 gave utterance to these loyal sentiments, and Everet Mapleson 
 instinctively shrank before her with a sense of shame and humil 
 iation. At that moment the doors behind them swung open, 
 and Geoffrey himself entered the box. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 A THREAT AND A WEDDING KINO. 
 
 Gladys' first impulse, upon beholding her lover, was to spring 
 toward him, denounce the man who had so insulted her and 
 him, and demand to be conducted from his presence. 
 
 But her judgemnt told her that this would- ho very unwise; 
 there must be no scene in that public place; there must be no 
 quarrel between these two men, and perhaps it would be bettar
 
 A THREAT AND A WEDDING-KING. 239 
 
 that Geoffrey should never know tliat Everet Mapleson held the 
 secret of his birth. She knew that he would never vest until he 
 hail wrung it from him, and that, she believed, would never be 
 done without bitter feelings, and perhaps strife. 
 
 So, with a mighty effort, sue controlled herself, drew her 
 cloak a'-KMit her shoulders to hide the heaving of her bosom, as 
 sliw aro.se and turned a smiling, though still pale face, toward 
 her lover. 
 
 "You have come, Geoffrey; I am very glad. You will recog 
 nize an old classmate iu Mr. Mapleson," she said, as she moved 
 her chair farther into the shadow of the draperies and made 
 room for Geoffrey between herself and her other companion. 
 
 Everet tegarded the girl with wondering admiration. He 
 knew that she was laboring under intense excitement, and that 
 it required no light effort on her part to conceal it. He under 
 stood her motives that she wished to avoid a quarrel and a 
 scene, mid he thought her tact inimitable. 
 
 Geoffrey greeted his former college-mate courteously, which, 
 greeting Mapk-son returned with a cold, rather supercilious 
 bow. He was always conscious of his own moral inferiority 
 when iu Geoffrey's presence, and the feeling galled him exces 
 sively. 
 
 Geoffrey saw at once, in spite of Gladys' efforts to conceal it, 
 thut something had gone wrong with her, and he rightly guessed 
 that Everet Mapleson had been the cause of it. He gently seat 
 ed her, and then placed himself beside her, while Mr. Loring 
 and his daughter returned at that moment, and the party settled 
 themselves very comfortably for the remainder of the evening. 
 
 Everet devoted himself exclusively to Miss Loring, much to 
 that young lady's secret delight; her father gave his attention 
 entirely to the stage, thus leaving Geoffrey and Gladys to them 
 selves. 
 
 "What is it, dear? what has troubled you?" Geoffrey asked, 
 bending tenderly toward his betrothed, as he became more con 
 scious of the difficulty she was laboring under to retain her com 
 posure. 
 
 Gladys stole one little hand confidingly into his, under cover 
 of her opera cloak. 
 
 "Never mind, Geoff, now that I have you here; I will tell yon 
 some other time," she whispered, as she involuntarily turned 
 her still flashing eyes toward young Mapleson, while a slight 
 shiver ran through her frame. 
 
 Geffrey's glance followed hers, and his face clouded. 
 
 "Has he dared " he began, sternly. 
 
 "Hush!" she returned; "it is all past; he will never dare 
 again." 
 
 She saw that Geoffrey needed but a word to make him de 
 mand an explanation of his riv:il, and sue I'enred the worst from 
 a meeting between them; so sue resolved that she would not u 11
 
 240 A THREAT AND A 
 
 Lira what Everet had told her regarding liia parentage; at least, 
 not until after their marriage; perhaps, when they were on the 
 ocean, where it would lie impossible for him to take any aggres 
 sive measures until time liad served to cool his anger, bhe might 
 reveal to him what she hud learned. 
 
 So she tried to smile and appear interested in the opera, while 
 every moment she wished it \vonld end so that she might be re 
 leased from that terrible constraint. 
 
 It was over at last, to her intense relief. 
 
 Everet Mapleson escorted Miss Loring from the building, 
 but when the party readied the sidewalk they found Mich a 
 crowd before them that they were obliged to step back and wait 
 lor it to disperse before they could get to their carriage. 
 
 In doing this, Eve'vt Maplesou had managed so that ho should 
 Btand close beside Gladys, for he had determined to fire a part- 
 lug shot at her. 
 
 He luul been covertly watching her ever since their interview, 
 aud her attidude of trust and confidence toward Geoffrey had 
 been almost maddening to him. 
 
 She was beautiful beyond comparison when she faced him in 
 ber indignation, defending hei absent lover, and resenting the 
 insult offered to herself; he had never seen her so spirited be 
 fore, and it lent an added charm to her fascinations, while he 
 was filled with impotent rage that he was powerless to awaken 
 any feelings in her heart for him, tave those of scorn and cou- 
 teiupt. 
 
 "Why should he win?" he cried within himself, as lie. marked 
 Geoffrey's air of tender proprietorship; "he who has not, even a 
 name to otter her, while I, who am heir to the proud escutcheon 
 of Mapleson, and to a double fortune, perhaps a triple one, if he 
 never discovers who lie is, am able to excite nothing but aversion 
 and contempt. I swear I will not submit to it. and 1 wi'l fi,id 
 Borne wuy to part them, ev n now. He has crossed my path too 
 ui:inv times. 1 have never forgiven iiirn on the old score, and I 
 Vrill never forgive him for being an interloper in my mc>." 
 
 All this was in his mind us lie stood close beside the young 
 bride-elect, while waiting for Mr. Loring's carriage, and some 
 evil spirit possessed him to nsai! her again. 
 
 "Miss Huntress," he whispered, so close to her ear that no one 
 could possibly hear him in (lie tumult around them, "doubtless 
 you have heard that old saving. 'There is many a slip 'twixt cup 
 and lip.' ' 
 
 Gladys never noticed hii by go much as a glance. She might 
 liave been some beautiful statue, and deaf to all sounds, for any 
 evidence that she gave of having heard him. And y t he knew 
 Bhe could not have failed to catch every word that he Lad ot 
 tered. 
 
 His blood began to boil at bring thus ignored. 
 
 "Do you imagine that I shall tamely submit to see anothcv
 
 A Til HEAT AND A WS.UDlXG-mKO. 241 
 
 man win you, and he so far beneath von ? It shall never 
 be f" 
 
 Gladys tnnieil at this, anl looked straight into his eyes, and 
 actually stuiled a smile that tiro.'e him almost to a fnjiizy ; it 
 was like a winter's sunbeam reflected from ice sharp, dazzling, 
 chilling. 
 
 'The/o/Mre tense is not applicable in this case. Mr. Mapleson," 
 she ivtoited, in as icy a tone, while tin* air \\it.i which she set 
 tied tier small hand more firmly within her lover's arm plainly 
 said, 4> I am already won!" 
 
 Everet Maplesim ground his teeth in haffl.M rage. It was evi 
 dent that in uu open battle Miss Huntress was too much for 
 him. 
 
 "Wait," lie whispered again ; "th<> thirtieth may tell a different 
 Story ; at all events, you are warned." 
 
 She did not deign to notice his threat, and, an opening now 
 presenting itself, Mr. Loriug led the way to the carriage, where, 
 alter assisting his companion to enter, Mr. Majdesou took his 
 leave of the purty and went his way. 
 
 Geoffrey was very much disturbed when Gladys told him that 
 Everet Mapleson had again presumed to address words of love 
 to her for she had decided that this was all the explanation of 
 the affair at the opera that she would give him at present and 
 it required all her power of persuasion to prevent him from dt- 
 niiiiiding an apology for the insult. 
 
 "Let it puss, dear; pray let us have no trouble at this time," 
 she had urged. 
 
 'But you are almost ray wife, Gladys, and it is a terrible 
 affront to me as well as to you," Geoffrey returned, hotly. 
 
 "He is so far beneath you, Geoff, morally, that I cannot bar 
 to have you lower yourself enough to notice him. and believe 
 me, he received a lesson that he will not soon forget," Gladys 
 concluded, with a spirit and energv that both amused and de 
 lighted Geoffrey, who well knew what his betrothed was capable 
 of when once thoroughly aroused, and he could imagine some 
 thing of the scorn which the offender in question had called 
 down upon his devoted head b\ his presumption. So he finally 
 promised that he would not agitate too matter further, and he 
 realized that it might result in a scandal that would prove very 
 annoying just at that time. 
 
 It seemed, too, as if Everet Mapleson himself had no desire to 
 come iu contact with his successful rival, for he suddenly 
 dropped out of society, and was seen no more during the inter 
 val between that odMrreuoa at the opera and the thirtieth. 
 
 He was greatly missed, however, by ma .y of the languishing 
 l>elles. for he was esteemed "a great catch." and had been most 
 industriously angled for by numerous anxious mammas, and 
 scheming fathers with a doubtful bank account. 
 
 Miss Addie Loring, perhaps, really took his sudden and unao*
 
 242 A THREAT AND A WEDDISQ-RINQ. 
 
 countable absence more to heart than tvny one else, for she had 
 secretly began to entertain a tender liking lor him. 
 
 During the last week before the wedding, that event became 
 the chief topic <*f the day in the circle in winch Gladys and 
 Geoffrey moved, for the match was considered a most nanautio 
 one, aud both parties were especial favorites, while for brilliancy 
 and magnitude it was to be the affair of the season. 
 
 Gifts of every description poured in upon the young couple, 
 for whom their friends seemed unable to do enough to manifest 
 their regard for them. 
 
 "Mamma, I have silver and china enough to set up four estab 
 lishments ; what shall I do with it all V" Gladys laughingly 
 remarked, one morning, after the arrival of numerous packages 
 and cases. ''While as for jewelry, brie a br<ic, and ornaments," 
 she continued, ''I shall never have room nor opportunity to dis 
 play them all." 
 
 "You have been most lavishly remembered, dear," returned 
 Mrs. Huntress ; but she sighed while she smiled over the 
 evidences of her daughter's popularity, as she thought of -the 
 care and responsibility which it would entail upon her in 
 the future. 
 
 "It is very, very nice to be remembered by one's friends, and 
 pleasant to know that one has so many." Gladvs said, thought 
 fully taking up a delicate vase, which rude handling would have 
 crushed to atoms, but which she knew represented a large 
 amount of money, "but if they would only give me some simple 
 little token, just to show that they really care for me, I should 
 not feel quite so overwhelmed. Perhaps I am too sensitive and 
 notional, but I think the weight of obligation which is some 
 times imposed upon brides is almost frightful, that is, unless 
 they marry as I am not doing naea who can enable them to in 
 dulge in similar extravagance in return later on." 
 
 "There is a good deal of sense in what you sav, Gladys," re 
 turned her mother, "but these beautiful and expensive things 
 represent branches of industries, and somebody must purchase 
 them in order that certain classes of artisans may live. It is 
 bard to know where to draw the line in these tilings. It would 
 not \i so questionable, though, if people would be really honest 
 in their gifts and offer only what they could afford, instead of 
 trying to outdo others from a feeling of vanity." 
 
 But, in spite of these practical discussions, there seemed to be 
 no end to the accumulation of wedding gifts up to the last mo 
 ment. 
 
 The wedding-day dawned, a bright, mild winter morning, and 
 every hour was filled with preparations for the important cere 
 mony that was to occur early i;i the evening. 
 
 Geoffrey saw but little of his betrothed that day, for he had 
 many duties to attend to relating to their departure, and lst 
 instructions to receive regarding the business he had under-
 
 A THREAT AND A WEDDING-RING. 243 
 
 taken. But about two in the afternoon he came home to find 
 Gladys just going to her room, from which she would not come 
 forth again until she was prepared for her marriage. 
 
 "I am only just in time, I perceive, to take leave of Miss 
 Glayds Huntress," he said, smiling fondly upon her, as he drew 
 her into the music-room, and shut the door, for a few moments' 
 private chat with her. 
 
 "You do not look more than sixteen," he continued, touching 
 the light rings of hair that lay on her forehead, and smoothing 
 the great satiny braid, that had been allowed to hang, like a 
 schoolgirl's, down her back, uutil the hair-dresser should come, 
 "a.nd very little as if a few hours would make you somebody's 
 wife." 
 
 Gladys flushed at that last word, though a happy little laugh 
 rippled from her lips. 
 
 "Perhaps I shall appear more matronly by and by," she said. 
 "I!, is possible that putting 'Mrs.' before my name may make 
 quite a change. How queer it will seem to be married and yet 
 be Gladys Huntress still?" 
 
 Geoffrey's face clouded, and a pang shot through his heart. 
 
 "I wish it could be otherwise, darling, I wish I had an hon 
 ored name to give you," he said, regretfully. 
 
 Gladys put up her hand and drew down his head until their 
 lips met. 
 
 "Dear Geoff, forgive me," she pleaded, in a tone of self-re 
 proach, "I was very thoughtless to make such a speech. I shall 
 be just as happy to be called Mrs. Geoffrey Dale Huntress, as 
 anything else; my pride will not consist in my name, but in my 
 husband." 
 
 His arms closed about her more fondly. 
 
 He knew that sho loved him with all the strength of her pure 
 and noble nature that she had chosen him from among the 
 many admirers who would gladly have bestowed a proud name, 
 as well as fortune, upon her, and that ho ought to be content. 
 
 But he was not; it raiTktad, like a thorn in his heart, that he 
 had no name to give her that for want of one he was compelled 
 to assume hers. 
 
 Neither he nor Gladys had ever been told of her adoption; 
 both believed that she was August and Alice Huntress' own 
 child, and, somehow, a feeling of obligation, that was almost de 
 gradation, would now and then assail him, that he was obliged 
 to identify himself in this way. 
 
 "Geoffrey," Gladys continued, seeing the cloud still on his 
 face, "do not allow so slight a thing to cast a shadow over our 
 joy to-day. I am so happy life looks so bright to me, that I am 
 almost afraid it is all a dream, and I shall wake up to find it all 
 gone from my grasp." 
 
 He could not resist her bright, tender face, nor the beautiful, 
 trustful eyes as they were raised to his.
 
 244 A THREAT AND A WEDDIbG-RISQ. 
 
 "My own love," he replied, bis face clearing, "it is no dream 
 to either of us it is ill a delightful reality, and anticipation of 
 the happiness before us. during the coming six months, is like a 
 poein to me. But," he added, "I suppose I must not detain you 
 here have you everything that yon need or wish for to 
 night?" 
 
 "I believe so; but truly. Geoff. I wish it were nil over," 
 Gladys confessed, clinging to him. ''Sometimes I have been 
 Borry that we agreed to have all this fuss and excitement. I feel 
 as if the occasion is almost too sacred for the gaze of the curi 
 ous, and to be mixed np s*> with show, dress, and so many ot'.mr 
 petty details. If we could only have just a few of our especial 
 friends with us, and say our vows quietly and solemnly, right 
 here at home, I believe I should like it much better." 
 
 This had been Geoffrey's feeling all along; but it was Mr. 
 Huntress' desire to have a brilliant wedding, and he could not 
 find it in his heart to oppose any reasonable wish of one who 
 had been so kind to him. 
 
 "Well," he answered, "we can comfort ourselves with one 
 thought; the 'fuss and excitement' will not last long, then we 
 shall liava each other all to ourselves. But, darling, see here." 
 He drew a tiny case from his pocket, ami, opening it, disclosed 
 a heavy gold circlet resting in its bed of velvet "have you any 
 idea how strong this little fetter is going to be? only death will 
 ever break the tie that it will cement." 
 
 Gladys bent forward to look at the mystio symbol, the vivid 
 color surging to her brow. 
 
 "Oil, Geofl! what a heavy one; is it marked?" she said. 
 
 "Yes, and that i.s wh\ I slio-v it to you it may not be marked 
 in a way to please you," au;l he held it toward her for examina 
 tion. 
 
 "Please take it out yourself and let me see I do not want to 
 touch it," she said, drawing slightly away. 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 "Why, you dear little goose! are yon superstitious?" 
 
 "N o; but somehow I do not wish to touch it until after yon 
 have put it where it belongs," she answered, softly. 
 
 He removed it from the case, holding it so ihut she could 
 see the engraving on its inside surface, and she read, "G. D. to 
 G. H. Dec. 30, 18." 
 
 "G. D. !" she repeated, locking tip questioningly. 
 
 "Yes," he replied, gravely. "Forgive me for referring again 
 to an unpleasant topic, but I could not bring my mind to add 
 another H. there. If I have a right to an honored name, and 
 find it out sometime, then I will have the initial inserted you 
 Bee, I have had space left for it. Do you mind?" 
 
 "No, Geoff," Gladys returned, after a, moment's thought, 
 though her 'heart sank at his words, as she remembered what 
 Everet Mapleson Lad told her, "you Lave done perfectly right
 
 THE WEDDING. 2 
 
 to mark the ring as you wish, and, of course, no one save our- 
 Belve* ever need know anything about it." 
 
 He ]ut it away with a sigh of relief. 
 
 "1 am glad that you approve, dear," he said, smiling, "and 
 BOW mind that your glove is properly arranged, ami no other 
 ring on tin's, my especial finger; for i,his ring must never come 
 off after 1 have once put it on, unless we find another initial to 
 ndd to the others. Now, good-by, love, for the next three 
 Lours. I shall not see you again uutil we meet at church." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIIL 
 
 THE WEDDINO. 
 
 went to her room with a sweet and tender gravity on 
 her beautiful face. 
 
 Every passing moment made her feel more sensibly the sa- 
 credness of the vows that she was about to take upon herself, 
 and the responsibilities she was so soon to assume. 
 
 "I know this great joy is far more than I deserve," she mur 
 mured. "1 cannot understand why no shadow has ever been 
 Allowed to cloud my life, when so many are born to a lot of 
 Borrow, trial, and toil. I will try to lift the burden from some 
 hearts in the future; I will not live all tcr self, but reflect some 
 of ray own happiness, if I can, to brighten other lives less favored 
 than mine." 
 
 Could any bride, on the eve of her marriage, have made a 
 holier resolve than this? 
 
 Very lovely she looked, when she came forth from her chamber, 
 in her spotless wedding attire. 
 
 Her simple, yet elegant dress, of white ottoman silk, was made 
 en train, and its only garnishing was the voluminous vail, which 
 covered her from head to foot, and was caught, here and there, 
 in graceful draperies, with clusters of orange blossoms and lilies 
 of the valley. 
 
 Unlike many brides, she was not pale, but a delicate and 
 lovely color was on her cheek. Her eyes were brilliant and ex 
 pressive with the deep and hrly joy that filled her heart, and 
 Bhe was calm with that perfect content which an unwavering 
 confidence find affection alone could give. 
 
 She rode alone with her father, who was to give her away, to 
 Plymouth Church, where Geoffrey was to meet her. He was not 
 there when they arrived, although he left the house some time 
 previous to their own departure, and they waited for him in the 
 vestibule, but somewhat anxiously, as it was already five min 
 utes past the hour set for the ceremony. 
 
 At last there was a slight commotion about the door, and a 
 voice was heard to say:
 
 246 THE WEDDING. 
 
 "He lias come! All is w>ll now!" 
 
 Gladys looked up as he carue forward, and thought he looked 
 a trifle pale aud excited, but it might be because the light was 
 dim, while her vail rendered everthing a little indistinct. 
 
 He nodded and smiled reassuringly at her, however; they 
 would not let him come near her, for her dress \\aa all arranged 
 to go in, and must not be disturbed, while her maidens were 
 hovering about her like a band of fairies around their queen, 
 and, with girlish superstition, they waved him off, saying he 
 must not speuk to her again until after the ceremony. 
 
 Mr. Huntress interviewed hitn regarding the delay, and then 
 came and told Gladys it had been caused by a change in clergy 
 men at the last moment. Their own pastor had been summoned 
 by telegraph to a brother who was lying at the point of death, 
 only a little more than an hour previous, and had been obliged 
 to send a stranger a friend who happened to be visiting in his 
 family to officiate in his place. 
 
 This was the only shadow that had marred the young bride's 
 joy that day. She dearly loved her noble pastor, and was 
 deeply disappointed not to have him pronounce her nuptial 
 benediction. 
 
 But she had no time to express it, for Mr. Huntress gave the 
 signal to the ushers to throw open the church doors, while the 
 groom, followed by his attendants, passed down oue aisle, and 
 Gladys, on her father's arm and attended by her maids, went 
 down another. 
 
 They all met at the altar, where the strange clergyman was 
 already awaiting thm. 
 
 Every bod v wondered at the self-possession and the lovely 
 bloom of the bride. 
 
 But the secret of it was that Gladys forgot herself and all her 
 surroundings; forgot the crowd of witnesses behind her; the 
 curious glances the place everything in the solemn moment 
 and the vows she was plighting. 
 
 The clergyman, stranger though he was, made the service 
 very beautiful and impressive, while the few words of kindly 
 advice and congratulation which he uttered at its close, when 
 be pronounced the young couple husband and wife, were ex 
 ceedingly apt and well chosen. 
 
 Then it was over, and those two, before whom life seemed 
 reaching out so fair and full of- promise, passed slowly down 
 the center aisle, every eye following them, while every lip 
 seemed to have something to say in praise of them. 
 
 Gladys was very quiet as her husband put her into the car 
 riage, for the solemnity of the service was still upon her, He, 
 too, seemed in a like mood, for he only gathered the hand that 
 wore his ring close within his own, and thus they sat, mute 
 from excess of joy, during their drive home. 
 
 Very tenderly the young husband helped his bride to alight,
 
 THE WEDDING. 217 
 
 led her up the steps, iiewr relinquishing her hand until he 
 placed her beneath the mugnificent arch at the lower end of the 
 dntwing-ntou), wheie they were to receive the congratulations 
 of their I'riemls. 
 
 They had driven back very rapidly, and thus they had gained 
 several minutes to themselves before the arrival of any others. 
 
 "My darling! my wife!" said the exultant young husband, us 
 he stretched forth his arms to gather his beautiful bride to his 
 breast. 
 
 Gladys looked up with a startled, searching glance. Some 
 thing in his tone had struck strangely on her ears, although lie 
 had spoken scarcely above a whisper. She saw that he was 
 etill somewhat pale, but his whole face was lighted with tri 
 umph. 
 
 ''Geoff -- " she began, then the word suddenly froze on her 
 lips, a bewildered look shot in her eyes, when all at once she 
 started away from him, flijiging out her arms with a wild ges 
 ture of horror and loathing, her face as white as her dress, her 
 eyes almost starting from her head. 
 
 'EVERET MAPLESON ! Oh! Heaven! how came you kere?" 
 she shrieked, 
 
 He strode up to her, the look of triumph still on his pale 
 face. 
 
 "Because I have a right to be here beside my wife!" 
 
 "Never! never.'" she p.mteJ, wildly. 'You have uo right I 
 am ?* o/ your wife !" 
 
 "But, my darling, you are. I hav never left your side for 
 an instant since we were pronounced, before Godaud man, to be 
 linsband and wife. You are mine, Gladys ! by the laws of the 
 land, as well as by the laws of God ! You plighted your vows 
 to mo in the presence of hundreds of witnesses, and I shall 
 claim you before all the world !'* 
 
 She never moved while he was saying this. She stood look 
 ing at him with that wild, incredulous light still in her 
 eyes, that deadly whiteness on her face, her arms still out 
 stretched in that attitude of horror and loathing. 
 
 She was like a beautiful piece of sculpture that had suddenly- 
 been transformed from a happy, living being into pulseless mar 
 ble by the bliphtintr influence of some concealing wand. 
 
 "Can you not believe it, and be sensible?" Everet Mapleson 
 for it was really he went on rapidly, for the sound of wheels 
 from without came to him, and he knew that the room would 
 be full in a few moments. "Do not make a scene. You are 
 mine, and no earthly power can sever the bonds that unite us! 
 I love you madly! I worship you! There is nothing I will 
 not do*to prove my devotion to you ! I have given you a proud 
 name ; 1 have wealth, position, influence, and I am your slave 
 if you will give mo but a crumb of love upon which to feast my 
 hungry heart. Gladys, again I implore you not to make a
 
 248 THE WEDDING. 
 
 scene ! Receive your friends as if nothing unforeseen had Imp 
 pened, nnd they will never suspect; and to-morrow we. will go 
 away over the ocean, and leave the world to get over its aston 
 ishment sis best it can." 
 
 He paused, for the horror, the despair on her face, which 
 grew every iustant more terrible, filled him with fear and dis 
 may. 
 
 Site did not stir ; she was as if frozen in that attitude. She 
 simply stood staring into his fai;e, her own us rigid as a Ktot.e, 
 but with such suffering, such anguish, in that fixed gaze as he 
 Lad never seen depicted in human eyes before. 
 
 Steps and voices sounded in the hall. He caught a glimpse 
 of Mr. and Mrs. Huntress hurrying iu, to be the first to oou- 
 gratnhite their darling. 
 
 Another minute, and he knew there must cornea fearful dis 
 closure and explosfon. 
 
 He moved a step nearer the motionless girl and attempted to 
 take one of those outstretched hands in his. 
 
 His touch seemed to unlock those tense nerves and muscles 
 as if by mauic. 
 
 She shrank away from him with a low, shuddering cry, and 
 then, without word or warning, fell forward, and would Lava 
 dropped to the floor HH't he not caught her in his arms. 
 
 Mr. Huntress, who entered the room, at that moment, sprang 
 forward, with a cry cf alarm. 
 
 "What is the matter?" he asked, his attention all con contra ted 
 upon Gladys, and never suspecting the dreadful trick that had 
 been played upon them all. 
 
 "The excitement has been too much for her, I fear," E/eret 
 responded, in a low tone. 
 
 Mr. Huntress took the senseless girl from him, saying: 
 
 "Open that door behind you; we must get her away befora 
 that crowd comes pouring in. My poor girl ! what can have 
 caused this unusual fainting turn?" 
 
 Everet eagerly obeyed his command, and Glady's was bortva 
 into a small sitting-room, and laid upon a sofa there. 
 
 The next moment Mrs. Huutress' anxious face appeared in the 
 door- way. 
 
 "Oh. August, what has happened?" she cried. 
 
 "Glatly's has fainted, from some cause or other. Go, Geoff," 
 he continued, turning to Everet, "and send some one ini- 
 mediatelv for Doctr.r Hoyt." 
 
 The young man hastened to obey, glad to get away from tUe 
 tight of that white, rigid face for a moment. 
 
 He found a servant in the hall, dispatched him for tl.e 
 family physician, and then went back to his post beside 
 Gladys. 
 
 He was nearly ao pale an the unconscious bride, for he kne*r 
 that the truth must soon oome out, and, hardened and dogged us
 
 THE WEDDING. 249 
 
 he was, the prospect of the inevitable explosion was not a pleas- 
 act one. 
 
 Mrs. Huntress was on lier knees beside her daughter, bathing 
 her i'm;o with water, which she had poured from au ice pitcher 
 standing near. 
 
 She had thrown back the delicate vail, and it lay nil in aheap, 
 like, a fleecy cloud, about the pretty In-own head upon the sofa 
 pillow, while Mr. Huntress had torn off his gloves, and waa 
 chaffing tin- small limp hands with anxious solicitude. 
 
 "What could have been the cause of this? When was she 
 taken ill?" he asked, half turning toward Everet, but still keep 
 ing his eyes fastened npon the face he loved so well. 
 
 "Just before you entered, "Everet answered, in a clear, natural 
 tone. 
 
 Mr. Huntress started, and turned a questioning glance upon 
 him. 
 
 Their eves met, and held each other for one brief moment. 
 
 Then Mr. Huntress dropped the hands he was chaffing, arose 
 slowly to his feet, his own color fast receding. 
 
 "Geoffrey?" he said, in a doubtful tone, going close up to the 
 young man. 
 
 No, sir; Evr.ret Mapleson, if yon please." replied the young 
 man, haughtily, as with a mighty effort he braced himself for 
 the encounter. 
 
 "Jiv Heaven, it is f" August Huntress hoarsely exclaimed, and 
 recoiling as if lie hail been struck a heavy blow. "What what 
 is the meaning of this?" 
 
 "It means that your daughter has become my wife instead of 
 marrying Geoffrey Dale, as everybody supposed she was going 
 to do." 
 
 Mrs. H'intress sprang up with a faint shriek at this. 
 
 "No, no!'' she cried, ' that cannot be." 
 
 Then, as slio peered closely into his face, and realised the 
 truth of the fearful disclosure, she tottered feebly toward her 
 bus hand, meaning: 
 
 "Oli, August! h hits practiced a terrible deception npon us, 
 an. I it will surely kill Gladys." 
 
 Siie was almost an helpless as the unconscious girl herself, and 
 her husband was forced to put her into a rocker that stood near 
 him, simply because he, too, was so weakened and unmanned by 
 what, he had hei\rd that he was unable to support her. 
 
 lJut a terrible wrath began to rise witl.in him; with it came a 
 false kind of strength, and turning toward the wolf who had 
 thus stolen into his household, he commanded, in a fearful 
 voice; 
 
 "Young man, explain yourself !" 
 
 "Willingly, sir; the sooner the truth is out, the better it will 
 snit me," Everet replied, haughtily. "I have loved your daugh 
 ter for more than three years. Twice I have offered myself to
 
 250 THE WEDDISQ. 
 
 her, and twice been rejected. When I learned of her engage 
 ment to the low-born boy whom you adopted, and whom I have 
 despised and hated from the very first of our acquaintance, I 
 vowed it should never be consummated. ] worshiped her, and 
 I resolved that I would win her at any cost. I have done HO; she 
 is mine, wedded to me this night, in the presence of yourself and 
 hundreds of others, and I shall assert my claim in spite of yon. 
 all. I hoped, in the excitement and confusion, and from my 
 close resemblance to Huntress, that I should escape discovery 
 nntil our departure from New York, If we had not reached the 
 honse qnite so early if the guests coald have followed close 
 upon ns and kept Gladys' attention from being especially culled 
 to me, I think 1 could have warded off detection until we were 
 "well on onr way to Boston. She seemed turned to stone when 
 she did recognize me, and realized how she had been duped, and 
 when I attempted to reason with Her she swooned." 
 
 For a minute after Everet concluded, Mr. Huntress stood like 
 one dazed by some fearful fehock, his glance wavering between 
 the still unconscious bride and the man whose victim she had be 
 come. 
 
 "It is a fraud!" he cried at last. "You have practiced a most 
 damnable fraud upon us all; but I hope that von do not imagine 
 fora moment that you can enforce your claim. The courts of 
 New York will promptly annul the marriage." 
 
 "Allow me to suggest, sir, that yon will first have to prove 
 your point regarding fraud," Everet retorted, with quiet 
 defiance. "Miss Huntress has been heard to affirm that she 
 could distinguish between Geoffrey Dale and myself without 
 any difficulty, and yet she went to the altar with me and pledged 
 herself to me without a demur." 
 Mr. Huntress groaned. 
 
 "Was that strange clergyman a tool of yours?" he demanded, 
 excitedly. "Was that all a clever device of yours al?o?" 
 
 "No. Strange as it may seem, he was substituted just as I 
 related to you, although it proved a most fortunate circumstance 
 for me; but the telegram which called your pastor from his 
 home was not a bonafide one. I never should have dared to face 
 him, who has so long known Geoffrey, for he would have de 
 tected the trick at once." 
 
 "Scoundrel !" said Mr. Huntress, between his teeth. "Where 
 is my son? where is Geoffrey?" 
 
 "I cannot tell you, sir. I think, however, he has also been 
 invited out of town for a few hours, at least," Everet returned, 
 a little smile of triumph curving his lips as he became more 
 accustomed to, the situation and realized his power. 
 
 Mr. Huntress caught it, and a dusky flush mounted to his 
 forehead. 
 
 "L'. j !ive this house instantly!'' lie commanded, unabla to con 
 trol himself any longer iu. the face of such effrontery.
 
 WHAT BECAME OF GEOFFREY. 251 
 
 "I could not think of it, sir," Everefc quietly replied, aud 
 composedly seating himself by a window. "My place is beside 
 ray wife, und here i shall stay until she shall be able to accom 
 pany me elsewhere." 
 
 What Mr. Huntress would have done next it is impossible to 
 Bay, but before he could even reply, the door opened aud Doe- 
 tor Hoyt entered. 
 
 "Wliut am I wanted for? Bless me! what does this mean?" he 
 exclaimed, glancing about him with undisguised astonishment, 
 and perceiving the condition of the newly made bride. 
 
 "Gladys was taken ill immediately upon returning from the 
 church," Mr. Huntress hastened to explain, suddenly bethinking 
 himself that it would be wise to avoid a scandal, at least until he 
 could take legal advice and see what hope there was of a release 
 for Gladys from the hateful bonds that bound her. 
 
 "Ah. yes a protracted swoon, caused by excitement or some 
 sudden shock," said the energetic little doctor, with a pro 
 fessional air, as he took one of the limp, white hands that lay oa 
 Gladys' still breast, and felt for the pulse. 
 
 He could not tind any, nor was there any movement about the 
 heart, and he begau to look very grave. 
 
 "She must be put to bed immediately, and there must be per 
 fect quiet throughout the house," he said. "Huntress, you 
 must explain this to your guests, and get them away as soon as 
 possible. It is unfortunate, but I won't answer for the conse 
 quences if there is any confusion when she comes to herself. 
 Here madame," to Mrs. Huntress, "get this finery off her head 
 aud loosen her corsage, and you, sir," to Everet, whom he sup 
 posed to be Geoffrey, "unlacn those pretty number twos, and 
 give the blood a c!i;iuoe to circulate in her feet." 
 
 His coming seemed to put life and confidence into the nearly 
 distracted parents. 
 
 Mr. Huntress tiruced himself to encounter the crowd of won 
 dering people in the drawing-room, and, going out, explained 
 as briflly us possible the sudden illness of the bride, and the 
 sympathetic guests, with a few well-bred expressions of regret, 
 immediately dispersed, and in less than fifteen minutes the 
 mansion was cleared and the stricken household left to itself, 
 while not a suspicion of the fearful truth had got abroad. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 WHAT BECAME OP GEOFFBBY. 
 
 Gladys lav so long in her swoon that, not only her friends but 
 the physician also became greatly alarmed lest she should 
 never rally; the shock which had caused this suspension of 
 animation might end in death.
 
 852 WHAT BECAME OF GEOFFREY. 
 
 Ereret Mapleson, too, as he sat alone in that small room 
 back of the drawing-room, waa in a very unenviable I'lvaue of 
 mind. He knew tliat if Gladys should die her death would lie 
 at his door; he would really have been her murderer, and such a 
 disastrous result of his reckless plot he had never contem 
 plated. 
 
 He had fondly hoped, as he toltl Mr. Huntress, that, in the 
 excitement and gayety of the evening, surrounded by friends 
 and receiving their cougiatnlntiona, ho could easily play Geof 
 frey's part, and she would not detect the imposition until tiiey 
 should start off alone upon their wedding journey. He had 
 practiced many little mannerisms that were peculiar to Geoffrey, 
 changing lis voice, as far as ha could, to imitate his, and had 
 not reckoned upon the keenness of love to discover the iraud so 
 readily. 
 
 He had expected that Glady's would be very unreconciled and 
 unreasonable at first, but he had hoped, when she realized 
 that there was uo help for the deed, she might resign herself to 
 the inevitable, and that he would gradually win tier love by the 
 influence of his own for her and his devotion to her. He had been 
 wholly unprepared, however, for the exceeding honor and loath 
 ing which she had evinced upon discovering him, and she had 
 thoroughly frightened him by her rigid despair and the terrible 
 lethargy which had followed it. 
 
 When they bore her away to her room he fain would have fal 
 lowed, his anxiety was so great upon her account; but as he es 
 sayed to do so, Mr. Huntress turned upon him in sudden fury. 
 
 "Stay where you ar^!" he commanded, "or, what would be 
 better still, .leave the house altogether." 
 
 "I shall not leave the house, sir," the young man answered, 
 doggedly, and he resumed his seat, resolved to brave it out to 
 the end, though a sickening fear was creeping over him that the 
 end might be such as would make him wish he Lad never been 
 born. 
 
 So the poor little bride was borne from his sight, her bridal 
 robes were removed, and everything done for her recovery that 
 love could do or professional skill could suggest. 
 
 Strange though it may seem, no one, save the physician, sus 
 pected the cause of this sudden attack. 
 
 Mr. Huntress had confided the circumstances attending it to 
 Doctor Hoyt, because he felt that he ought to be informed in 
 order that lie might work understanding!^', but not even a ser 
 vant dreamed that thtir beautiful young mistress had been mar 
 ried to the wrong man. 
 
 'August, I am nearly wild about Geoffrey, as well as Gladys," 
 Mrs. Huntress said, to her husband, as together they bent over 
 the unconscious girl, anxiously watching for some sign of re 
 turning life. "Do you believe that wretch would dare to hana 
 him?"
 
 'WHAT BECAME OF GEOFFREY. 253 
 
 "No, indeed, dear. I feel sure that oar Geoff is safe enough. 
 I judge, from the fellow's words, that he has been decoyed to 
 some place, where he was to be detained uijtil the wedding was 
 well over, and Maplesou well on the way to Boston with Gladys. 
 Heavens! wliat an escape for the dear chiiii!" he concluded, 
 growing white over the contemplation of the young girl's sa ''. fata 
 if Everet had succeeded in keeping up the deception until after 
 the steamer had sailed. 
 
 "But is it an escape?" Mrs. Huntress whispered, with quiver 
 ing lips. "Can the marriage be annulled?" 
 
 "Certainly, Alice," her husband emphatically replied, "be 
 cause we can prove the man a scoundrel and an impostor." 
 
 "It will make a terrible scandal," sighed his wife. 
 
 "Better that than that our dear one should be doomed to a life 
 of misery. I will spend my last dollar to give her back her free 
 dom and punish that audacious wretch," said Mr. Huntress, with 
 firmly compressed lips. "Poor Geoff !'' he added, after a pit use, 
 "I wonder where he can be; he must be in a terrible state of 
 mind, wherever he is," concluded Mr, Huntress, with a weary 
 sigli. 
 
 But they could not think of much save Gladys, while she lay 
 in such a critical condition, and they hung over her with white 
 faces and sinking hearts, while they anxiously watched the phy- 
 siciiin's every look and movement. 
 
 After what, to them, seemed an eternity of time, a faint sign of 
 life began to show itself; the heart slowly resumed its motion, 
 the pulse gave forth a feeble throb, a faint tinge of color flickered 
 in the drawn lips, aud the che.st began to heave with the renewed 
 action of the lungs. 
 
 "She will weather it," Doctor Hoyt said, under his breath, but 
 in his brisk, decisive way, which instantly carried conviction aud 
 comfort to those parents' fond hearts. 
 
 But when she did come fully to herself, aud looked up into 
 those earnest faces above her, when reason and memory reasserted 
 themselves, thut tame look of horror came into her eyes, that 
 rigid settling of her features returned, aud were followed by an 
 other swoon, although not so frightful or prolonged us the first 
 one had been. 
 
 It wi.s ten o'clock before the physician succeeded in arresting 
 the tendency to fainting, aud she came fully to herself. 
 
 "Geoffrey!" she moaned, as soon as she could sneak, and look 
 ing around for the dear face, while a shudder shook her from 
 head to foot. 
 
 Doctor Hoyt shot a warning look at Mr. and Mrs. Huntress; 
 then said, in a reassuring tone: 
 
 "He is all right, and shall come to yon when you are rather 
 more like yourself. Now, drink this for the sake of getting a 
 little strength." 
 Ho put a glass to her lips, and she drank mechanically.
 
 254 WHAT BECAME OF GEOFFREY. 
 
 Then, pushing his hand away, she struggled to a half-sitting 
 posture, and looked fearfully about the room. 
 
 As her glance fell upon hei wedding finery, which had been 
 hastily thrown upon some chairs, she was seized with another 
 violent shivering, and fell back among her pillows, covering her 
 eyes with her hands, as if to shut out from sight and memory 
 the fearful ordeal through which she had passed a few hours pre 
 vious. 
 
 But the potion which the physician had administered was a 
 powerful narcotic, which began almost immediately to take 
 effect, and sleep soon locked her senses in oblivion. 
 
 Hardly had she begun to breathe regularly, and the weary 
 watchers about her bel to hope that the worst was over, when 
 the great clock in the hall bslo-.v struck the hour of midnight. 
 
 At the last stroke the door of the sick-room swung softly open, 
 and Geoffrey's face, pale, haggard, and anxious, appeared in tha 
 aperture. 
 
 It required a mighty effort on the part of Mr. and Mrs. Hunt 
 ress to refrain from uttering an exclamation of joy at sight of 
 him. 
 
 But the doctor held up a warning finger. Mrs. Huntress, who 
 had half started from her chair, sank back to her post beside 
 Gladys' pillow, while her husband, with a look of intense relief, 
 stole quietly from the rcom. 
 
 We must now go back to the hour when the wedding party 
 started from the house for the church. 
 
 Geoffrey, as has been stated, left a little in advance of the oth 
 ers, as he desired a few moments' interview with the clergyman 
 before the ceremony. 
 
 Not a thought of foul play entered his mind as he drove away, 
 neither had he a suspicion that a different carriage had been 
 substituted for the one he had ordered, that having been sud- 
 deuly and cunningly sent off to the station for an imaginary ar 
 rival on the evening express. 
 
 He was so absorbed in his own thoughts that he did not even 
 observe the route the driver was taking, until he suddenly no 
 ticed that the speed of the horses had greatly increased and he 
 was rolling along at a remarkable rate through quiet and almost 
 deserted streets. 
 
 It was quite dark, but the street-lamps gave light enough to 
 show him that he was a long distance from the place where he 
 wanted to go. 
 
 He tried to lower the window beside him. 
 
 It was immovable. 
 
 He tried the other, but it was as fast as the first one. 
 
 He tlmmped on the front of the carriage, to attract the atten 
 tion of the driver; but a crack of the whip was his only answer. 
 
 He shouted, commanding the man to stop, but the horses 
 only went on the faster.
 
 WHAT BECAME OF GEOFFREY. - '> 
 
 Driven to desperation, Geoffrey drew back, and, with o.ia 
 powerful blow from his foot, shivered one of the windows to 
 atoms. 
 
 At the sound of the breaking glass, the coachman slackened 
 the speed of his steeds. 
 
 ''Driver, where are you taking mo?" Geoffrey shouted, 
 thrusting his head from the window. "I want to go to Plym 
 outh Chnrch." 
 
 "Oil! Plymouth?" replied the man, in a tone of innocent aston 
 ishment, as if he had leen bound for some other church, and 
 was surprised to lenru that he had made a mistake. 
 
 Geoffrey was unsuspicious enough to believe this, yet he was 
 very much annoyed. 
 
 He desired to seo the clergyman l>efore the ceremony, and ha 
 knew it was already past the hour set for his marriage. 
 
 "You have no time to lose," he shouted again to the driver. 
 "I fear you have made me late, as it is; got rue thero as quickly 
 as you can." 
 
 "All right, sir," came back the answer, while the carriage 
 suddenly turned a corner, and the man whipped the horses to a 
 run. 
 
 Geoffrey had no overcoat with him; he thought he should not 
 need it, the day had been so mild, and he would le shut into a 
 close carriage; Imt now the chill night air came in through the 
 broken window, and he began to suffer with the cold. 
 
 On and on the carriage went, faster and faster the horses flew, 
 until suddenly Geoffrey discovered, to his dismay, that he was 
 rolling over an open country road, while the lights of the city 
 were gleaming far behind. 
 
 Again ho leaned forth and shouted to the driver to stop; that 
 he was \vrong. 
 
 But this time there came no answer, save the whiz and crack 
 of the lash, and th sound of tho horses' hoofs upon the road. 
 
 Ho began to f(>:u- that the man was intoxicated. 
 
 He culled, he commanded, he threatened ; all to no purpose, 
 except to in ike the driver nrge his hordes to go faster and 
 faster. 
 
 They were far out in the suburbs now, with the houses few 
 and far between, and Geoffrey was nesirlv in despair. 
 
 What would the wedding party think, upon rerchin!* the 
 church, to find no 1 -ride-groom there? What would Gladys 
 think? What would those hundreds of guests HIIV when they 
 should discover there could be no wedding? What would be 
 the end of this dreadful adventure? 
 
 Could it l>e possible MI.U. the man who was driving was some 
 ins- me creutnre, carrjijg him to destruction? 
 
 F.vt-ry possible explanation, save the right one. flashed through 
 his mind as he sat there, utterly powc rietss to help himself, yet 
 almost crazed with auxi<-ty and snsponse.
 
 256 WHAT BECAME Of GEOFFREY. 
 
 He shouted himself hoarse, without eliciting the slightest re 
 sponse or attention. 
 
 He leaned as far out of the carriage as he -was able, to look at 
 the man on the box, but could only dimly distinguish a figure 
 muffled to tlie ears in a huge ulster, but as motionless as a 
 statue, except for that periodical swing of his right arm iu 
 wielding the whip. 
 
 Geoffrey dared not leap out, even though in his desperation 
 he was strongly tempted to do so; he realized that such a 
 hazardous proceeding might result in instant death, while there 
 was no way by which he could climb to the top of the car 
 riage to reach the driver; there was nothing that he could do 
 but submit to the inevitable, and await further developments. 
 
 So, wearied out and thoroughly chilled by the keen night air, 
 he first stuffed one of the cushions into the broken window, 
 then sank back into a corner, and surrendered himself to hia 
 fate. 
 
 For three long hours he sat there and was driven at a rapid 
 pace, knowing not whither he was going. 
 
 At last, to his infinite relief, the carriage stopped. 
 
 Taking instant advantage of this circumstance, Geoffrey leaped 
 to the ground, and turning furiously to the driver, he demanded 
 what he meant by bringing him there. 
 
 The man might have been a deaf mute for all the notice lie 
 took of either the young man's question or passion. 
 
 He neither spoke nor moved, except to quickly turn his horses 
 about and drive rapidly back in the direction from which he 
 had come, leaving his victim standing in the middle of a lonely 
 road with not a house in sight. 
 
 For a moment Geoffrey was so bewildered that he did not know 
 what to do; he had not the slightest idea whera he was, only he 
 was sure that he must be miles and miles from Brooklyn. 
 
 But his insufficient clothing but illy protected him from the 
 cold, and he soou began to realize that he could not stand there 
 long without great danger to himself. 
 
 He began to walk rapidly, and soon found himself ascending 
 a hill, and upon reaching the top lie saw, beneath him, the 
 lights of a small village gleaming through the darkness. 
 
 Quickening his steps he reached it after ten or fifteen minutes, 
 and, to his joy, discovered that a line of railway passed through 
 it. 
 
 Following this he soon came to the station, where he found a 
 sleepy-looking ajjent and telegraph operator, who regarded him 
 and his immaculate dress suit with undisguised astonishment. 
 
 He inquired when the next train went to Brooklyn, and to his 
 dismay learned that this was only a branch road, and that no 
 train was due there for an hour. It was small comfort, too, to 
 be told that it would bo ouly a freight train with a passenger 
 ear attached that it would stop at every station where there
 
 WHAT BECAME OF OEOFFRET. 257 
 
 was freight to be delivered or taken up; that it would be a full 
 hour reaching the main line, where be would have to wait 
 another hour for a train to Brooklyn. 
 
 AH this delay he knew would prevent him from reaching home 
 before midnight, and then there flashed upon him, for the first 
 time, a suspicion that lie had been brought to that remote place 
 by no intoxicated driver's freak, neither had he been the victim 
 of i maniac's frenzy, but that his abduction had been deliber 
 ately and cunningly planned to prevent his appearance at his 
 own wedding to hinder, if possible, his marriage with Gladys. 
 
 Bat who could have perpetrated such a dastardly act, and 
 what could hnve been the ultimate object? It did occur to him 
 that Everet Mapleson might have had something to do with it, 
 but he quickly abandoned that idea for. much as he distrusted 
 aud disliked him, on many accounts, he could not think any 
 thing so bad as this of him little dreaming liow much worse 
 Le had done while, too, he believed he had left the city moro 
 than a week previous. 
 
 He was very cold, and he knew he could not be three hours 
 more on the road without a coat or wrap of some kind to protect 
 him; but how to procure it was a question he could not solve, 
 for the station-master told him there was not a clothing store in, 
 the nlace. 
 
 While he was hovering over the fire in the ladies' waiting, 
 room, shivering with the cold, and feeling inconceivably wi'etch- 
 ed, a tall, portly woman entered, bearing a large gripsack in 
 one hand, a heavy shawl and waterproof in the other. 
 
 She wore a long circular of some rough cloth, which com 
 pletely covered her from her neck to her heels, a knitted hood 
 upon her head, a pair of brown woolen mittens on her hands, 
 and looked so warm and comfortable that Geoffery shivered 
 afresh. 
 
 His eyes fastened themselves instantly and enviouslj upon th 
 shawl she carried. 
 
 A bright idea struck him, and, addressing her courteously, he 
 asked her if she would sell it to him, explaining briefly that he 
 tad been on his way to a wedding in a close carriage, when 
 accident threw him unprotected out into the cold. 
 
 "I will give you twenty dollars for that shawl, madame," he 
 said, knowing well, however, that it was not really worth half 
 that sum. 
 
 But she i-efused his offer the shawl had belonged to a sister 
 who had but just died, and she could not part with it; however, 
 she would sell him the circular she had on, she said, for half 
 what he had offered for the other wrap, and wear that herself. 
 
 Tins proposal pleased him even better than his own, for he 
 would lie f;n less conspicuous in the dark circular, and he never 
 had felt better over a bargain, or experienced a greater sense of 
 personal comfort, than when lie gave up his ten dollars aud
 
 258 AN ACCIDENT REVEALS AN HEIE-LOOM. 
 
 wrapped himself in the shabby garment, just as the lazy traiu 
 came puffing up to the station. 
 
 He found a seat near the stove, and strove to possess his soul 
 in patience nntil he should reach the main line. The waiting 
 at the junction, however, was even a greater tax upon his nerves, 
 but it was over at last, and, boarding the Brooklyn traiu the 
 moment it stopped, lie was soon rolling rapidly toward home. 
 
 He reached Brooklyn only a little before midnight, called a 
 carriage and arrived before his own door five minutes before 
 the hour struck. He let himself quietly in with his latch-key, 
 and, fearing he hardly knew what, stole up to Gladys' room, 
 where he had observed a light, and seen shadows ou the cur 
 tains befoi'e entering the house. 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 AN ACCIDENT REVEALS AN HEIB-LOOM. 
 
 "!V?y dear boy !" cried Mr. Huntress, under his breath, as he 
 
 stepped out into the hall beside Geoffrey, cautiously closing the 
 
 door after him, and then seizing him warmly by both hands, 
 
 "where on earth have you been, and what has happened to 
 
 -you?" 
 
 'The most mysterious and villainous thing that could hap 
 pen," replied Geoffrey, witn a gloom}' face. "I have been kid 
 nap ed carried miles and miles away and it has taken me 
 Lours to retrim. " 
 
 "I suspected as much," said Mr. Huntress, sternly. 
 
 "Thou you haven't attributed nay absence to any fault of 
 mine. Uncle August?" 
 
 "No. indeed, my boy. I knew better." 
 
 "What made you suspect foul play? But first tell me about 
 Gladys. How has she borne it?" Geoffrey asked, with a wistful 
 glance at tho door beyond which his darling lay. 
 
 Mr. Huntress shot an anxious look at him. 
 
 Clearly he had no suspicion of what had occurred during hia 
 absence. 
 
 "Gladys has suffered a great deal mentally, but she is sleeping 
 now," he said, gravely, and wondering how he could ever tell 
 him the terrible truth, 
 
 "It must have been dreadful. I can imagine the consterna 
 tion of everybody when they discovered there would be no wed 
 ding," said Geoffrey, excitedly, while he began to pace rest 
 lessly up and down the corridor. "How awkward! how 
 wretched for my darling! how uncomfortable for you and 
 Aunt Alice! How did you manage? What could you do or 
 say?" 
 
 "Come with me, Geoff, where we cau talk without fear of dis-
 
 AN ACCIDENT REVEALS AN HEIR-LOOM. 259 
 
 turbing Gladys, and I will tell you. I have something very 
 strange to toll you, too," said Mr. Huntress, linking his arm 
 within that of the young man and leading him to an alcove over 
 the front entrance. 
 
 "Something strange," Geoffrey repeated, in a startled tone. 
 
 "Very. There has been a most villainous plot connected with 
 this affair." 
 
 From Mr. Huntress' manner, Geoffrey saw that something 
 of a very grave nature had occurred. 
 
 "What is it?" he demanded. "Tell me at once; I can boar 
 anything better than suspense. 
 
 "Geoff, there was a wedding!" 
 
 "Uncle August!" 
 
 "But no one save ourselves and our good doctor, as yet, sus 
 pects that there was anything wrong about it." 
 
 "Are you crazy? What do you mean?" cried the young man, 
 breathlessly. "A wedding? That could not be. Gladys could 
 not have been the bride." 
 
 "Gladys wets the bride, and every guest believes that you 
 were the groom." 
 
 Geoffrey sank upon a chair, his strength all gone, while a din* 
 suspicion of the horrible truth began to take form in his mind. 
 
 "What can you mean?" he gasped, hardly above a whisper, a 
 deadly pallor on his face, an agonized look in his eyes. 
 
 "Be calm, my boy," said his uncle, laying his hand affection 
 ately upon his shoulder. "A dreadful thing has occurred, but 
 it was all a farce a fraud, rather which the law will set right 
 in time, and Gladys may yet be yours " 
 
 "Heavens! Uncle August, you are driving me mad! Explain! 
 explain! I cannot bear these enigmas!'' cried the poor fellow, 
 springing to his feet in a fearful state of agitation, whilo a cold 
 perspiration started out all over his face. 
 
 Mr. Huntress gently forced him back into his chair and be 
 gan at once to tell him all that had occurred, from the moment 
 of the departure of the bridal party from the church, up to tha 
 present hour. 
 
 Geoffrey sat throughout the fearful recital as if he had sud 
 denly been turned to stone, and when at last it was concluded, 
 there were several moments of dreadful silence. He seemed 
 paralyzed, mentally and physically, by the blighting affliction 
 which had overtaken him, and by the bold daring of the enemy 
 who had thus ruined his dearest hopes. 
 
 Agony, however, at last broke the spell. 
 
 He arose, and stood pale and stern before his uncle. 
 
 "Where is ho?" he demanded, in an awful voice, although it 
 was barely audible, "where is that treacherous villain who has 
 robbed mn of my wife and broken her heart? Tell me, for there 
 must be a terrible settlement between him arid, me. Where ia 
 Everet Mapleson, Uncle August?"
 
 260 AN ACCIDENT REVEALS AN HEIR-LOOM. 
 
 "Here!*' responded a defiant voice close beside them, and, 
 wheeling suddenly about at the sound, Geoffrey saw his. rival 
 standing between the parted draperies that separated the alcove 
 fioni the main hall. 
 
 "I am here to answer for myself," he continued, iu the same 
 tone, while he looked as pule and resolute as Geoffrey himself, 
 "but first I demand tidings of my wife." 
 
 That word was like a blow to Geoffrey, who staggered back 
 with a groan of anguish. 
 
 But, he quickly rallied. 
 
 "She is not your wife!" he said, fiercely; "a farce an act of 
 fraud, could never make her such." 
 
 "You are a trifle premature in your statement," retorted young 
 Mapleson, with a sneer. "I do not deny that my purpose was 
 accomplished by something of strategy, but it was accomplished, 
 notwithstanding Gladys Huntress was married to me to-night, 
 and it is simply useless to contest the fact." 
 
 "You may have gone through the marriage service wita her; 
 but you personated me, and it was only a monk ceremony. Be 
 sides, there were certain preliminaries to be attended to your 
 intentions made known your certificate to be properly filled; 
 without these there could have been no legal marriage," Geof 
 frey returned, sternly. 
 
 Everot Mapleson smiled snperciliously. 
 
 "All that you mention was most carefully attended to, sir," 
 ho said, with an air of triumph that was simply maddening to 
 his listeners. "The clergyman was duly apprised of my inten 
 tions, and received a handsome fee, fifteen minutes before the 
 arrival of the bridal party at the church; the ring had been 
 purchased and carefully marked and now adorns the hand of 
 the bride. Not a single detail has been omitted, I assure you, 
 to make my position and my claim secure." 
 
 "Bah! your audacity is astounding!" said Geoffrey, contempt 
 uously. "It was a barefaced fraud, and the marriage will never 
 stand in law," persisted Geoffrey, firmly, but. oh! with such a 
 sinking agony in his heart. 
 
 "Prove it if you can," retorted Mapleson, arrogantly. "You 
 will not find it an easy thing to do, however, for I shall make a 
 desperate fight to thwart you." 
 
 "Wretch! how dare you attempt such a diabolical plot?" Mr. 
 Huntress demanded. 
 
 "I was desperate enough to dare anything, sir," Everet re 
 plied, addressing him with more respect thru he had yet shown. 
 "With the love I bear your daughter I could not brook defeat. 
 I vowed that 1 would win her at any cost, and but for my own 
 indiscretion all this fuss might have been avoided. I was so 
 elated by my success in having the marriage performed that I 
 could not resist taking advantage of my position, and, in at 
 tempting to salute my bride after our return to the house, she
 
 AN ACCIDENT REVEALS AN HEIR-LOOM. 261 
 
 recognized me. If I had done nothing to attract her especial 
 attention to me, the next two hours might have been tided over 
 well enough, and, once on the way to Boston, en route for 
 Europe, I could have laughed at any outside interference." 
 
 Geoffrey shivered. It w:is dreadful to have to listen tu these 
 revelations, and to realize what a narrow escape Gladys had had, 
 for he knew that :f Everet Maplesou had succeeded in deceiving 
 ber until the steamer sailed, the shock of her discovery, \vheu 
 alone, ami in the power of the audacious scoundrel, might have 
 resulted in her death. Even now they might not be able to 
 secure her release, and she would still have to remain his wife 
 in the sight of the world, but no moral obligation bound her to 
 him. anb no power could ever compel her to live with him. 
 
 "Could you ever hope to gain any satisfaction iu the uresenee 
 of a wife who would loathe the very sight of you, and whom you 
 knew would never cease to love another?" Mr. Huntress de 
 manded, with curling lips. 
 
 " 'Love begets love,' yon know, and I imagine it would not 
 have been such a hopeless task, after all, to win the heart of my 
 wife, with such devotion as 1 have to offer her," Everet Maple- 
 son flippantly replied. 
 
 Geoffrey's blood boiled as ranch at his confident, arrogant 
 tone, as at his words, and almost before he had concluded, he 
 walked straight up to him, seized him by the coat collar, 
 wheeled him about, and marching him to the head of the stairs, 
 pointed below and said, iu a stem, authortative tone, as he re 
 leased his hold of him: 
 
 "GV" 
 
 The young man was so taken aback by this snmmary act, that 
 he did not even offer to resist tmtil he reached the top stair, 
 whn he put out his hand and seized the railing. 
 
 He turned, with blazing eyes, and faced Geoffrey, but the ex 
 pression which he saw upon his face warned him that he had no 
 irresolute spirit to deal with. 
 
 "Go!" reiterated Geoffrey, inflexibly, "or I may be tempted 
 beyond my strength and forget one of the 'thou shalt nots.' " 
 
 '/ will not!" he returned, as resolutely, all his antagonism 
 aroused. "Do you imagine that, after having struggled so des 
 perately to attain the dearest hopes of uay life, I will fly like a 
 coward in the vory hour of their achievement?" 
 
 But even while he spoke, with all the bravado of which he 
 was master, he shifted uneasily before the terrible look in 
 Geoffrey Huntress' eye. 
 
 Yet it aroused all the passion in his nature; \,he hot blood 
 mounted to his brow, coursing in an angry tide through all his 
 veins, and before either of Ins companions could suspect, his 
 intention, he swung aloft his right arm to smite his rival to the 
 floor. 
 
 But the blow never descended. la his hot-headed anger ho
 
 262 AN iCCWEST REVEALS AN HEIR-LOOM. 
 
 forgot the danger of his position, made a misstep, lost his bal 
 ance, and fell headlong down the long flight of stairs, and then 
 lay silent and motionless, while those two men above looked 
 down upon him with white, startled faces, and hearts throbbing 
 heavily with a sickening fear. 
 
 The stairs were carpeted and thickly padded, so that his fall 
 bad not been a very noisy one; yet the disturbance was suffi 
 cient to bring both Mrs. Huntress and the physiciau forth from 
 Gladys' room, ill a state of alarm and consternation. 
 
 "What is it? Oh, August, what has happened?" cried Mrs. 
 Huntress digging to her husband. 
 
 "Tkat villain played the spy upon us, and in attempting to 
 Btnke Geoffrey, lost his balance and fell," Mr. Huntress ex 
 plained, adding, anxiously: "But pray go back and stay with 
 Gladys; let her know nothing of this, eve i if she wakes, and we 
 will take care of this fellow." 
 
 He led her back to the young girl's room, and was greatly 
 relieved to see that she was still sleeping heavily, and had not 
 been conscious of the confusion outside. 
 
 The doctor and Geoffrey, meanwhile, had sprung down the 
 stairs, lifted the prostrate man, and carried him into one of the 
 rooms below. 
 
 A careful examination convinced Doctor Hoyt that there were 
 no bones broken, the thickly carpeted and padded stairs had 
 doubtless been his salvation in this respect; if he had suffered 
 no internal injury, he had surely escaped in a wonderful man 
 ner. 
 
 The force and shock of the fall had stunned him, but it was 
 not long before he began to rally and look about him. 
 
 As ho sat up, rubbing his confused head and trying to realize 
 what had happened to him, Doctor Hoyt glanced curiously 
 from him to Geoffrey. 
 
 Both were dressed in evening suits, both were very pale, and 
 their resemblance to each other was something wonderful. 
 
 "I do not wonder that the scamp succeeded in his villainous 
 scheme," the physiciau said, in an asida, to Mr. Huntress. "I 
 never saw twins that were more of an exact counterpart of each 
 other. 
 
 "Well, how do you find yourself now?" he added, in his ab 
 rupt, professional way, turning to Everet. 
 
 "I believe my shoulder is sprained," he replied, cringing with 
 pain, as he attempted to move his left arm. 
 
 "Any peculiar faiutness at the stomach any internal pain?" 
 
 "No, I reckon not; I have hardly come to myself yet, 
 though." 
 
 The doctor made another examination. 
 
 'You'll do," he said, as he completed it; "there are no bones 
 broken or out of joint, and if tltere was anything very wrong 
 inside it would begin to show itself. It's lucky for you that
 
 AN ACCIDENT R&VEALZ AN HEIR-LOOM. 263 
 
 you haven't a dislocated neck. The next time you want to play 
 pugilist don't choose a flight of stairs for your battle-ground. 
 Now, if you'll take my advice, you'll make tracks for your 
 hotel, give yourself a good rubbing all over with alcohol, and go 
 to bed." 
 
 Everet glanced darkly at the man, and it was on his tongue to 
 tell him that he should do no such thing; but he had been too 
 thoroughly shaken up by his fall to feel in a very defiant state, 
 and he lealized, too, that he had received very good counsel, 
 which it might te wise to heed. 
 
 Mr. Huntress, after hearing the doctor's verdict, had slipped 
 quietly from the room, feeling greatly relieved; but he returned 
 in a few moments with several small articles in his hand, v.'hich 
 he had picked up in the hall and on the stairs. 
 
 There was a small pearl-handled knife, a Russia leather wal 
 let, two or three pieces of gold, and some of silver. 
 
 These he handed to the young man. 
 
 ''They must have slipped from your pockets as you fell," he 
 aid. 
 
 Everet received them without even a civil acknowledgment, 
 and replaced them in his pockets. 
 
 "Does this belong tr you also?" Mr. Huntress asked, holding 
 out a small, glittering, peculiarly shaped object. 
 
 "Yes; thanks," he now had the grace to say, in an eager tone. 
 "It is a pocket piece and an heir-loom; I would not lose it for a 
 great deal," and he heid out his hand for it. 
 
 Geoffrey glanced up carelessly at these words; then he stepped 
 quickly forward, his eyea glittering, a strange expression on his 
 face. 
 
 "Lot me look at that, if you please," he said. 
 
 Mr. Huntress passed it to him, although Everet Mapleson 
 frowned at the act. 
 
 If Geoffrey had been pale before he was ghastly now as he 
 received that small object on the palm of his hand. 
 
 It was half of a knight- templar's crass, which had been broken 
 di(i(/onally t and was beautifully enameled and engraven! 
 
 He turned it over, holding it nearer the light to examine the 
 back of it. 
 
 "Ha!" he exclaimed, with a violent start, while he glanced 
 wonderingly at Everet, who was also regarding him with aston 
 ishment. 
 
 "Will you tell me how this happens to be in your possession?" 
 Geoffrey askei?, meeting his eye, 
 
 "Certainly," the young man returned, with mock politeness; 
 "it belonged to my great-grandfather, who served in the revolu 
 tion. He became a knight-templar just before enlisting, and 
 was presented with that emblem by the lodge of master masons 
 over which he had served as W. M. The date of the preseuta-
 
 264 GEOFFREY LEARNS THJS TRUTH AT LAST, 
 
 tion, with my venerable relative's name, is engraved on the 
 back, as you perceive." 
 
 "What became of the other portion of it?" Geoffrey asked. 
 
 "My father has it." 
 
 " Your father has it ?" 
 
 "Yes,"' curtly responded Everet, annoyed by this question 
 ing, yet impelled to reply by something that struck him as 
 peculiar in Geoffrey's manner. "It was broken by accident," 
 he added, "after my ancestor's return from the war, never hav 
 ing left his person during all that time, and he gave one half to 
 his son 'as a pocket piece,' he said keeping the other himself, 
 At his death his portion was given to my father, who had been 
 named for him, and, when I was of au age to appreciate it, my 
 grandfather's half was handed down to me." 
 
 "And your father you are sure has the other part of it now?" 
 Geoffrey inquired, with pale lips. 
 
 "Yes," Everet said, with a shrug of his shoulders; "we have 
 always regarded them as heir-looms, and have been careful not 
 to lose them." 
 
 "/have a 'pocket piece' which / have been 'careful not to 
 lose' since it came into my possession," Geoffrey remarked in a 
 hard, dry tone. 
 
 He took something from one of his pockets as he spoke, laid 
 it beside that other piece lying in his palm, aud held it out for 
 Everet Maplesou to see. 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 GEOFFREY LEARNS THE TRUTH AT LAST. 
 
 It was that portion of a knight- templar's cross which old 
 Abe Brown had given to Geoffrey when he was in Santa Fe the 
 previous summer. 
 
 It matched Everet's exactly, and the two fragments formed a 
 perfect cross as they lay together in Geoffrey's palm, 
 
 Everet glanced at it, then shot one quick, frightened look 
 into Geoffrey's stern face. 
 
 "Where did you get it?" he demanded, in husky tones, and 
 starting to his feet in great excitement. 
 
 "It was found in Santa Fe, where your father where my 
 father lost it." 
 
 "1'our father ?'* cried Everet, in a startled tone. 
 
 "Yes, Everet Mapleson, you and I are brothers /" 
 
 "It is a lie I" hoarsely shouted Everet, recoiling, yet knowing 
 but too well that he spoke only truth; "do you suppose I would 
 own " 
 
 "Stop /" commanded Geoffrey, sternly; "do not utter words
 
 GEOFFREY LEARNS TEE TRUTH AT LAST. 265 
 
 which you may have bitter cause to regret later. This broken 
 emblem, which I thought BO valueless when it came into my 
 possession, now becomes the strongest link iu the chain of evi 
 dence that proves my identity, Last summer I traced this man 
 to Santa Fe, and there lost his trail. There was only this paltry 
 piece of gold, with the name William engraven upon it, to show 
 that he had ever been there. I believed that my father's name 
 was William Dale, for I learned that a man bearing that name 
 had lived in a certain mining district of New Mexico, where, as 
 I was told, I was born and my mother had died. I found my 
 old nurse and her husband, who related all they knew of her 
 life there, and into whose care my father had given rae after her 
 death. They, however, did not even know his place of resi 
 dence or address; letters, he told them, would reach him super 
 scribed 'Lock Box 43, Santa Fe.' At Santa Fe I was gireu this 
 piece of jewelry by a man who had been postmaster there many 
 years ago, and who remembered the man that lost it, but could 
 not recall his name. Upon it was engraven 'William,' which I 
 had been told was my father's first name, and now I find the 
 other half of the cross bearing that of Mapleson on it. Is 
 jour father's r.ame William Date Mapleson?" Geoffrey suddenly 
 asked, as if the thought had just couie to him. 
 
 "No," was the curt, scornful reply, although it was evident 
 that the speaker was striving to conceal the agitation which 
 Geoffrey's account had caused. 
 
 Geoffrey stood silently and thoughtfully observing the cross 
 tht lay in his hand and the name inscribed upon it. 
 
 He no longer had any doubt about his being able to solve the 
 mystery of hia birth, though lie greatly feared that the solving 
 would only serve to confirm his worst fears. 
 
 "Then," he said, iu a cold, hard tone, "he dropped that of 
 Mapleson and assumed that of Dale for purposes best known to 
 himself, for I know now, as well as I wish to, that your father 
 and mine are one and the same person. I know that he must 
 Lave taken a beautiful girl to the mining region of which I have 
 spoken that she lived there with him as his wife under tho 
 name of Dale. He called her Annie. I have seen her grave, and 
 those who knew them both claim that he loved her as his own 
 life, and was broken-hearted when she died. Whether she 
 had any legal claim upon him; whether /, the child who was 
 born to them there, can claim honorable birth and an honorable 
 name, are points which remain to be proved. Do you know 
 aught of this story?" Geoffrey demanded of Everet, in con 
 clusion. 
 
 The young man did not reply for a moment. 
 
 He seemed to be considering whether it would be best to con 
 ceal or proclaim what he had discovered, and denounce the 
 man, whom he had so long hated, as the illegitimate son of his 
 father-
 
 266 GEOFFREY LEARNS THE TRUTH AT LAST. 
 
 Suddenly lie threw back his head iu a reckless way, an evil 
 light in his eyes, a curl of scorn on his lips. 
 
 "Yes," he said, "I do know the story from beginning to end. 
 I know that a girl naraecl Annie Dale disappeared very mysteri 
 ously from Richmond more than twenty years ago; that she 
 fled to her lover, who met her at Kansas City, and then took her to 
 that mining village among the mountains of New Mexico, where 
 she lived with him as his mistress, though nominally as his wife, 
 until she died." 
 
 "That man was William Mapleson, your father?" said Geof 
 frey, in a tone that was terrible from its calmness. 
 
 "That man was William Mapleson, my father," repeated 
 Everet, defiantly, though the blood mounted hotly to his brow 
 as he said it, showing that he was not yet quite hardened 
 enough not to feel something of shame over the confession. 
 
 "Did he give you the history of that exceedingly honorable 
 portion of his life?" Geoffre? asked, with curling lips. 
 
 "No; I found it out for myself. I have never felt at ease with 
 your resemblance to me: it has haunted me day and night," 
 Everet replied. "A slight circumstance occurred to arouse my 
 suspicions that there might be some natural cause for it I be 
 gan to trace the mystery, and followed it up until I learned the 
 truth that you were Aunia Dale's child, and she was what I 
 have already told you. I suppose, in point of fuct, that we are, 
 in a certain way, related to each other," he went on, with a dis 
 agreeable shrug. "If. undei' the circumstances, you can derive 
 any comfort from it, much good may it do you." 
 
 Geoffrey grew crimson, and, for a moment, his eyes blazed 
 wrath fully at this taunt. 
 
 "Was Mr. William Mapleson at Saratoga during any portion 
 of last summer?" he asked, struggling for self-control. 
 
 "I believe ho ran up there for a few days when he como North 
 to join my mother at Nowport," Everet returned, wondering 
 what the question could have to do with the point under dis 
 cussion 
 
 Geoffrey glanced significantly at Mr. Huntress. 
 
 "What was his object in registering there as William Dale?" 
 he asked. 
 
 Everet looked up, astonished. 
 
 "He did not," he said, skeptically. 
 
 "He did. I met him one morning in Congress Park. He 
 accosted me by your nauie, believing mo to be yourself, and 
 then became greatly agitated upon being informed of his mis 
 take and told who I was. My suspicions were aroused, for I 
 have always been on the alert to discover my parentage, and I 
 begged an interview with him. He appointed one for five 
 o'clock at his room, number forty- five, at the United States 
 Hotel. I was punctual, but when I inquired for the gentleman 
 who occupied room forty-five, I wr.s told that ho had left at
 
 GEOFFREY LSARXS THE TRUTH AT LAST. 267 
 
 noon. I examined the register, and fonnd his name entered as 
 William Dale, from Santa Ee, New Mexico.'" 
 
 "Then it must have been some one else,' 5 Everet affirmed, per 
 plexed over the affair, and yet instinctively feeling that his 
 father must have been concerned in it, though just how he was 
 at a loss to imagine. 
 
 "That was the thread by which I traced him to Santa Fe, and 
 from there to that mining village, where I learned the story of 
 my birth and my mother's death; and this story will have to 
 be sifted to the bottom, '' Geoffrey concluded in a resolute tone. 
 
 "Really, I do not see what use there will be in raising a row 
 over the affair," retorted Everet, with a supercilious glare at the 
 young man. "There are hundreds of men who have been rather 
 gay and wild in their youth, and if there have been girls in the 
 world who were foolish enough to accept their favors, it is 
 nobody's business but their own, and worse than folly to rake it 
 over. Colonel William Mapleson is a man who occupies an 
 honorable position and bears a pioud name. He is a high- 
 tempered gentleman, too, and I warn you will brook no non 
 sense from any one." 
 
 Doctor Hoyt, who had been an interested listener thus far 
 during the interview, turned abruptly on his heel, with an ex 
 pression of supreme contempt at this speech. 
 
 "Honorable position proud name, forsooth! Possesses more 
 temper than morality, I should judge, if his sou is a specimen 
 of the race," he muttered, and then passed up stairs to ascertain 
 if all was going well with his fair patient. 
 
 The haughty heir of the house of Mapleson winced visibly be 
 neath the scathing words. 
 
 "Nevertheless," said Geoffrey, with deliberate emphasis, in 
 reply to what he had said, "Colonel William Mapleson will have 
 to answer to me, personally, for the wrong if wrong there was 
 that he did my mother. Now, sir, we have had enough of 
 this for to-night, and yon can go! Shall I call a carriage for you, 
 or do you prefer to walk ?" 
 
 Everet burned to defy him in this, but he knew it would be 
 Tiseless to resist the resolute purpose which he read in every line 
 of his stern face; so, after a moment's hesitation, he said he 
 would walk; and, with a sullen scowl on his face, and wrath 
 flaming in his heart, he left the house and bent his steps toward 
 the nearest hotel. 
 
 Neither Geoffrey nor Mr. Huntress thought of retiring that 
 night, though the physician soon after went away, saying 
 Gladys would do well enough for several hours, and he would 
 come around in the morning; while Mrs. Huntress caught a 
 little sleep upon the lounge in her daughter's room. They sat 
 together until morning, reviewing Geoffrey's life and laying 
 plans for future action. 
 
 When morning dawned it broke upon a saddened, yet, withal,
 
 aes GSbffikET LJSAKNS THE TRUTH AT LAST. 
 
 upon a thankful household. Saddened because of the terrible 
 ending of all the bright hopes which they had cherished only a 
 few hours previous, hut thankful because Gladys awoke once 
 more herself, and that no harm had befallen Geoff, as they feared, 
 during his long absence from home. 
 
 But Gladys was very sad, and could not refer to the events of 
 tbe night before without becoming greatly agitated; but her 
 long rest had given her strength and more of self-control, while 
 she had been greatly comforted upon being told that she need 
 never look upon Everet Mapleson's face again unless she chose, 
 ami that an appeal to the law would soon free her from the hate 
 ful tiw that bound her to him. 
 
 She nearly broke down again, however, when Geoffrey went to 
 her, late in the day, and clung to him almost hysterically; bufc 
 he spoke cheerfully, and tried to comfort her with brighter 
 Lopes for the future, although his own heart was terribly bur 
 dened by the great sorrow that had fallen so like a thunderbolt 
 upon them both. 
 
 "Oh! -Geoff," Gladys burst forth at one time during the inter 
 view, "must all Brooklyn and New York ring with this dread 
 ful story!" 
 
 "No, my darling. Uncle August and I have been considering 
 that matter, and we think that no one, save those of us who 
 already know the truth, need learn anything of it. I am sur 
 prised that your fiitlier and mother were enabled to act so dis 
 creetly during all the confusion last night not 'even a servant 
 suspects anything wrong as yet," Geoffrey said, reassur 
 ingly. 
 
 "Bat will he keep still about it?" Gladys asked, with a shiver 
 of aversion, as her mind reverted to Everet Mapleson. 
 
 "I think he will be very glad to, dear at least for the pres 
 ent," Geoffrey said, confidently, "until he finds out just what 
 steps we intend to take. It would be very mortifying to him to 
 Lave his villainy discovered, and become a target for everybody 
 to shoot at, because he failed to get possession of the bride he 
 Lad strained every nerve to win, while we shall do our utmost 
 as soon as I return." 
 
 "Return ! Where are you going?" 
 
 "Ah! has not Aunt Alice told yon? I am going South imme 
 diately, to try to get at the truth regarding my birth." 
 
 He then told her something of the revelations of last night, 
 and she was greatly astonished and shocked to learn of his 
 relation to the man who had so injured them both. 
 
 "Brothers, Geoff? Jnst to think of it!" she cried, wonder- 
 ingly. 
 
 He smiled somewhat bitterly. 
 
 "I fear if what ho says is true, that the Louse of Mapleson 
 will uot own me either as a son or a brother. However, I wish 
 to know the truth, whatever it is, aud then just as soou as I re-
 
 GEOFFREY LtiARNS THE TUU1H AT LAST. 269 
 
 turn we will try to have that wretched fraud of last night recti 
 fied." 
 
 "Can it be done without publicity, Geoffrey?" Gladys asked, 
 anxiously. 
 
 "Yes, I believe it can be arranged so th.it very few will ever 
 be any wiser for what has happened." 
 
 This was one of the things that Mr. Huntress and Geoffrej 
 had talked of the night before, and the events of the next few 
 days confirmed them iu the belief that all scandal might ba 
 avoided. 
 
 The next morning Mr. Huntress went to the house where 
 Everet Maplesou had been accustomed to stop, but he was -not 
 to be fojnd there. Ho had left nearly two weeks previous the 
 day after he had met Gladys at the opera they discovered later. 
 Afterward they learned that he had hidden himself in a little 
 town a few miles out of the city, and there matured his plans, 
 and hired his accomplice to assist iu his miserable plot ou the 
 evening of the wedding. 
 
 Upon leaving the Huntress mansion, after his interview with 
 Geoffrey, and the discovery that he knew so ranch of his history, 
 he had stolen away tp the neaivst hotel, where, after thinking 
 every tiling quietly over, he began to realize that lie could never 
 compel Gladys to acknowledge herself as his wife; he believed, 
 too, that the courts would, upou learning the facts, annul the 
 marriage. 
 
 "Oh! if Iliad only kept still, and got her away before the 
 deception was discovered, my triumph would have been com 
 plete, and now I have lost everything." lie groaned in impotent 
 wrath; and yet ho was so furious at Geoffrey that he vowed he 
 would make a desperate fight aga'nst a divorce, if for nothing 
 but to keep the lovers apart. But until they should take some 
 decisive step he resolved to keep still and out of sight, for he 
 also was far too proud to care to become the subject of a 
 scandal. 
 
 It occasioned no surprise among the friends of the Huntress 
 family when they learned that "young Mrs. Huntress" had not 
 been able to sail for Europe, and that the trip was to be post 
 poned for at least another month possibly until spring. 
 
 Her physician also prohibited all cat tars and excitement, giv 
 ing as a reason that her strength had been overtaxed, and she 
 had barely escaped nervous prostration. 
 
 People did not wonder at this; it appeared *ery reasonable, 
 for they knew the season had been very gay, that the young 
 couple had been in great demand, and all this, together with, 
 the excitement and care of preparing for such a wedding, was 
 enough to wear out any young girl. 
 
 So Gladys and her mother remained quietly at home, hedged 
 about with these restrictions, while Geoffrey and Mr. linn truss 
 went South.
 
 270 UEOFFREY LEARSS THE TRUTH AT LAST. 
 
 Mr. Huntress bad insisted upon accompanying the young 
 man, for he was determined that full justice should be done the 
 boy whom he had reared and loved as his own sou. It' Colonel 
 Mapleson had wronged his mother he should at least tell the 
 story kindly and courteously to her child; if h<3 Lad inherited, 
 anything from her it would be his business to see that he had 
 bis rights. 
 
 The weary travelers reached Richmond late one afternoon. 
 They found that Vne de 1'Eau Colonel Maplesou's estate was 
 a long distance from the city, and they would be obliged to hire 
 some conveyance thither. 
 
 Tins was not an easy thing to accomplish, for the night prom 
 ised to be very dark, the roads were muddy, and t!ie weather 
 unusually cold for that genial climate. But by offering a gener 
 ous sum, for he was anxious to have the ordeal before them over 
 as soon as possible, Mr. Huntress succeeded in getting a man 
 to take them to their destination. 
 
 It was seven o'clock when they at last reached tbe home of 
 the proud Southerner, and the two men alighted before the 
 door with grave faces, and nerves that were none too steady, in 
 contemplation of the interview before them. 
 
 "Yes, sar, Massa Maplesou's home, sah," the dusky-skinned 
 servant replied to Mr. Huntress' inquiry, and then obsequiously- 
 led the way through the magnificent hall, which divided the 
 stately mansion through the center, to a spacious and richly 
 furnished library at its lower end. 
 
 "A. D. Huntress and Son," Mr. Huntress wrote on a card, 
 and handed it to the servant to be given to his master, and then 
 they sat down to await his coming. 
 
 Five minutes later though it seemed as many hours to those 
 impatient men Colonel Mapleson appeared in the door-way, 
 opposite August Huntress. 
 
 He was a tall, rather spare man, with a finely shaped head 
 proudly poised above a pair of military looking shoulders, a 
 massive brow, surmounted by a wealth of iron-gray hair, regu 
 lar, handsome, yet rather haughty features, a keen, eagle- 
 glancing blue eye, and an energetic manner. 
 
 Geoffrey recognized him instantly. It was the same man 
 whom he had met in Congress Park at Saratoga. 
 
 "Ah! Mr. Huntress," remarked tlie gentleman, courteously, 
 as his visitor arose to greet him; "glad to see you, sir glad to 
 see you!" 
 
 Then espying Geoffrey whom, having been seated on his right 
 and a little back of him as he entered, lie had not at first seen, 
 lie started, his face lighted witli pleasure, and he went toward 
 him with outstretched hand, exclaiming, heartily: 
 
 "Holloa! Everet! where on earth did you drop from? I sup 
 posed you still in New York having a gay time." 
 
 Mr. Huntress came forward at this, saying:
 
 FURTHER DEVELOPMENTS. 271 
 
 "You have made a slight mistake, sir; this young mau is my 
 sou by adoption Mr. Geoffrey Dale Huntress." 
 
 Colouel Mapleson recoiled, an asheu pallor overspreading hia 
 face at these words, a look of fear followed by one of dismay, 
 then of conviction springing into his eyes, which were fastened 
 upon that familiar yet strange face. 
 
 Then he staggered toward a chair, sank heavily into it, his 
 head dropping upon his breast, while he murmured, in a tone of 
 awe mingled with agony: 
 
 "At last! at last it has come!" 
 
 There was an awkward silence after that, during which the 
 man appeared to be absorbed in painful thought. 
 
 Mr. Huntress broke il at last by remarking iu a grave tone: 
 
 "I told you, Colouel Maplesou, that this is my sou by adop 
 tion ; we have recently learued that he is your son by the more 
 sacred tie of blood, and our errand here to-night is to learn how 
 much or how little that may mean." 
 
 The man sat suddenly erect, as his guest concluded this speech, 
 and looked almost imperial as he bent his keen, flashing eye full 
 upon August Huntress, a firm purpose written on his face, and 
 a look, also, which plainly told that he had never yet turned his 
 back upon danger, trouble, or an enemy, and never would. 
 
 "You shall learn, that, sir," he said iu a clear, proud tone; 
 "Annie Dale was my lawful wife, and he," extending a haud that 
 trembled visibly toward Geoffrey, "is our son!" 
 
 CHAPTER XLIL 
 
 FURTHER DEVELOPMENTS. 
 
 Mr. Huntress was struck dumb with astonishment by this 
 unexpected declaration; but Geoffrey sprang forward, clasped 
 that extended hand, and exclaimed, in a voice that shook with 
 emotion: 
 
 "Oh, sir, 1 can never express my gratitude for that blessed 
 assurance!" 
 
 Colouel Mapleson's fingers closed almost convulsively over 
 the young man's hand, while he turned his gaze upon him, 
 searching his face with eager, hungry eyes. 
 
 "Geoffrey," he murmured, iu a trembling tone, "you are my 
 Annie's boy." 
 
 His lipa quivered, a great trembling seized him, and he 
 seemed on the point of breaking down utterly. 
 
 It was several minutes before he could collect himself suffi- 
 cieutly to speak, although he struggled manfully with his emo 
 tion. 
 
 At length he turned again to Geoffrey, to whoso hand he had 
 clur.g ;il! the time, saying:
 
 272 FURTHER DEVELOPMENTS. 
 
 "How like you ave to Everet, my other son. I mistook you 
 for him when I first entered the room." 
 
 "So you did upon one other occasion, if you remember," 
 Geoffrey returned. 
 
 The man made a gesture of pain. 
 
 "Ah!" he said, humbly, "you will forgive me, I hope, when I 
 explain why I avoided you at that time. But this meeting lias 
 unnerved me. I find myself unable to either think or speak 
 collectedly. Will you both remove your outer coats, and then, 
 Geoft'rey, tell me the story of your life of your adoption by 
 this gentleman, while I try to recover myself. But tirsi tell me 
 have you both dined? Shall I not order something for you?" 
 he concluded, with thoughtful hospitality. 
 
 They assured him that they had dined just before leaving 
 Richmond, and needed nothing; and then, having removed 
 their overcoats as requested, Geoffrey began his tale. 
 
 His face had brightened wonderfully during the last few mo 
 ments; the expression of tense anxiety, of doubt and apprehen 
 sion, had all faded from it, and he looked more like himself 
 than he had done since the day of his interrupted marriage; it 
 was such a blessed relief to know that no stigma was attached to 
 his birth. 
 
 He told all that he had learned of his history through Jack 
 and Margery Heuly, and how he had so strangely come upon 
 them while striving to follow up the faint clew tliat he had ob 
 tained of his father at Saratoga; of his having been found so 
 helpless and forlorn in New York by Mr. Huntress; of the res 
 toration of his mental faculties through his kindness and inter 
 est, and of the happy life that he had sincd led as a member of 
 his household. The only incidents that he omitted were those 
 in which Everet his father's other son had been concerned, 
 and which he would not then pain him by mentioning, though 
 possibly they might have to be told later. 
 
 Colonel Mapleson listened with rapt interest and attention 
 throughout the whole recital, and appeared deeply moved dur 
 ing that portion which related to his mental infirmity. 
 
 When it was all told, he seemed to fall into a painful reverie; 
 his face was inexpressibly sad, his attitude despondent, as if 
 memories of the past, which had thus been aroused, came 
 crowding thick and fast upon him, filling him with sorrow and 
 regret. 
 
 Finally he aroused himself with a long-drawn sigh, and rising, 
 went to a handsome desk which was in the room, in which he 
 unlocked a small drawer, and taking a box from it, brought 
 and laid.it upon the table by which Geoffrey was sitting. 
 
 "I had grown to feel almost as if this portion of my life had 
 been blotted out," he said; "at least until it was so suddenly re 
 called to me by meeting you at Saratoga last summer. But our 
 mistake's rise up and confront us; our sins find us out when we
 
 FURTHER DEVELOPMENTS. 273 
 
 least expect it. Opeu that box, Geoffrey, and draw what oonx- 
 fort you can from its contents." 
 
 Geoffrey's face flushed at being thns addressed. 
 
 He had come there with his heart full of bitterness toward 
 the man who, he believed, had done his mother an irreparable 
 wrong. 
 
 But now he found those feelings fast changing to pity and 
 sympathy for him. His manly confession had more than half 
 conquei'ed him at the outset, while his tender memories of tl*e 
 acknowledged wife of his youth, and the fond inflection with 
 which his voice was tilled every time he uttered his own nam-3, 
 told him that some of his dearest hopes had clustered around 
 those early days when he had been a wee infant, and stirred a 
 tenderness within his own heart for his father which he had nevtir 
 imagined he could feel. 
 
 He untied the faded blue ribbon that bound the box which 
 Colonel Mapleson had given him, with fingers that trembled 
 visibly, removed the lid and found a thin, folded paper within. 
 
 He opened it. It was an old telegram addressed to William 
 Mapleson, Santa Fe, New Mexico, and contained these words: 
 
 "I will come, Will. Start at ten on the eighth." 
 
 There was another paper underneath this, and his heart beak 
 rapidly as he drew it forth. 
 
 A blur came before his eyes, a nervous trembling seized him, 
 making the paper rattle in his grasp, for something seemed to 
 tell him, even before he looked at it, what it was. 
 
 Yes, it was even as he had surmised, for there, in black and 
 white, as plain and strong as the law could make it, was the 
 certificate which proved the legality of the bond that united 
 William Maplesou and Annie Dale, and dated only a few days 
 later than the telegram which he had just seen. 
 
 They had been married in Kansas City immediately upon the 
 arrivui of Miss Dale, by the Rev. Dr. A. K. Bailey, of the Epis 
 copal church. 
 
 A song of thanksgiving arose in Geoffrey's heart as he read 
 this, for it proved that his mother had been an honored wife 
 that no stain had ever rested on his birth; he was the legitimate 
 son of William and Annie Mapleson, and the burden of fear and 
 dread, that had so long oppressed him, was rolled away from 
 his heart at last. 
 
 There wa something else in one corner at the bottom of the 
 box a tiny case of black morocco. 
 
 Geoffrey seized it eagerly, turned back the lid, and a small, 
 heavy ring of gold lay before him. 
 
 His heart leaped anew at the sight of it; nothing bad been neg 
 lected to do honor to the beautiful girl whom William Maple- 
 Bon had loved. 
 
 He turned it toward the light and read on its inner surface; 
 "W. M. to A. D., Aug. 12th, 18 "
 
 274 FURTHER DEVELOPMENTS. 
 
 A heavy sigh, that was almost a sob, burst from him, though 
 it was oue of joy instead of sorrow. 
 
 "A fortune could not purchase these from me," he said, look 
 ing up with moist eyes, while he reverently laid back in their 
 place the priceless treasures he had found. 
 
 A spasm of pain contracted Colonel Mapleson's face at his 
 words, for he could well understand the feeling that lay behind 
 them, and he could not fail to realize, too, something of the 
 questionable position which his boy had occupied all his life. 
 
 He was very grave and thoughtful, and Mr. Huntress, as he 
 watched hioa, could see that he was struggling with somo 
 weighty matter that lay upon his conscience. 
 
 At length he lifted his head, with a quick, resolute motion, 
 showing that he had settled it, whatever it was. 
 
 "Mr. Huntress and Geoffrey," he said, glanciug from one to 
 the other; "I have a long story to tell you, and a hard one, too, 
 for not a soul in the world save you two and the clergyman who 1 
 performed the ceremony really knows that I was ever married 
 before the present Mrs. Maplesou became my wife. I am bound 
 to tell this story not only to you, but also to her; that, as you 
 cannot fail to understand, will be the hardest part of my con 
 fession." 
 
 Both his listeners sympathized with him deeply. They couldl 
 easily perceive how humiliating it would be to this proud man- 
 to make such a disclosure to his wife after having deceived her 
 for more than a score of years; yet both knew that it was an act 
 of j'istice which should be performed in order that Geoffrey 
 might be acknowledged as a son and heir, and thus attain his 
 proper position in the world. 
 
 "It is a painful story, too," the colonel went on, "for Geof 
 frey. I loved your mother with all the strength of my nature 
 as a man loves but once in his life and when I lost her the 
 world became a blank to me, while e^en now it is almost more 
 than I can bear to speak of it. T cannot tear the wound open 
 and live over all that experience more than once, and if you do 
 not object, I would like Mrs. Maplesou to be present while I 
 make my: confession." 
 
 Mr. Huntress urged him to act according to his own wishes 
 in the matter. As far as he was concerned Mrs. Mapleson's 
 presence would make no difference, unless the situation should 
 prove to be too trying for her. 
 
 "She must know it within a few hours at the farthest, and it 
 will also be necessary for her to meet you; so it might as well be 
 done at once. What do you say, Geoffrey?" Colonel Mapleson 
 asked, turning to his son. 
 
 "Do jnst what you think will be for the best, sir," he replied; 
 and his father immediately arose and left the room. 
 
 "Estelle," he. said, going into his wife's boudoir, where she 
 sat, haudsoxie and stately, reading the latest magazine,
 
 FURTHER DEVELOPMENTS. 'i. : 5 
 
 "will you come down to the library for a little while. I havo 
 some callers to whom 1 wish to introduce you." 
 
 Something unnsual in her husband's tone made Mrs. Maple- 
 son drop her book and search his face. 
 
 He was white to his lips. 
 
 "Why, William, what ails you? Has any thing happened to Ev- 
 eret?" she questioned, anxiously, her motherhood aroused for 
 her child. 
 
 "Everet is well, RO far as I know, but " 
 
 "Surely you are ill, or you have bad news?" she inter 
 rupted. 
 
 "No, I am not ill, although some business of a painful nature 
 has upset me a trifle," be answered, knowing that he was look 
 ing wretched, and not attempting to conceal his agitation. 
 
 "You know I do not like to be mixed up with business trans 
 actions," his wife replied, with an impatient shrug of her 
 shapely shoulders. 
 
 "But I particularly desire your presence while I make a 
 statement to those gentlemen," Colonel Muplesou said, striving 
 to speak more calmly, though the hand that was resting on the 
 back of Mrs. Maplesou's chair trembled in away to really startle 
 her. 
 
 "Why, William," she said, facing him, "have you been get 
 ting into financial trouble at your time of life?" 
 
 "No; it is an error a mistake made long years ago that I wish 
 to rectify," he gravely answered. 
 
 "Who are these people?" she asked, still searching his face 
 earnestly. 
 
 "A Mr. Huntress and his son from New York." 
 
 "Huntress!" repeated the lady, reflectively. "Where have I 
 heard that name before?" 
 
 "Never mind now, Estelle; you can think of tlmi some other 
 time. Please do not keep me waiting." 
 
 He to'tk her hand, laid it on his arm, and led her from the 
 room, while she wondered to see her proud husband in tluifc 
 mood, for there was a gentleness about him, mingled with a hu 
 mility and a deprecatory air, that was entirely foreign to him. 
 
 Not a word was spoken by either as they passed down the 
 grand staircase. Colonel Mapleson was too absorbed in the 
 painful duty before him, while ''coming events" seemed already 
 to have "cast their shadows" upon the handsome face aud proud 
 spirit of his wife. 
 
 A painful expression almost convulsed Colonel Mapleson'a 
 face as lie paused irresolutely a moment before the library door. 
 
 But his hesitation was only for an instant. 
 
 The next hn turned the handle, led his wife within the room, 
 when hr closed and locked the door to insure freedom from in 
 terruption. 
 
 Then he led his companion straight to August Huntress.
 
 276 COLONEL MAPLESON'S tiTOUY. 
 
 "Mr. Huntress, allow me to present to you my wife, Mrs, 
 Mapleson," he said by way of iutro<luction. 
 
 The lady glanced into the gentleman's face. Instantly her 
 own froze into a look of horror; u shock went quivering through 
 her frame like the blow of an ax upon a tree. She started wild 
 ly back from him, her eyes dilated, her lips apitrt. 
 
 "August Damon!" she gasped, and sank fainting to the floor. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 COLONEL MAPLESON'S STOKY. 
 
 Colonel Mapleson sprang forward to lift his wife, amazement 
 depicted on every feature. 
 
 August Huntiess appeared like a man suddenly deprived of 
 his senses, and stood spell-bound, gazing with a look of awe 
 upon the prostrate woman before him. whom he instantly recog 
 nized as Mrs. Marston. the rr other of Gladys. 
 
 Geoffrey, after one astonished glance at this vivid tableau, 
 started forward to assist Colonel Mapleson to bear his Avife to a 
 sofa at one end of the room. 
 
 "Shall I ring for assistance?" Mr. Huntress asked, rousing 
 himself with an effort from his state of stupefaction, and reach 
 ing toward a bell-pall. 
 
 Colonel Maplesou turned sharply upon him, with a stern, 
 troubled face. 
 
 "Did you ever meet my -wife before, sir?" he demanded. 
 
 "I I think I did, once years ago," Mr. Huntress replied, 
 shrinking from compromising the ladv, yet forced to tell the 
 truth. 
 
 "Where?" was the terse query. 
 
 "Parhap 1 *," returned the gentleman addressed, while he met 
 his host's searching gaze frankly and steadily, yet with conscious 
 dignity; "perhaps it would be as well to give our immediate at 
 tention to the recovery of your wife, and allow her to make her 
 own explanations when she is able to do so." 
 
 It was a polite way of telling him that he would say nothing 
 more until Mrs. Mapleson gave him permission to do so. 
 
 Colonel Mapleson bowed acquiescence. 
 
 "Hand me a glass of water, if you please," he said to Geoffrey, 
 and glancing toward a table on which there was a water service. 
 "We will do what we can for her ourselves, without having any 
 prying servants about. I do not believe my wife ever fainted 
 before." 
 
 He sprinkled her face vigorously, bathing her temples, and 
 chafing her hands, to restore circulation. 
 
 She began to recover almost immediately, and before the ex-
 
 COLONEL MAPLESON'S STORY. 277 
 
 piration of ten minutes was able to sit up, and called for water 
 to drink. 
 
 Her self- possession returned at the same time, and looking up 
 in her husband's face, with her usual brilliant smile, as she passed 
 back Iur empty glass, she remarked: 
 
 "I hope, William, that you and your guests will excuse my 
 Budden indisposition. It was a startling greeting, a sorry wel 
 come to strangers. But you did not present me to the other 
 gentleman." 
 
 She, glanced inquiringly about for Geoffrey, who was standing 
 a little back of her. 
 
 As their eyes met, she started, opening her lips as if about to 
 address him, believing him for the instuut to be Everet. 
 
 But her mind worked very rapidly, and she checked her- 
 uelf. 
 
 She remembered that she had seen a young man at Yalo 
 who strangely resembled her son, and that his name was Hunt 
 ress. 
 
 This must be he. But what could he want there in her 
 liome? And why had his coming so disturbed her husband, 
 who was usually the coolest and most collected of men? 
 
 The blood suddenly leaped to her temples, and then as quickly 
 receded, leaving her very pale, as the answer throbbed in her 
 brain: "A secret in his early life." 
 
 Colonel Mapleson was watching her every expression; he 
 marked the quick color, then her pallor, while lie wondered what 
 secret of her past life lay in her acquaintance with August Damon 
 Huntress. 
 
 He, however, introduced Geoffrey, whom Mrs. Maploson 
 greeted very graciously, remarking that she believed she haci 
 Been him at the last commencement of Yale, when he had taken 
 his degree at the same time with her son, "whom," she added, 
 with a covert glance at her husband, "yon resemble to a remark 
 able, degree." 
 
 Colonel Mapleson's heart throbbed heavily. He knew the 
 moment had come when ho must mi vail a portion of his life 
 which lie had believed was buried in oblivion. 
 
 "Estelle," he began, taking a chair and turning his face a little 
 from her, "my object in asking you to meet these gentlemen 
 was because I have a confession to make to them, and to you; 
 a confession of such a painful nature that I felt I could make it 
 only once, therefore I wish you to hear it at the same time." 
 
 Mrs. Mapleson glanced from him to Geoffrey. She was very 
 quick, and immediately she recalled what Dr. Turner, of Boston, 
 had told her only the previous summer; for it was she who had 
 been his visitor that day; she who had been searching for August 
 Damon's address in the Boston Directory. She remembered he 
 had told her that the man for whom she was inquiring had adopted 
 and was educating a boy of greart promise, and now, iu view of
 
 278 COLONEL MAPLESON' 8 STOtiY. 
 
 his wonderful resemblance to Everet, she began to suspect some 
 thing of the nature of her husband's confession. 
 
 "It is the strangest tiling in the world," she thought, as she 
 turned her eyes upon Mr. Huntress, and realized who his chil 
 dren, by adoption, were. 
 
 "It is the strangest tiling in the world," was echoed in Mr. 
 Huntress' brain, as he met her glance, and, with a sudden heart 
 throb of joy, realized something that she did not. 
 
 "L will go back-as far as my boyhood," Colonel Mapleson re 
 sumed. "You have heard me say, Estelle, that I was in the 
 habit of visiting Vue de 1'Eau, often spei-ding weeks and some- 
 times mouths with Uncle Jabez when I was a boy. I think I 
 could not have been more than twelve, when, during one of 
 those visits, I became acquainted with a young girl just about 
 my own age, who resided near here with her mother. I refer to 
 Annie Dale." 
 
 Mrs. Mapleson gave a violent start at this; a light broke over 
 her face, which instantly became crimson, then grew as suddenly 
 white. 
 
 "We became very fond of each other," her husband pro 
 ceeded, without noticing her emotion, "and we were together 
 day after day, week after week, playing ball, hoop, battledore 
 and shuttlecock, sailing our boats together on the stream which 
 feeds the pond that used to run the old mill, riding horseback 
 together in fact, were scarcely separated from the beginning of 
 ray stay until its end. It was always the same every time I 
 came; I always sought my charming little companion on the day 
 of my arrival, and gave her my last good-by when I went away. 
 
 "This went on for several years, until I grew to love her with 
 all the strength of my young heart, and I fondly believed she 
 returned my affections, although she was so modest and shy that 
 she never betrayed it, at least after she grew to womanhood, 
 save by evincing pleasure and a sort of trustful content in my 
 society. 
 
 "There came a time when I resolved to confess my feelings 
 toward her and learn if possible if she returned them, but before 
 the time for my visit arrived that year, Uncle Jabez died and 
 everything was changed. This uncle," said Colonel Mapleson, 
 glancing from Mr. Huntress to Geoffrey, "made a very singular 
 will a very arbitrary and unnatural will. He divided the whole 
 of his property, which was very large, into two portions, one of 
 which he bequeathed to me, the othei to his niece. Miss Estelle 
 Everet, who is now my wife upon the condition that we would 
 marry each other. He gave us until Miss Everet would be 
 twenty-five to make up our minds; if we both refused to com 
 ply with his wishes at the end of that time, and each married 
 some one else, the whole fortune was to go to a certain Robert 
 Dale, who was first cousin to our uncle. If either of us died 
 during that time, such an event would free the other party and
 
 COLONEL MAPLEHON'S STORY. 279 
 
 he or she "would inherit the fortune thus left; if either married 
 during that time the same result was to follow. I was at that 
 time in my twenty-first year, Miss Everet was seventeen. 
 
 "You can perhaps imagine something of my feelings upon 
 learning the contents of this will. I had always expected to in 
 herit a share of my uncle's property, for 1 was a favorite with 
 him, and he had hinted that I was to be his heir; but I had 
 never di'eamed of being hampered with any such arbitrary con 
 ditions. I was very indignant. So was my cousin, for, although 
 we had always been the best of friends, we felt that this was a 
 matter in which we should have been left free to choose for our 
 selves. However, the property was divided between us, and we 
 found ourselves independent. I was an orphan, and had been 
 entirely dependent on my uncle; I had just completed my edu 
 cation, and was thinking of establishing myself in some business, 
 when I suddenly awoke to the fact that I was rich and could 
 live as I chose, provided, at the expiration of eight years, I 
 would marry the woman my uncle had chosen for me. But I 
 loved Annie Dale, and I knew I could not marry any one else 
 while my heart belonged so entirely to her. I became so 
 wretched and unhappy over my situation, while at the same 
 time I could not make up my mind to part with my newly ac 
 quired fortune, that I could not come here to Vue de 1'Eau to 
 live, where I should have to meet her constantly: so I had the 
 house closed and started off on a trip through the West. 
 
 "During my wanderings I went to New Mexico, where I 
 heard the most wonderful stories regarding the wealth of the 
 Morena Mines. A bright idea suddenly came to me. I would 
 invest in them I would throw myself in the business of mining 
 during the next few years; if what I had heard was true I could 
 easily double, perhaps treble, what money I put into them 
 before I should have to give up my fortune according to the 
 conditions of my uncle's will the money thus earned would be 
 legitimately mine. 1 could then make over to my cousin my 
 share of Jabez Mapleson's fortune, and be in a comfortable 
 situation to marry the girl I loved. 
 
 "Inspired with enthusiasm over this idea, I bought largely in 
 the Morena Mines, and then bent all my energies toward the 
 one object of my life. The first three years I was very success 
 ful, and if my luck continued, I knew that by the end of 
 another three I might snap my fingers over Jabez Maplesou's 
 will, and secure the wife of my choice. But just at this time a 
 terrible temptation presented itself to me. 
 
 "Annie Dale's mother had been a widow for several years. 
 Her husband was a cousin of my uncle's, and when Mr. Dale 
 died, leaving his wife and child destitute, Uncle Jabez had 
 given them the use of a small cottage on his estate and increased 
 the small annuity, which Mrs. Dale possessed, to a Bum that 
 enabled them to live comfortably with economy. Afterward,
 
 280 COLONEL MAPLESON'S STORY. 
 
 when Annie grew older, they opened a small private school, and, 
 having succeeded in securing all the pupils they could accom 
 modate, they declined receiving further aid from him. They 
 lived very poorly and m eagerly, however, and it galled me to 
 see their poverty; so, upon coming into possession of the estate, 
 I took advantage of their absence on a visit at one time, and had 
 the cottage thoroughly repaired and newly furnished in a style 
 to suit myself. Mrs. Dale was almost inclined to be angry with 
 me for this, saying it was far too elegant for their position in life; 
 but the deed was done, and I laughingly told her it was only a 
 poor return for all the trouble I had given her as a boy, when I 
 tracked her spotless floors with my muddy boots, and depleted 
 her larder with my rapacious appetite, as, day after day, I 
 shared Annie's lunch. 
 
 "But I am getting away from the temptation of which I be 
 gan telling you, which came to me after I had been three years 
 in the mines. Annie's mother died very suddenly after an ill 
 ness of only a week, and I did not learn of the fact for nearly 
 two mouths afterward. I wrote at once to Annie, begging her 
 to choose some elderly companion and remain where she was 
 to consider the cottage still her home and accept aid from me 
 until I could return and make some permanent arrangement for 
 her. I told myself that if I could only keep her there in seclu 
 sion for a couple of years longer, I should then be in a position 
 to return and ask her to become my wife. But in a cool, digni 
 fied letter she refused my request, telling me that her plans for 
 the future were already made, and that she was on the eve of leav 
 ing for Richmond, where she was going to remain with an old 
 nurse, until she could obtain a position as governess in some 
 family. 
 
 "For a week after receiving this letter I fought a terrible bat 
 tle with myself. I could not endure the thought of that delicate 
 girl going out in the world to toil for the bread she ate. On 
 the other hand, if I yielded to my own desire, and asked her to 
 marry me, it would doom her to a life of hardship almost as 
 severe, for I could only make over my share of Uncle Jahez's 
 fortune to m.\ cousin at a sacrifice that would leave me almost a 
 beggar. I could not force a sale of mining interests without 
 losing nearly all that I had made during the last three years. I 
 was nearly distracted, and I imagined a thousand evils and 
 dangers that might result from Annie becoming a governess. 
 Not only would such a life be a burdensome and disagreeable 
 one, but, worse than that, she was liable to meet some one who 
 would be attracted by her beauty and sweetness some one who 
 would win her, and thus I should lose her. 
 
 "The thought was unbearable, and I resolved upon a desper 
 ate measure. I wrote again to her, confessing ray love that I 
 had always loved her, and begging her to come to me and share 
 my life in the West. I told her that I would gladly give up
 
 COLONEL MAPLESON'S STORY. 281 
 
 fortune everything if she would become my wife; and I 
 meaut to, by another year, or as soon as I could sell to advant 
 age. I told her, also, that I could not come on for her, as my 
 interests at the mines would not admit of my being absent long 
 enough for that, but I would meet her at Kansas City, Missouri, 
 where we would be immediately married, and then proceed to 
 our simple home among the mountains of Mew Mexico. I 
 begged her not to say anything to any one where she was going 
 until after our marriage, when I preferred to announce the fact 
 myself. I sent her a route carefully mapped out, and a check 
 ample for all her needs, begging her to telegraph me the day 
 and the hour that she would start. You have the telegram she 
 sent in reply there," Colonel Mapleson said, turning to Geoffrey, 
 and glancing at the package which still lay on the table beside 
 
 him. 
 
 "I have always kept, that precious bit of paper," he resumed, 
 "for its contents made me almost wild with joy when I received 
 it. I set out immediately to join my dear one, reaching Kansas 
 City only a few hours previous to her own arrival. I had 
 everything arranged, however, and wo drove directly from the 
 station to the house of a prominent clergyman of the city, where 
 we were married in the presence of his household, and three 
 Lours later we were on our way to New Mexico. 
 
 "But I knew it would never do for me to take my wife to the 
 Morena Mines, where I was known by men who were also from 
 the South, and through whom the knowledge of my marriage 
 would soon travel back to Virginia. Only a short time previous 
 I had bought out a man in another district, getting his claim 
 for a mere song, and not a soul in the place knew me. I re 
 solved to take Annie there, make just as pretty and comfortable 
 a home as I could for her, call myself William Dale, going back 
 and forth from one mine to the other, as my business demanded 
 it, until I was satisfied to sell out altogether and return to Vir 
 ginia, proclaim my marriage, and give Miss Everet the other half 
 of her fortune. But wheu I confessed this to Annie, as of course 
 I had to do in order to assume her name, she was very un 
 happy. She was not lacking in spirit either, and made me 
 almost despise myself for the part I had played. 
 
 " 'I would never have come to you if I had known this,' she 
 said. 'I hate deception and double-dealing of whatever nature. 
 You might have told me frankly how you were situated, and I 
 would have waited and been faithful to you until you could have 
 openly made me your wife.' 
 
 " 'But you would not have allowed me to take care of you,' I 
 replied. 
 
 " 'No,' she answered, flushing; 'my pride would not have 
 yielded to that, but I could have done very well for myself for a 
 while, and waited patiently until it was right that we should be 
 named.'
 
 282 THE COLONELS tTQRY CONCLUDED. 
 
 "I had a hard task to pacify her. She was determined at first 
 that the whole truth should be confessed, saying she would uot 
 occupy a false positiou. But when I told her that it would ruin 
 me to for^e a Bale of ray stock; that I should lose all the hard 
 labor of the three years that I had spent there, and not even then 
 be able to replace the money frotn Uncle Jabez's fortune which 
 I had invested, she became more reasonable. I promised that if 
 she would try and be patient and happy for a year, I would 
 replace every dollar that was not my own, and have something 
 handsome besides, as a capital for myself. 
 
 "I honestly meant to do all this, for I knew that I should 
 never thoroughly regain the respect of my wife until I had 
 redeemed my positiou and hers before tiie world." 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORI CONCLUDED. 
 
 "Annie and I were very happy," O-lonel Mapleson went on, 
 after a momentary pause, "during th^ year that followed 
 happy in spite of a little cloud that had arisen so soon after our 
 marriage, for our prospects were very enconraging. I was doing 
 finely. Every month my profits were increasing, and thus the 
 time of our emancipation was growing nearer If I could only 
 replace what now no longer properly belonged to me, Annie 
 said she would be content to remain in that mining country as 
 long as I desired. She was willing to live simply, e^en frugally, 
 if I would only do right, acknowledge our marriage before the 
 world, and not have to hide like a couple of criminals. 
 
 "Our joy was increased tenfold when, a little before our first 
 anniversary, a bright, handsome boy was born to us.' 
 
 Again Mrs. Maplesou started and shot another g.vauce at 
 Geoffrey. 
 
 "That explains it all," she murmured. 
 
 "Yes, Estelle," replied her husband, who caught the words, 
 "that explains why this young man resembles Everct to &uch a 
 wonderful degree. They are both thorough .Maplesons. My 
 wife," he continued, a sudden pallor settling over his face, an\I 
 speaking now witli visible effort, "began to recuperate abacs' 1 ' 
 immediately after his birth, her color and strength returned, hei 
 spirits seemed as light as air, and she was as happy as the day 
 was long, in the possession of her new treasure, while she was 
 the most devoted little mother imaginable. She named her 
 baby, herself. 'Geoffrey Dale Maplesou,' she said he was to be 
 called, 'only we shall have to drop the Mapleson for a while, I 
 suppose only a little while longer, Will,' she pleaded, as sb: 
 twined her arms about my neck and drew my head down closft 
 to the little one lying beside her. 
 
 " 'My darling,' I told Iior, 'in KI\ months, at the farthest, yott 
 phall go back home as Mrs. William Mapleson. We will call it
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY CONCLUDED. 283 
 
 our real wedding journey. Estelle shall have her money, then we 
 will come buck here for a few years longer, after which, if all 
 continues to go well, we shall have no cause to regret Jabez 
 Mapleson's fortune.' 
 
 "I shall never forget the look of joy on her face when I made 
 that promise, and all during the evening she was as gay as a 
 child, and more lovely than I had ever seen her. The next 
 morning 1 was obliged to leave her for a couple of days. I had 
 to go to the other mines, then to Santa Fe to make a deposit. 
 My darling clung to me as I bade her good-by. Our boy was 
 just two days old then. 
 
 " 'My Will, my Will, somehow I cannot bear to let you go this 
 time, even for a day, and two will seem an age! 1 she said, as she 
 kissed me again and again. Then she laughed at her own 
 childishness, told me playfully, though with tears in her eyes, 
 to begone before she repeated her folly." 
 
 A groan burst from the lips of the narrator at this point, and 
 it seemed as if he would not be able to go on. 
 
 Mr. Huntress and Geoffrey both shifted their position, for 
 they could not bear to look upon his agonized face as he thus 
 laid bare this sacred page of his heart. 
 
 Mrs. Mapl'^son buried her face in her handkerchief, while 
 every now and then a shudder ran through her frame. 
 
 "She never kissed me again; she never called her 'Will' again; 
 she never knew me again," Colonel Mapleson went on, in a hol 
 low tone, "for she took a cold that verv day and was raving with 
 delirium when I returned. She grew worse and worse, and in 
 two weeks was dead. My bright, beautiful wife, whom I 
 loved better than my own life, for whom I was willing to give 
 np fortune, position, everything that I had hitherto held most 
 dear, lay a lifeless thing of clay gone from me like a breath, 
 leaving me broken-hearted and with my reason nearly de 
 throned." 
 
 It was truly pitiable to witness the man's emotion and his 
 struggle for self-control. 
 
 His frame shook like a tree swayed "by the wind; his lips and 
 his voice trembled so that it was difficult for him to articulate, 
 whilo his broad chest heaved convulsively with the anguished 
 throbbing of his heart. , 
 
 "Well," he said, after a while, "I must not dwell upon that 
 Bad time, and I scarcely know how I lived during the week that 
 followed. We buried her in a quiet spot beneath a mammoth 
 tree, not a stone's throw from our home, where she used often 
 to sit on a warm summer's day with some dainty bit of work in 
 her hands. You have seen her grave, you s:iy," he interposed, 
 turning to Geoffrey. "Does it look sailly neglected and over 
 grown? Is the stone defaced or the name obliterated by the 
 storms of so many years?" 
 
 "No, sir," his son answered, looking up with moist eyes, for
 
 284 THE COLONEL' 8 STORY CONCLUDED. 
 
 he had been deeply moved by bis father's story and bis evident 
 suffering in telling it; "the fence that surrounds the little lot 
 Las fallen somewhat, to decay, but a luxuriant growth of vines 
 bides all that. Tlio stone still stands upright in its place and 
 the name 'Annie' is as distinct to-day as it ever was." 
 
 "I havo never been there since we broke up our home," re 
 sumed the colonel, with a heavy sigh. "The girl, Margaret, 
 who had served my wife most faithfully ever since our marriage, 
 married, as you know already, a man by the name of Henly. 
 They were going to California to live, and she said she would 
 take care of my boy until I conld make some better provision 
 for him. I knew not what else I conld do, so I accepted her 
 offer. I broke up my home, gave away what I could not soil 
 of the furniture, and we left the place, the Henlys taking you, 
 Geoffrey, to California, where I planned to visit you when I 
 conld. I returned to my interests in the other mines where I 
 tried to drown my grief by working as a common min^r. But 
 time, instead of healing my wound, only made it rankle worse. 
 I grew bitter and antagonistic; the happiness of others mad 
 dened me; the fortune 1 had before been so willing to release, 
 for the sake of her I loved, I now vowed I would, keep out of 
 spite for my loss. I resolved to keep my marriage a secret. I 
 would keep all my wealth, and as my boy grew older he should 
 Lave the benefit of it, even though I should never be able to ac 
 knowledge him as mine. But I was restless, I conld not re 
 main long in one place at a time, and I wandered from place to 
 place trying to drown my sorrow in excitement. Four times, 
 after an interval of six months between each, I visited the Hen- 
 lys. My child was growing finely and doing well eveiy way, 
 so I decided to let him remain where he was until he should be 
 old enough to go to school; then something impelled me to 
 come back to my home. I put my affairs all into the hands of 
 an agent, and six years from the time of my leaving Vue de 
 1'Eau found me here again once more assuming the duties of ita 
 master. A few weeks later I met my cousin, Miss Everet. 
 Estelle," with a glance toward hia wife, "do you mind my tell 
 ing it all?" 
 
 "No," was the brief, low response. 
 
 1 "She appeared very glad to renew the acquaintance of former 
 years, although no allusion to our uncle's will was at that time 
 made by either of us. 
 
 "She had grown very beautiful, bad been much in society, 
 and possessed charming manners. One day, during a call 
 upon her, she playfully remarked that it was her birthday 
 and she had not been the recipient of a single gift. 
 
 " 'You should have mentioned that fact before,' I returned, 
 "but perhaps it is not too late even yet, for some remembrance 
 of the day. Tell the number of your years and you shall have 
 R rose for every one.'
 
 THE COLONELS STOUT CONCLUDED. 28S 
 
 "I knew well enough, but I would not appear to know. 
 
 " 'Twenty-four,' she replied, and her face clouded as she aid it. 
 
 "I could tell well enough what she was thinking of ; in one 
 year more she would l> twenty-five, then Robert Dale could 
 claim her fortune, and a life of poverty would lie before her. 
 
 "Instantly the thought atone in my mind, 'Why has my cousin 
 never married?' I dii not believe that she had remained single 
 out of any regard for me, or from any desire to fulfill the con 
 ditions of our uncle's will; indeed, ahe had expressed herself so 
 indignantly at the time of its reading, that I imagined she would 
 always be adverse to any such union. Still, it seemed strange 
 that a young lady so attractive, and eligible in every way, should 
 have remained single, when 1 did not doubt, indeed I knew, she 
 might have chosen from among a half-dozen men whose for 
 tunes were even larger than her own. 
 
 " 'Perhaps,' I thought, 'she has become bitter and antago 
 nistic is bound to enjoy her money until the last moment, and 
 then pass it over to me.' I did not want it the thought was 
 very disagreeable to me. Perhaps ?he loved a poor man, and 
 was intending to make the most of her time; perhaps, I 
 reasoned, she has been saving her income all these years, and 
 will marry when her twenty-five years are past; maybe she is 
 even \\aitiug to tire me out and get the whole for that purpose. 
 But there appeared to be no one of whom she was fond. I 
 noticed that she treated all gentlemen alike, even receiving my 
 visits and attentions with no more pleasure than those of 
 others. 
 
 " 'Why not marry her if she will have yon?' was the thought 
 that shot through iny mind, ns I started out to get the roses I 
 Lad promised her. 'I will not give up my fortune to that miser 
 without a struggle. I might ak her to be my wife, and then, if 
 she refuses, I have fulfilled the conditions of my uncle's will.' 
 But, at first, a feeling of horror came over me. at the thought of 
 giving to another the place which my Annie had filled, and I 
 angrily repudiated it. I avoided my cousin's society for a time 
 after that, almost hating myself for contemplating for a moment 
 a marriage with her for mercenary reasons. But when she 
 eluded me gently for my neglect, seeming to feel actual pain on 
 account of it, those questions returned to me with even greater 
 force than before, and I resolved to try to learn her mind upon 
 the subject. 
 
 "I knew that I should lead a wretched existence in this great 
 house, witl* no woman to brighten it with her presence, and, 
 perhaps, after a time, if she should consent, I might confess the 
 great temptation and sorrow that had come to me, and perhaps 
 she would pardon it, and be willing to receive my boy and give 
 him a mother's care. As soon as I reached this conclusion, I 
 made no delay about putting my fate to the test. 
 
 "We were one day talking about my estate here, and of some
 
 286 THE COLONEL'S STORY CONCLUDED. 
 
 improvements I was intending to make, when I suddenly 
 said : 
 
 " 'Estelle, Vue de 1'Eau has no mistress. I wonder if you 
 could regard the conditions of Uncle J;il>ez's will any more fa 
 vorably now than you did at the time of his death?' 
 
 'She flushed hotly, and shot a quick, keen glance at me. 
 
 " 'I believe we were mutually antagonistic to it,' she replied. 
 
 " 'People grow wiser as they grow older,' I remarked; tiien 
 boldly asked: 'Will you marry me now, Estelle?' 
 
 " 'Do you think it right for people who do not love each other 
 to marry?' she questioned. 
 
 " 'Is that equivulent to telling me that yon do not love me?' I 
 inquired. 'I will be frank with you, my cousin,' I continued. 
 'I confess that 1 have not the affection for you that young lovers 
 generally rave about; but I admire you; you are beautiful, cul 
 tured, talented, and I am free to own that yon are far more at 
 tractive to me now, than you were in those old days wheu wa 
 were both so bitter and indignant. If no one else has won your 
 Leart, I will do my best to make your future pleasant. We have 
 only one more year of grace; we must consider this subject and 
 reach some decision before it expires; so what say you, cousin 
 mine?' 
 
 ".She thought a moment, then lifted her head with a resolute 
 air, and said: 
 
 " 'Yes, I will marry you, William, if you are willing to take 
 me just as I am, without very much heart to give you, but wil 
 ling to do my best to make you a good wife; I believe it will be 
 the wiser course for both of us.' 
 
 "Thus our engagement was made, and we were married the fol 
 lowing month. I have endeavored to keep mv promise to my 
 "wife to make her life a pleasant one, and until now," with a sor 
 rowful glance at the bowed head and shivering form of hin proud 
 wife, "I believe that we have been comparatively happv in our 
 domestic relations; at least, I have known more of quiet content 
 than I thought it would ever be possible for me to attain. I have 
 kept this secret the only one I ever kept from her until this 
 hour. I did not have the cournge to confess it after our mar 
 riage I kept putting it 'off until after my son. Everet. was born, 
 a little less than a year after our marriage, and when I saw 
 how my wife's heart was hound up in him, I could not bring my 
 self to it. 
 
 "Later, when I went to see how my boy was thriving, intend 
 ing to make some other pi-ovision for him, when I learned of 
 that tragedy in the Henley family and that both the man and 
 boy had disappeared, I was almost glad I never had spoken of 
 that sim episode in my life, although I spared no expense to try 
 to trace my child. 
 
 "Estelle, this is. my confession; you have heard the whole, 
 Bud know the extent of my deception. So many years had
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY CONCLUDED. 287 
 
 passed that I had grown to believe that it would never be un- 
 vailed until that day when all secrets are to be made known. 
 This young man, whom 1 introduced to you as Mr. Huntress' 
 son, is my sou, whom I believed lost to me forever; but he was 
 led, most strangely led to the discovery of his parentage, and 
 came hither to-night to claim acknowledgment. By the way, 
 Geoffrey, I never knew either when or how I lost that portion of 
 the knight-templar's cross you found. I missed it shortly 
 after my last visit to Santa Fe, but never expected to recover it 
 again. You shall keep it, my boy; it has always been regarded 
 as a pocket-piece for luck; may it ever prove to be such to you. 
 My only reason for having the Henlys' letters simply directed 
 to 'Lock Box 43' was to prevent my identity being discovered. 
 I could not give them my real name, and did not like letters ad 
 dressed to William Dale to come to the same box, so I just gave 
 the number. 
 
 "About my visit to Saratoga last summer," the colonel contin 
 ued, after a short pause, "I have to confess to something that I 
 never experienced before, either in times of peace or war, a feel 
 ing of cowardice. I was on my way to Newport to join Mrs. 
 Mapleson, and took a notion to run up to the Springs, which I 
 hud not visited for years. On the train from Albany to Sarato 
 ga an elderly gentleman accosted me, expressing great pleasure 
 at meeting me once more, and inquired most kindly after my 
 wife. He was a man whom I had known during that short hap 
 py year that I had spent in that mining village, and who had 
 known me only as Captain William Dale. He, too, was going 
 to Saratoga and begged the privilege of accompanying me to the 
 hotel where I intended stopping. At first I hardly knew what 
 to do. I could not bear to undeceive him regarding my name, 
 for it would have required explanations too painful to make to a 
 etranger, so I finally thought it would not matter if I registered 
 for once in my assumed name; therefore I wrote it and named 
 my place of residence as Santa Fe, since he knew that I used to 
 do business there. A strange fate I thought it, which threw you 
 in my way under just those circumstances. You remember how I 
 took you for Everet, at first; but I was terribly shocked when it 
 dawned upon me who you were, and 1 fully intended, at the 
 time, to keep my appointment with you for that afternoon. But 
 when I came to think it all over quietly, to realize all the revela 
 tions that must be made to my wife, my son, to yourself, I was 
 nearly crazed; I knew from your appearance that you had beeu 
 woll cared for, that life was bright and prosperous with you, 
 and it seemed as if I could not rake over all tho past, and in the 
 midst of my frenzy I packed my valise and left on the noou 
 train. I have bitterly regretted it since, for my heart longed 
 after its own; I have been ashamed that I, a Mapleson, should 
 have turned my back and fled from any circumstances. I have 
 repented of my folly, too, because a duty has fallen upou me,
 
 288 MRS. MAPLESON'S CONFESSION. 
 
 since then, -winch made it imperative that I should find you; but 
 of this I will speak again later. 
 
 "What is it, Esfelle?" he asked, as ft heavy, shuddering sigh 
 from his wife smote his ear; "has my story been too much for 
 you? I fear it has. Perhaps I have beeu selfish and thoughtless 
 iu bringing you here before strangers to listen to all this, but it 
 had to be told, and this interview must have taken place be 
 tween us all. Forgive me for wounding you, and let me take 
 you to your room; perhaps, though, you never will forgive me 
 for the deception which I have practiced upon you." 
 
 He went up to her and laid his hand upon her shoulder with 
 more of tenderness than he was in the habit of manifesting to 
 ward the proud, handsome woman. But she put him from her 
 with a passionate gesture, iu which, however, there was a pa 
 thetic air of appeal. 
 
 SUe arose and stood before him, her face almost convulsed 
 with agony. 
 
 "Oh!" she cried, wringing her hands, "if you had only told me 
 all this when you asked me to marry you; or, if I had been true 
 to my womanhood, how much we both might have saved each 
 other! Forgive you for your deception? oh! William, I have 
 beeu tenfold more guilty than you." 
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 MRS. MAPLESON'S CONFESSION. 
 
 Colonel Mapleson regarded his wife as if he thought she had 
 suddenly taken leave of her senses. 
 
 'August Huntress' heart wus stirred with compassion for the 
 beautiful and imperious woman, for lie realized full well the 
 trial that lay before her, and could understand how humiliating 
 it must be to have her sin find her out at this late day, when she 
 had believed it buried forever. 
 
 All these long years she, too, had treasured her seciet, believ 
 ing that no one save the strange physician who had attended 
 her at the birth of her child, and those two who had adopted 
 it, knew anything of that episode iu her life, and that she had 
 so successfully concealed her identity at the time that it could 
 never be discovered. 
 
 "What can you mean, Estelle?" demanded Colonel Mapleson, 
 as soon as he could collect himself sufficiently to speak. 
 
 Then, as he remembered how she had greeted Mr. Huntress, 
 how overcome she had been at sight of him, he glanced sharply 
 towaAl him and knew instantly, from the look of sympathy on 
 his fac, that he must be in some way associated with that myste 
 rious deception of which his wife had spoken. 
 
 "I mean," the wretched woman returned, in a voice of despair, 
 while she sank weekly back into her chair, "that the secret 
 which you have kept concealed from me during all our marriad
 
 MRS. MAPLESON' S CONFESSION. 289 
 
 life cannot compare with wLat I have withheld from you; von 
 Simply hid the fact of an earlier marriage and the existence of a 
 son, while I committed a monstrous crime to conceal a like 
 secret from you." 
 
 "Good heavens, Estelle!" cried her husband, starting back 
 from her with a look of horror at her appalling statement. "I 
 cannot believe it," and he, too, sank into the nearest cliair, over 
 come with consternation, and actually trembling with dread of 
 what was to follow. 
 
 Again he looked suspiciously at August Huntress, while a 
 hundred thoughts Hashed through his brain. 
 
 He fully believed that he must have been connected in some 
 way witSi the crime of which his wife spon.e. 
 
 Had she married him clandestinely, during those early years 
 while he had been away in the mines of New Mexico, and then 
 deserted him to wed the other half of Jabez Mapleson's fortune 
 and preserve her own? Had they met and loved each other in 
 their youth? Was that the reason why Estelle had been so 
 indifferent to all other suitors; why she had told him she had 
 "not much heart to give him," when he had asked her to marry 
 him? She had called him "August Damon" when brought face 
 to face with him, in a tone which betrayed that she had every 
 thing to fear from his presence there, and she confirmed this by 
 fainting at his feet. 
 
 But there were only sorrow and compassion written on Mr. 
 Huntress* face as he witnessed the proud woman's humiliation; 
 there was no vestige of any latent affection, no anger or harsh 
 ness, such as there would have been if she had wronged him or 
 played him false; there was no look, save one of regret and 
 sympathy, as for one who, he knew, had committed some great 
 sin tli.it had at last found her out and must be atoned for. 
 
 "What does she mean? Do you know?" Colonel Mapleson 
 asked, huskily, as his visitor perchance feeling the magnetism 
 of his glance turned his eyes from the bowed form oi Mrs. 
 Mapleson to the mystified husband. 
 
 "I know something, but not all," ho answered, reluctantly. 
 
 "Then you have met my wife before?" 
 
 "On<;e. and only once, as I have already told yon." 
 
 "Where under what circumstances?" demanded the colonel, 
 with considerable excitement. 
 
 "Pardon me," returned Mr. Huntress, with dignity, as it 
 suddenly occurred to him what his host's suspicions might bo. 
 |'l prefer that Mrs. Mapleson should herself tell you that, since 
 it is more her secret than mine. Perhaps, however, it would be 
 better for Geoffrey and mn to retire to some other room while 
 she speuks with you alone," and he half arose as he spoke. 
 
 But Mrs. Mapleson threw out one clenched, jeweled hand, witk 
 an imperative gesture, to check him. 
 
 "No," ahe cried, a quiver of agouy in her voice; "if any one
 
 290 ffRS. MAPLESON'S CONFESSION. 
 
 has a right to hear my confession, my story, you have," and nt 
 this, Geoffrey turned a startled face upon the mau whom lie htul 
 always regarded as honorable and irreproachable one of na 
 ture's noblemen. 
 
 "Oil, the curse of gold!" the unhappy woman went on, wildly. 
 "What will it not tempt one to do? The love of it blunts natu 
 ral affection and honor, and warps the reason. It leads one to 
 deceive, to scheme, and to sin for the possession of it. What blind 
 fools men and women are to sacrifice so much love, a life-time 
 of innocence, parity, and happiness, for the sake of a little paltry 
 
 fellow dust! If I could but live over my life, how gladly would 
 endure poverty, and toil, a&d self-denial, to secure a quiet con 
 science and a heart free from its burden of sin and dread! Oh, 
 such a life as I have led is but a miserable failure from begin 
 ning to end!" 
 
 Colonel Mapleson began to be alarmed at his wife's increasing 
 excitement, while her remorse and her ominous allusions drove 
 him almost distracted. 
 
 He arose, and, going to her side, took her trembling hands in 
 his, saying: 
 
 "Estelle, if you cannot calm yourself, I shall insist upon your 
 going to your room; yon will surely be ill if you yield so to 
 nervous excitement. Whatever this matter is that seems to 
 weigh so heavily upon your mind, I can wait until you are in a 
 better state lor its recital. Come, let me take you up stairs," 
 and he gently tried to force her to rise. 
 
 But she wrenched her hands from his clasp. 
 
 "No, no," she cried, with a shiver; "I will not carry this 
 dr*>adiul burden on my heart another hour! For more than, 
 twenty years I have borne the brand of an inhuman monster on 
 my soul, and I wonder that it has not transformed me into some 
 thing so repulsive and loathsome that every one would shrink 
 from me in fear and disgust. I have often looked at myself with 
 amazement to think it was possible for any one to conceal so 
 effectually the corruption and wretchedness and duplicity of 
 o/ie's nature. I believe I have realized, as no one else ever did, 
 what the Saviour meant by a 'whited sepulcher full of dead 
 men's bones.' William!" turning upon her husband, with a 
 vild, glittering eye, and searching his face with a glance of piti 
 ful appeal, "I expect that you will despise and hate me, that our 
 son will loathe me, when you learn what I have to tell you." 
 
 Tli>e scene was becoming very painful, and Mr. Huntress, pity 
 ing her from the depths of his heart, arose and walked out of her 
 night, feeling that he conhl not look upon her agony, while Geof 
 frey sat spell-bound, dreading the impending disclosure more 
 than he could express. 
 
 Colonel Mapleson, feeling as if he must do something to calm 
 her excitement, went to a closet, poured out a glass of wine, and 
 brought it to her.
 
 MRS. MAPLESON'S CONFESSION. 291 
 
 "Estelle, driuk tins," he said, kindly, as he put it to her lips, 
 though his hand shook so that he could not hold the glass 
 steadily. 
 
 She hastily swallowed it, and then pushed him from her; it 
 seemed as if she could not bear him near her while her sin was 
 uuconfessed until he should hear and judge her, and she could 
 know what her doom was to be. 
 
 For more than twenty years he had been her husband. He 
 had al\\ays been kind and chivalrous in his treatment of her. 
 At first she had been proud of him 1'or his honor and manliness, 
 then her pride had gradually developed into a strong, deep 
 affection, which, however, she had never allowed herself to 
 
 Earade before him, because of his unvarying reticence toward 
 er. She had tried to be a good wife to him, to win his respect 
 by her faithfulness to duty, her devotion as a mother, and his 
 admiration by preserving her beauty and shining a star in the 
 society they frequented; and now, after succeeding for so long a 
 time, it drove her nearly crazy to think that perhaps the con 
 fession of her early folly would undo all this and breed con 
 tempt for her, or worse his pity. 
 
 His own deception seemed very trivial compared with hers, 
 for a cruel fate alone had prevented him from acknowledging 
 his wife and child whom he had fondly loved and would have 
 cherished as long as they had been spared to him, while she 
 had deliberately planned to abandon her delicate babe and cast 
 it unloved upon the care of strangers. 
 
 The wine which she had drank, however, served to steady her 
 nerves, and to give her strength for the trial before her, and 
 after a f-w minutes she raised her white, drawn face, saying: 
 
 "Sit down, all of you, for my story is not a short one, though 
 for all our sakes I will make it as byief as possible. 
 
 "You will remember, William, that after I came into possession 
 of my half of Uncle Jabez's fortune, I went abroad. I had al 
 ways had an intense longing to see Europe, and when the means 
 to do so were at my dispos.il, I resolved to gratify that desire. 
 You know, too, that as a family we had always been poor. Ifc 
 hiid been a continual struggle with us to secure even the neces 
 saries of life, and the battle with poverty had been a most bitter 
 one to me. Now, I was bound to get the most I could out of 
 life, to make up for the deprivations of my youth. I indignantly 
 refused to marry as niy uncle desired, for I, as well as you, con 
 sidered that he had no right to make any such stipulations in 
 disposing of his money; but I was young, I had seven years i>efore 
 me in which to enjoy my wealth, and I said I would spend every 
 dollar of my income in being happy and making up to my family 
 for the hardships of previous years. So I settled a comfortable 
 income on my father and mother, and then, taking my sister 
 Nellie for a couipanion, I sailed for Europe to gratify my taste 
 for travel and sight-seeing. Wo both spoke French and Ger
 
 292 MRS. MAPLESOXS CONZEHS10N. 
 
 man fluently, for we had been faithful students, and fitted our 
 selves for teaching; botli were self-reliant and courageous in 
 spite of our youth our conflict with our unfavorable surround 
 ings had made nn BO therefore we felt Competent to travel by 
 ourselves without a chaperon, who, we felt, would hamper our 
 movements. Some of the time we had a guide, but in England, 
 France, and Germany we were able to go about quite inde 
 pendently. It was perhaps a daring thing to do, l>ufc Nellie 
 "Was somewhat older than I, and very self-possessed and dignified 
 in her bearing, and we never met with the shghest incon 
 venience from being without an escort. We had a very pleas 
 ant time together; we had plenty of money, and did not need 
 to stint ourselves; Nell loved art, and I music, so for a year we 
 put ourselves under the best of masters, and gave ourselves up 
 to these accomplishments, and had our fill. But I am getting 
 somewhat ahead of my story. 
 
 "While we were in London, a few months after reaching 
 England, we met a literary gentlemen, a Mr. Charles Southconrt, 
 \vho paid me considerable attention, and to whom I was very 
 utrongly attracted. We met often, too, upon the Continent, for 
 He, also, was traveling in search of material for his writings, 
 Hnd our routes frequently crossed each other. Finally, during 
 tay second year abroad, he confessed his affection for me, and 
 asked me to marry him. He was brilliant, handsome, talented, 
 but poor. Had he been rich I would uot have hesitated a mo 
 ment, for I loved him; but I knew, far too well, what poverty 
 \vas to be willing to relinquish my fortune and the handsome in 
 come it brought me, the luxuries and pleasures it yielded me, 
 to say nothing of depriving my parents and sister of the eotv.- 
 forts and advantages they were enjoying, and I refused him. 
 He knew that I returned his affection he had not dreamed of 
 being rejected and demanded the reason. I told him frankly. 
 He then informed me that all pecuniary difficulty could soon be 
 removed, for there was a prospect of his soon receiving a re 
 sponsible appointment somewhere in the far East, which won Id 
 secure him an ample income which, with what he should realize 
 from his writings, would enaUo him to provide for the com 
 fortable support of my family, and secure to me every luxury 
 which my own fortune was then giving me. Would I become 
 his wife if he secured this appointment? he asked. I told him 
 yes, and I believe if it had uot been for depriving my delicate 
 and aged parents and sister of the comforts they were enjoying 
 if I had only had myself to consider, I should have willingly 
 thrown up my fortune, and become bis wife, whether he secured 
 the appointment or not. 
 
 "Full of hope at having won my consent, Charlie returned at 
 or.ce to London we were at that time in Rome to bend all his 
 Lergies to secure his coveted position. Two months later, 
 Nellie and I returned to Paris, where we were again joined by
 
 JtfTJ.S. XAPLESON'S CONFESSION. 293 
 
 Mr. Bonthcourt, who was jubilant, for lie said be was snre of his 
 appointment, ami lie showed me a letter, from a person high ia 
 authority, which seemed to promise it beyond a doubt. 
 
 "About this time we received a letter from home telling us 
 that papa was falling; the physician feared the worst, and we 
 were told to hold ourselves in readiness to return at once if lie 
 should continue to grow worse. Mamma wrote that she could 
 not bear to shorten our pleasure, but she knew that our own 
 hearts would bid us come if they found that he could not rally; 
 that was, however, merely a warning to prepare us; she would 
 \vrite again if there was any change for the worse. 
 
 "I told Nellie that we must go home at once; something 
 might happen to make papa's disease terminate suddenly, and 
 he would die before we could possibly reach him, if we should 
 wait to hear from mamma again. Nellie agreed to this, but Mr. 
 Sonthcourt was very unhappy over our decision; he could not 
 bear the thought of separation; he said something might occur 
 to make it final, unless I should marry him at once and give him 
 the right to call me his wife before I left; in that case he would 
 let me go and feel sure of me. At. first I would not listen to 
 this proposal. I knew but too well that if my marriage was 
 discovered, the income from mv half of Uncle Jabex's property 
 would be stopped, and my sick and dying father be depiived of 
 everything th*t had uo\v become so necessary to him. But 
 Charlie was so snre that he should get his appointment, when 
 he would at once settle one- third of his income upon my 
 parents; he was so hopeful over his book, so importunate, and 
 distressed at the thought of my leaving, while Nellie also 
 thought there could La no rink, that my scruples and better 
 judgment were overcome, and I yielded, upon one condition 
 that our marriage be kept a profound secret until he actually 
 secured his position. He agreed to this, because he aa!d he 
 knew I should scarcely reach home before he would have the 
 wherewithal to enable me to make over my share of Uncle 
 Jabez's fortune to my cousin, without missing it, and so we 
 \cere privately married in Paris just before leaving for London. 
 "Upon our arrival there, we found that a steamer had just 
 Bailed, and no other would leave for three or four days. The 
 very next morning we received another letter from home say 
 ing that papa had rallied and was so much improved, mamma 
 fegretted she had written BO disconragingly before, and told ns 
 Dot to think of returning until we felt entirely ready to do so. 
 I was so happy in my new relations that I was only too glad 
 of tiiis respite, for the prospect of a separation from my hus 
 band was us painful to uie as to him. Three short, blissful 
 weeks after that we spent together, and then there came a 
 startling cable message, bidding Nellie and me to return iii- 
 ataiuly." 
 
 Mrs. Mapleson paused and struggled with herself at this point;
 
 294 MRS. MAPLESON'S CONFESSION. 
 
 evidently her task was a bitter one, and almost more than she 
 was able to accomplish. 
 
 "I cannot tell yon of that parting," she finally resumed; "it 
 was almost like parting soul from body, and I shall never for 
 get the look that was on my Charlie's face as he stood en the 
 pier at Liverpool and watched the vessel that bore us away out 
 of sight. 
 
 "Wo reached home just in season to be recognized by 
 papa, to receive his dying blessing and his bidding to care 
 tenderly for mamma, and then he was gone. Our mother was 
 utterly prostrated by his death and the watching during the 
 long weeks of his illness, and for mouths she, too, seemed 
 to be upon the borders of the grave. 
 
 "Meantime, I heard regularly from Charlie, and every letter 
 told me of some delay regarding the decision upon his appoint 
 ment, but it was sure to be all right in the end, he said, and he 
 would let mo know the very moment it was decided. 
 
 "You can easily realize that those months were anxious ones 
 to me, for I feared, as the guilty always fear, detection, while, 
 too, the deception I was practicing was inexpressibly galling to 
 me. Mamma rallied after a time, and for a little while we 
 thought she would recover, but the improvement was not last 
 ing, and it soon became evident that consumption had fastened 
 upon her. 
 
 "It was nearly five months since my return, and I began to be 
 very unhappy, for there was still no favorable news from my 
 husband. One day I was sitting alone in my room writing to 
 him, and feeling very much depressed, when Nellie suddenly 
 burst in upon me, her face all aglow, and bearing a telegram iu 
 her hand. 
 
 " 'Estelle, what will yon give me for good news at last?' she 
 cried, gayly, and holding the telegram above her head, out of my 
 reach. 
 
 f> 'I will give you a hundred dollars, Nell, if it is good news,' 
 I answered, springing up to take it from her, my heart beating 
 high with hope, for I felt almost sure that the message could 
 contain nothing else. 
 
 "I tore it open with trembling eagerness, only to find these 
 words within: 
 
 " 'Lost; appointment given to a man named Wilmot. Will write 
 particulars.' 
 
 "It was a dreadful blow! Nellie had read the message over 
 my shoulder, and for a moment we were both so paralyzed that 
 we could only look into each other's face in dumb agcny. Then 
 I remembered nothing more for a week, while for a month I did 
 not leave my bed. During this time Charlie wrote, bitterly re 
 gretting that he had sent me the message, but saying he had 
 promised to let me know as soon as the matter was decided, and
 
 MRS. MAPLESON '8 STORY CONCLUDED. 295 
 
 on the impulse of the moment, his judgment blunted by his 
 own disappointment, he had cabled what afterward he realized 
 must have been a cruel blow to me. He said that money had 
 bought up the position, while he had been so certain that the 
 influence at work for him was stronger than any amount of 
 bribery could be. 'Still,' he cheerfully concluded, 'he would 
 try for something else, and do his utmost to relieve me frcm my 
 embarrassing position.' 
 
 "All this, however, was poor consolation for me: I could not 
 confess my marriage and go to him a beggar in his poverty, 
 even though my heart longed for him with all the strength of 
 its deep and lasting love. My mother failing, slowly, but sure 
 ly, was dependent upon me for every comfort that she pos 
 sessed, and besides this 1 could not make up my mind to put 
 the ocean between us when I knew I should never see her ^gaia 
 if I did. My husband had spoken of my 'embarrassing posi 
 tion,' but he did not dream one-half the truth, for I had con 
 cealed from him the fact that I was soon to become a mother." 
 
 CHAPTER XLVI. 
 
 MBS. MAPLESON'S STORY CONCLUDED. 
 
 "Estelle!" exclaimed Colonel Mapleson, in a shocked, yet 
 sympathetic tone, " of all the romances that I have ever read or 
 known, this is the strangest!" 
 
 "Yes," Mrs. Mapleson continued, "I had persistently re 
 frained from telling my husband my secret, and Nellie alone 
 knew it. At first I only meant to reserve it until he should 
 come for me, as he was to do immediately upon securing his 
 position. I was sure that, if he knew, he would instantly de 
 mand ray return to him, and an open acknowledgment of our 
 union, and so I kept putting it off, until now, that I had re 
 ceived that fatal news, it was too late. I could not send for him 
 to come to me, for then the secret must come out with all its 
 direful results, while I knew he could not take care of me 
 in a strange country when he was so unsuccessful in his own. I 
 was almost insane for a time, for I saw no way out of my diffi 
 culties. My mother was so feeble that she demanded tlie con 
 stant attendance of a nurse, and tlie most expensive luxuries, to 
 prolong her life. Whern would the money come from to furnish 
 all these, if it, should become known that I had violated the 
 conditions of my uncle's will? Where, too, would the money 
 come to meet my own expenses of maternity, and to care for the 
 little one that would soon be mine? All too late I realized the 
 terrible mistake that I had made in yielding to Charlie's impor 
 tunities, although I loved my husband most tenderly. 
 
 " 'What shdll I do?' I cried, in despair, to my sister, one day, 
 when all these facts, and the terrible fate awaiting their revela 
 tion, had been reviewed for the hundredth time.
 
 296 MRS. MAPLESON'S STORY CONCLUDED. 
 
 " 'I'll tell you what I've thought of Estelle,' Nellie answered, 
 gravely. 'It seems a dreadful thing to do heartless, dishonor 
 able, and everything else tliat is bad and yet I see no alterna 
 tive. We must manage some way to keep your money at least, 
 BO long fts mamma lives: we must not let her suffer, though I'd 
 work my fingers to the bone ratlier tlutu do such a thing for my 
 own sake. William Maplesou does not need your fortune; he 
 Las enough already. Robert Dale, that miserable old miser, 
 would only 'hide it in a napkin,' if he were to get it. So wo may 
 as well have the benefit of it, at least until Charlie is able to d 
 something for you. Now for my plan. You have had a long 
 illness; you are drooping, failing; yon ueed, must have, a 
 change. Mamma is quite comfortable just now, and, with the 
 nurse to attend her, does not really need any one else. But that 
 she may not feel lonely without us, we will send for her oUl 
 frien-1, Miss Willford, to come for a long visit, and then we will 
 go off on a trip for your benefit.' 
 
 " 'Oh, Nell, will you go with me?'* I sobbed, in a burst of re 
 lief and gratitude, 
 
 " 'Indeed I shall. You did not suppose I would send you 
 off alone, I hope,' she answered, and then she further unfold 
 ed her plan. 
 
 "We would pretend that we both needed a change, after the 
 confinement of the last few months. No one would then sus 
 pect any secret- reason for our going. We would travel a while, 
 keeping as secluded as possible, aad finally go to some large 
 city Boston we finally decided upon, as we had never been 
 there, and knew not a soul living there where we would 
 remain until after the birth of my child. Then wo would give 
 it into the care of some one, paying well for it, until my hus 
 band was in a position to claim me; and then, as soon as I had 
 regained my strength, we would return home, and no one would 
 be the wiser for what had occurred. 
 
 "This plan gave me new courage. All my former energy 
 returned, and 1 immediately began my arrangements for my 
 proposed trip. Mamma and her nurse both favored it, and Mies 
 Willford was sent for. I wrote my husband of our plans or as 
 much regarding them as we told anybody telling him how to 
 address his letters; and then Nellie and I went a'.vay, without 
 exciting the suspicion of any one regarding our real object. We 
 went first to Philadelphia, where we remained in secluded lodg 
 ings for a few weeks, giving our names as 'Mrs. M'irston and 
 maid, Nellie Durham' Nellie preferring to act in that capacity. 
 Then we proceeded to New York, where we stopped a while, 
 finally going on to Boston, where my little girl was born." 
 
 Geoffrey turned abr.uptly around and faced Mr. Huntress as 
 Mrs. Mapleson reached this point in her story. Never until that 
 moment had lie suspected that Gladys was not his kind friend's 
 own daughter. But he kuew that he had formerly resided in
 
 MRS. MAPLESON'S STORY CONCLUDED. 297 
 
 Boston. He remembered that Mrs. Mapleson had addressed 
 him as August Damon, and ho\v she had been overcome upon 
 meeting hi in. He remembered, too, how, when he had proposed 
 leaving the room while she made her confession to her husband, 
 she had sitid ''if any one had a right to hear her story, he had," 
 and putting all these things together, it flashed upon him that 
 Gladys might have been that little girl who was born, under 
 such peculiar circumstances, in Boston. 
 
 Mr. Huntress met his inquiring glance, and smiled faintly; but 
 be was very pale and sorrowful. 
 
 It had not been an easy matter for him to sit there and listen 
 to that story, and to have it revealed that Gladys was not hia 
 very own. He had always hoped to be able to keep the secret 
 of her adoption. 
 
 "Is it true, Uncle August?" Geoffrey questioned. 
 
 Mr. Huntress nodded gravely. 
 
 "How very, very strange!" said the young man, with a per 
 plexed face. 
 
 Then his countenance suddenly brightened! 
 
 He leaned eagerly forward, laid his hand on Mr. Huntress' 
 knee, and whispered, excitedly: 
 
 "Then he Eve ret Mapleson, is her half-brother, and that mar 
 riage teas nothing but an illegal farce I " 
 
 "That is true I have been thinking of that very thing," re 
 turned Mr. Huntress, grasping the hand upon his knee v^ith 
 cordial sympathy, "and though it has been very hard to have 
 the fact revealed, that our dear girl was not quite our own, yet 
 JEJ jy a t having that great trouble so easily wiped out of ex 
 istence, counteracts all the pain." 
 
 "What is it?" Mrs. Mapleson asked, wondering at their .eager 
 whispering and excited manner. 
 
 "1 will tell you later, madaine," Mr. Huntress replied. "Par 
 don the interruption, and pray go on." 
 
 "William, the worst of my story is yet to come," Mrs. 
 Mapleson resumed, turning with a pathetic look to her husband. 
 
 He reached forth one hand, and laid it affectionately upon 
 bers. 
 
 "Do not think me so hard, Estelle," he said, in a low, kind 
 tone; "I do not forget the 'beam' that was in my own eye, and 
 I have no right to criticise the 'mote' in yours, especially when 
 you have been so great a sufferer, and your hands were so tied 
 by your dependent mother and sister. Your heart was all 
 right you would never have concealed anything but for the 
 foroe of circumstances." 
 
 "Oh, wait; you have yet to learn that my heart was not all 
 right," she moaned, dropping her head upon her hai:d. "My 
 baby was a beautiful child I realized that the first time I looked 
 upon her, but I did not dare to let niy love go out toward her, 
 for I knew that I must giro her up, at least for a time. And yet,
 
 298 MRS. MAPLESON'S STORY CONCLUDED. 
 
 what to do with her was a very trying question. At first I 
 thought of putting her into some institution, requiring some 
 plbdge that she should not be given away within a specified 
 time. But I found I could not do this, so I advertised for soma 
 one to adopt her, promising to give five hundred dollars with 
 the child. I received numberless letters in reply, but only one 
 out of them all really pleased me, and this was signed 'August 
 and Alice Damon.' " 
 
 "Ah! now I understand," interposed Colonel Mapleson, glanc 
 ing quickly at Mr. Huntress, and looking intensely relieved. 
 
 Then his eyes wandered to Geoffrey. 
 
 "How wonderful! that those two should have found a homo in 
 the same family!" he murmured. 
 
 "I appointed a meeting with Mr. and Mrs. Damon," his wife 
 went on. "They came, and at once I knew that they were the 
 very people to whom I would confide my little girl, in preference 
 to all others. But you gave me an assumed name," she said, 
 pausing, and turning to Mr. Huntress. 
 
 "Not an assumed name, madame, but only a parb of my real 
 name, which is August Damon Huntress," that gentleman ex 
 plained. 
 
 "Why did you withhold your surname from me?" 
 
 "Madame, I knew well enough that your name was not Mars- 
 ton. I felt sure that no mother would give away her child, aa 
 you wei'e doing, and reveal her identity. On the other hand, I 
 did not wish the identity of the child preserved. I did not in 
 tend that you should have any advantage over me. If I took 
 her, I meant her to be mine wholly, without running any risk of 
 having her taken from me, or of ever learning that she had been 
 abandoned to the care of strangers. Consequently, I gave you 
 the name of Daraon." 
 
 "Well," said Mrs, Mapleson, with a sigh, "as it happened, it 
 made no difference, but if I had suspected it at the time, you 
 would not have had my child, for I meant to keep track of her. 
 I meant to have her again just as soon as my husband and I 
 were reunited." 
 
 "But you told me," began Mr. Huntress, with an amazed, 
 horrified face 
 
 "I know I did," the lady interrupted. "I promised you that I 
 would never trouble you woiild never even ask to see her. I 
 pretended to give her to you unreservedly, although, you re 
 member, I would not subscribe to any legal form of adoption. I 
 allowed you and others to think me a heartless, unnatural mon 
 ster for the sake of gaining for my little one a good home and 
 loving care until I could see my way clear to demand her resto 
 ration. It was dishonorable it was a wretched deception, but 
 it was all a part of that terrible secret that had to be guarded at 
 whatever cost. But I had to pay dearly for it, as you will soon 
 realize.
 
 MRS. IfAPLESON'S STORY CONCLUDED. 299 
 
 "My sister and I left Boston, both of us in better spirits than 
 we had been since leaving England, for we believed that every 
 thing had been so successfully concealed there was not the 
 slightest danger of discovery. We came back to our home to 
 find mamma niore comfortable than when we left her, having 
 had a bright, cheerful visit with her old friend, while she ap 
 peared delighted with the improvement which our trip had 
 made in us. But she lived only one short mouth after that. 
 She took a sudden cold, which brought on a hemorrhage that 
 terminated her life in a few hours. 
 
 "More than this," Mrs. Mapleson went on, hurriedly, while 
 she pressed her clasped hands over her heart, as if to hold in 
 check its painful throbbiugs, while she related the saddest 
 event of her whole life, "on the very day that she was buried a 
 bulky package was brought to me, postmarked 'London.' It 
 contained considerable manuscript, a Bank of England note for 
 one hundred and fifty pounds, my marriage certificate, anil a 
 letter. The letter told me oh, William!" she burst forth in a 
 quavering voice, "you knew that your Annie must die. You 
 had to face the dread fact before it really came, and you were 
 somewhat prepared for it; but I I had no warning; the shock 
 fell like a thunderbolt to crush me! My Charlie was dead long 
 before I knew it. He had been in his grave nearly a fortnight 
 when the terrible news came to me. The letter was from a 
 friend of my husband, and stated that he had met with an acci 
 dent that must result fatally, having been crushed in a falling 
 elevator. " 
 
 The poor woman appeared hai'dly capable of going on. It 
 seemea as if all the agony of that dreadful time was revived by 
 this recital. 
 
 'He had only a few hours to live," she went on, at last, "and, 
 though he could not hold a pen to write me one line, he made 
 up that package with his own hands, telling his frienfl that it 
 was to be forwarded to Miss Estelle Everet. You see, he kept 
 my secret even while dying, and would not send me one of the 
 fond messages of which I know his heart must have been full, 
 for fear of betraying me. He said that I would take charge of 
 the publishing of the manuscript, if I thought best to give it to 
 the world, for the expenses of which he inclosed the Bank of 
 England note. That, however, was only a blind, for the manu 
 script was in such a erode state it could not be published, and 
 he had simply taken that way to sai.d me, without exciting sus 
 picion, the only existing proof of our marriage, and what little 
 money he possessed. 
 
 "My fond, faithful Charlie! He deserved a better fate and a 
 better wife. Of course, after that, there was no fear of discov 
 ery, even though I mourned with the bitterness of despair over 
 mv lost hopes. My mother's death was excuse enough for my 
 grief, though people said I laid it to heart more than they
 
 300 MRS. MAPLESON'S STORY CONCLUDED. 
 
 imagined I could. For a long time I felt as if life waa little 
 better than u mockery. Mine certainly thus far Lad been a 
 miserable failure. My husband dead, my child lost to me 
 forever for, of course, I could never claim her uow what was 
 there in the world for me to live for? 
 
 "After a time 1 grew bitter and reckless. I told myself if I 
 could not have the blessings that usually crown u woman's life, 
 I would make the most of the fortune that 1 still possessed; I 
 would travel 1 would see the world I would not deny myself 
 a single wish or whim. My sister and I started off again. We 
 went to England tirst, where 1 fount! liiy husband's grave, but 
 did not dare even to mark it with uny expression of my love. 
 We went to Egypt and Palestine, joining a party of travelers 
 thither, and alter spending another year in roving we came back 
 once more to America. 
 
 "Three months after our return, Nellie, too, sickened and 
 died, and 1 was left utterly aloue in the world alone with tuy 
 ill-gotten wealth and splendor. What was my monev to me 
 then? like the apples of Sodom; and yet 1 experienced a grim 
 sort of satisfaction that the income of Uncle Jabez's propertr 
 was still mine, that I had outwitted the world and the lawyers 
 or executors of Uncle Jabez's will by my art and cunning. But 
 only a little more than a year remained before I should be 
 twenty-live, when, if my cousin and I were both unmarried, 
 Robert Dale would have our fortune. I grew rebellious at the 
 thought. I had nothing but my money to live for now. and my 
 money I wanted to keep. I had sacrificed truth, principle, and 
 all the noblest elements of my woman's nature for it, and I was 
 willing to make almost any sacrifice now to retain it. 
 
 "Just about this time you returned, William, and," a burning 
 blush now suffused the fnce of the proud woman, "I welcomed 
 you with secret joy, and instantly made up my mind to marry 
 yon if you would have me. I made myself agreeable to you 
 with that sole object in view. You know how well I succeeded, 
 although you did not dream that I was scheming for that, and 
 I did not experience a qualm, since I did not deceive you re 
 garding the state of my heart toward you; my acceptance of you 
 was as frank as your proposal for my hand. Neither of us 
 professed any love for the other: we simply decided that ifc 
 would be a wise union, and that we could be a very com 
 fortable couple. A strange, heartless arrangement, I suppose 
 the world would have said could it have read our motives, but 
 it would have seemed even more strange if the experience of our 
 lives had been revealed. I was hardened and reckless then, for 
 I felt that fate had used me very badly. I have not deserved 
 the quiet, peaceful years quiet and peaceful but for the stings 
 of conscience that have been my lot since. I have been grow 
 ing happier during all that time, growing to " 
 
 She broke off suddenly, flashing a quick, pained glance at
 
 AN UNEXPECTED RETURN. 301 
 
 her husband, while the blood again mounted to her brow. 
 
 "During nil these years," she continued, presently, "I have 
 never learned anything regarding inj child, bave once. Last 
 summer, alter Everet left mo at Viewport, to come home, 1 was 
 comparatively alune there for a few days, my friends, whom I 
 was expecting to meet, not having arrived, and a sudden im 
 pulse seized me to go to Boston and try to learn something 
 about my daughter. I had always kept the card you gave me, 
 Mr. Huntress, and I imagined if you were still iu that city I 
 could trace you through the directory. 
 
 "Upon uiy arrival I stepped into a drug store on Washington 
 street nnd asked for tiie directory, to begin my search. You cau 
 imagine something of my amazement and consternation when I 
 found mvself face to face with the physician who had attended 
 me at the birth of my child. Ho also recognized me. although. 
 I tried to deceive him regarding my identity. But he insisted 
 that he knew me, and finding denial useless, I appealed to him 
 for information regarding my child. He said he knew the maa 
 well who had adopted her that he hail been for years the fam 
 ily physician; but he would notgive me his name or address." 
 
 "That must have been Dr. Turner," said Mr. Huntress, look 
 ing astonished; "but how could he have known that we adopted 
 the child? We never told him that she was not our own." 
 
 "True; but he was called to attend her for some slight ail' 
 ment only a few days after you look her, and recognized her; he 
 would not, however, violate your confidence uor his sense of 
 honor by telling me anything by which 1 could trace you or the 
 child. He comforted me gi'eatly, though, by assuring me that 
 she was a beautiful and talented young lady; that she had re 
 ceived every advantage, and was surrounded by the fondest lova 
 and care. I remember now that I have seen her," Mrs. Maple- 
 son said, with starting tears, "and my heart yearns strongly for 
 her as 1 think of it. I saw her at Yale when my son graduated; 
 she was with you," turning to Geoffrey, "and she is truly a- 
 lovely girl. Mr. Huntress, you have held your trust sacred, and 
 I am deeply grateful to you." 
 
 CHAPTER XLV1I. 
 
 AN UNEXPECTED BETUBN. 
 
 "Surely, Estelle, your lot has been a hard one," Colonel Ma- 
 plesou gravely remarked, after an oppressive silence; "your 
 sufferings have been keener than mine, and I can only wonder 
 bow you have concealed them so successfully during all these 
 years." 
 
 "I promised that I would try to make you a good wife, and I 
 have striven to be agreeable and companionable to you. I knew 
 if you suspected that I had any secret sorrow, you would imag-
 
 302 AN UNEXPECTED RETURN. 
 
 ine it was because I was unhappy with you, and so I have done 
 my best to appear co-.iteuted with my life." 
 
 "Done your best to appear contented," repeated Colonel 
 Mapleson, with some bitterness, but iu a tone that reached her 
 alone. 
 
 His wife looked up quickly, and a bright flush dyed her 
 face again. 
 
 She reached forward, and laid her hand upon his arm. 
 "I have been content, William," she said, under her breath; 
 "it was only a little while that I had to strive while my grief 
 was so keen and fresh. But let us not taik of this now, 1 ' she 
 concluded, with a glance toward their visitors. 
 
 Colonel Muplesou sighed; then he said, with an anxious look 
 at her face: 
 
 'Eatelle, I am afraid all this excitement will prove too much 
 for you, and you liad better go to rest; but, first, come aud 
 speak to my son, will you?" 
 
 His tone was pleading, and his unusual gentleness touched 
 her; it told her that he felt more of sympathy than blame for 
 the errors of her past. She arose with a sense of relief, such as 
 she had not experienced during all her married life. Her 
 burdensome secret that terrible barrier that had always stood 
 between her aud her husband was at last all swept away. She 
 could not tell whether it would create au impassable gulf 
 between them or not, but at least she had nothing uow to 
 conceal. 
 
 She went to Geoffrey with him, prepared to welcome him as 
 Ler husband's first-born, with all the cordiality of which she 
 was mistress. 
 
 "My boy," said the colonel, holding out his hand to him, "can 
 you own your father after all that you have heard? can you for 
 give the deception of my early years my moral cowardice in 
 turning my back upon you at Saratoga and let me have the 
 satisfaction of repairing, as far as may be, the hardships of your 
 youth? My debt of gratitude to your other father'' with a 
 glance at Mr. Huntress "I can never repay." 
 
 Geoffrej' warmly grasped that extended hand. 
 
 "You have made my heart more glad than I can tell you, sir," 
 he said. "I can forget I can overlook everything, now that I 
 know my mother was your loved and honored wife. I came 
 Lere fearing the worst fearing that a dreadful stigma rested 
 upon my birth that I was not entitled to an honorable 
 name." 
 
 "You are entitled to much more than that, Geoffrey," Colonel 
 Mapleson returned, smiling, although his lips trembled and his 
 eyes were full of tears; "there is a handsome fortune awaiting 
 jour disposal." 
 
 "A fortune!" said the young man, wonderingly. 
 
 "Yes, inherited through your mother from that very same old
 
 AN UNEXPECTED RETURN. 303 
 
 miser Robert Dale of whom you have beard so much this 
 evening." 
 
 "How can that bo?" Geoffrey asked, while Mrs. Maplesun 
 uttered an exclamation of surprise. 
 
 "You shall know very soon; but first shake hands with my 
 wife," his father responded, presenting Mrs. Mapleson. 
 
 "You are, indeed, very mnch like my son," she murmured, as 
 she gave him her hand; "and, believe me," she added, with 
 touching humility, "I am rejoiced to have you restored to my 
 husband, even at the expense of the trying confessions and 
 revelations of this evening." 
 
 Geoffrey respectfully raised her hand to his lips, aud the act 
 conveyed, far better thuu words could have dune, the sympathy 
 he felt for the suffering which she had endured. 
 
 She then bade Mr. Huntress good-night, after which her hus 
 band led her from the room, 
 
 He accompanied her to her own door. 
 
 "Good-night, E-stelle," he said, gently, "I hope you will go 
 directly to bed and try to sleep." 
 
 She turned suddenly that proud, imperious woman, who, 
 for more t'mu twenty years, had repressed every sign of affection 
 for him and threw herself upon his breast. 
 
 "Oh! "William, say that you do not quite hate me for what I 
 have told you to-night!" she cried, in an agonized tone. 
 
 Her husband looked astonished at her act; then his face soft 
 ened, his eyes lighted with sudden joy. 
 
 "Why, my wife? 1 believe you almost love me after all! Do 
 you, Estelle?" he eagerly questioned; "do I possess any more of 
 your heart now thau I did when you married me, or has it been 
 a continual struggle all along to be a good wife to me?" 
 
 She was sobbing like a child, now; the haughty, indomitable 
 spirit that had upheld her so long was subdued at lust. 
 
 "I have not dared to let you see how mnch of my heart you 
 have won; yon know you told me you did not entertain a lover's 
 affection for me, and I would not force mine upon you," she 
 confessed, witli her fnce still hidden upon his breast. 
 
 He fr hied lii arms more closely about her. 
 
 "And / have imagined that you were holding me at arms' 
 length during all our life," he said, laying his cheek softly ngaiust 
 her still glossy hair. "Estelle, we will be lovers all the rest of 
 our lives, for, my wife, you have become very, very dear to me 
 I did not realize low ilnar until now. We will not look back 
 ward any more, but ior\v:ud; we have both erred greatly in the 
 past, and it would ill become either of us to criticise the other. 
 Tell me, shall wo drop i\n~ vail of charity over it all, and begin 
 to live our real life from this hour?" 
 
 For tht* first, time in hor life, she put her anus about his neck, 
 and voluntarily laid lit r lips against his cheek. 
 
 "I do not deserve; this, William," she said, humbly, "but you
 
 804 AN UNEXPECTED RETURN. 
 
 have made me happier than 1 ever expected to be again." 
 He returned her caress with great tenderness, then said: 
 "I must not koep you standing here, dear, nor our guests 
 waiting below; but I will come to you again later." 
 
 He opened the door for her to pass in, then closed it, and re 
 turned to his visitors, brushing aside some truant tears as he 
 went. 
 
 His face, however, lighted with pleasure as he again entered 
 the library, and looked into Geoffrey's noble, manly face, and 
 realized that he was really the son of the beautiful young wife 
 whom lie so loved years ago. 
 
 But the young man himself was very grave. 
 He felt that he stood in an exceedingly delicate position. 
 He had come to Colonel Mapleson, believing that he had 
 wronged his mother, and willfully abandoned him when a child; 
 be had meant to denounce hiin for it, and reveal also the villainy 
 of which his other son had been guilty. 
 
 But he had found a father ready and eager to welcome him, 
 ready to acknowledge the wife of his youth, and to give his son 
 the place that rightfully belonged to him; and now it seemed 
 almost cruel to expose the wrong of which his half-brother had 
 been guilty. He could not endure the thought of coming be 
 tween the two in any way; of destroying the confidence of the 
 father in the son. 
 
 Something of this Geoffrey and Mr. Huntress had been con 
 sidering during Colonel Mapleson's absence from the room. 
 They had about decided to say nothing of the affair of the in 
 terrupted marriage, until they had seen Everet, and acquainted 
 him with the facts which that night had revealed. Perhaps, 
 they could arrange to hush up the matter altogether, if the 
 young man proved to be amicably inclined or reasonable; at all 
 events, they had concluded not to mention the affair that night 
 to, at least, give it a little more thought first. In explaining 
 about the broken cross, GooSfrey had simply said that they had 
 Been the other half in Everet's possession, and that he knew 
 nothing of their visit to Vue de 1'Eau. 
 
 It seemed as if a great weight had been lifted from Colonel 
 Mapleson's heart when he returned. 
 
 He drew a chair near his guests, and began at once to enter 
 more into the details of the past. He gave them a full history 
 of his eccentric relative, Robert Dale; told of his long-concealed 
 fortune, when and how it had been discovered, together with 
 the will which bequeathed the whole of it to Geoffrey's mother. 
 "This, of course, now becomes yours," he concluded, turning 
 to the young man, with a smile. "Quite a fine property, it is, 
 too, amounting,with the accumulated interest, to upward of one 
 hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Besides this, yon will 
 inherit one-half of what I possess, the other half going to 
 Everet "
 
 AN UNEXPECTED RETURN. 305 
 
 "I could not take any tiling from this estate, sir," Geoffrey 
 Said, suddenly growing crimson. 
 
 "Why not?" questioned his father. 
 
 "Because you married contrary to the conditions of your 
 uncle's will, so, in that case, I do not feel that I have any real 
 right to any of it. If your marriage had been discovered, you 
 would have had to forfeit all to your cousin, Miss Everet. " 
 
 "lou are very conscientious," replied Colonel Mapleson, 
 gravely. 
 
 Then he suddenly looked up, with a wise smile. 
 
 "It has not occurred to you, I perceive," he added, "that 
 you could claim every dollar that Mrs. Mapleson and I pos 
 sess. We both violated the conditions of that will; conse 
 quently, our fortunes rightly belonged to Robert Dale, and 
 you, being his only heir, would inherit it all." 
 
 Geoffrey looked amazed at this. Such a thought had not 
 occurred to him; but now he could not fail to see the force of 
 his father's argument. 
 
 "I do not want it I could not take it; I shall have more 
 than enough from what will come to me from my mother," he 
 said. 
 
 "There are few people in the world who would not take all 
 they could get," replied Colonel Mapleson, feeling a certain 
 pride in this noble renunciation of his son. "But, taking 
 everything into consideration, it seems to me that mutters are 
 somewhat complicated with us. I suppose Mrs Mapleson's 
 daughter your adopted child, Mr, Huntress will come in for 
 her share of her mother's property." 
 
 August Huntress flushed. 
 
 A painful struggle had been going on in his mind ever since 
 his meeting with Mrs. Maplesou. 
 
 He could not endure, for a moment, the thought of ever 
 Laving Gladys know anything about her birth. She fully be 
 lieved herself to be Mr. and Mrs. Huntress' own child, and he 
 knew it would lie a rude shock to her to learn that she was not, 
 and to be told the facts regarding her parentage, and he 
 meant to prevent it if he could. 
 
 "Colonel Maplesou," he said, speaking very seriously, "I 
 hope that Gladys will never learn that she is not really my 
 child; I never wish her to receive anything from Mrs. Maple- 
 son." 
 
 The colonel's face fell. 
 
 He knew that his wife's heart was yearning after her child; 
 at the same time, he could understand and appreciate Mr. 
 Huntress' sensitiveness upon the subject; while, too, the 
 young girl could not fail to be painfully shocked upon learn 
 ing the sad, even cruel, history coimr-cted with her birth. 
 
 "I think it would be a great disappointment to my wife not to 
 be allowed to claim the relationship," he replied, thoughtfully.
 
 306 AN UNEXPECTED RETURN. 
 
 "I have no doubt of it, sir," returned Mr. Huntress; "but 
 could she not better bear the disappointment than to have her 
 child made unhappy, after all these years of content, by learning 
 that those who have hitherto occupied the place of father and 
 mother are nothing to her by the ties of blood? She Las not a 
 suspicion of the truth, and I am confident that no cue, save 
 Doctor Turner and ourselves, has the slightest knowledge of it, 
 so that it never need be revealed. Mrs. Mapleson promised 
 solemnly never to claim her, under any circumstances; she gave 
 her unreserve-dly to us, and I cannot feel willing to have our re 
 lations disturbed. As far as any property which she might in 
 herit from your wife is concerned, I would not give it a moment's 
 consideration. I liava an abuadance, and Gladys will have it ail 
 by and by. I did intend to make a division between iny two 
 children," turning with a smile to the young man by his side, 
 "but since Geoffrey is now so rich, he will not need it. How 
 ever, it will amount to about the same thing in the end, as they 
 will soon have all things in common, I trust " 
 
 ' "Ah! is that so?" Colonel Mapleson inquired, with a brilliant 
 smile and a nod at his son. 
 
 "I hope so," Geoffrey answered; "and I, too, think it would 
 be wiser to keep the trutli regarding Gladys' birth still a secret. 
 Its revelation can do no one, save Mrs. Mapleson, the least pos 
 sible good, and I doubt if even she would not regret a disclosure 
 that would result in so much unhappiness to others." 
 
 "I believe you are right," Colonel Mapleson said, after think 
 ing it over for a faw moments. "I reckon it -would be the better 
 plan to allow things to remain just as they are." 
 
 "I beg you will not consider me selfish or unfeeling in this 
 matter," said Mr. Huntress, earnestly, but greatly relieved by 
 this decision. "I sympathize deeply with Mrs. Mapleson, but 
 I feel that she could not suffer a tithe of what my wife and 
 daughter would endure to have their relations disturbed, cot to 
 mention my own feelings in the matter." 
 
 "I understand," his host responded, heartily, "and I know it 
 is but right and just that the one should yield in order that the 
 many may be happy, and I believe that my wife will see it in 
 the same light when she comes to consider it. But," turning 
 again to Geoffrey, "when is this wedding trt occur?" 
 
 The young man colored and glanced at Mr. Huntress, for he 
 hardly knew what to say in reply to this. 
 
 "Well, I the day is not set yet. I was anxious to have my 
 relations witli yourself settled, and we 
 
 It was an unusual occurrence for Geoffrey Huntress to lose his 
 self-possession under any circumstances; but just then he felt 
 himself to be in a very painful position, for every moment he 
 shrank more and more from revealing his half-brother's wretched 
 plot, and he was greatly relieved by a little stir in the hall at that 
 moment, which attracted Colonel Mapleson 's attention from him.
 
 AN UNEXPECTED RETURN. 307 
 
 The next instant the library door was flnng open, ami Everet, 
 himself, pale and travel-stained, stood before the astonished 
 group. 
 
 "Ha!" he cried, catching sight of Geoffrey. "So you have 
 stolen a march on me! trying, I suppo.se, to browbeat the gover 
 nor into confessing that romantic liaison of his youth." 
 
 "Evc.ret ! " exclaimed his father, turning sternly upon him, an 
 angry flush mounting to his brow, at this rude intrusion; -'what 
 do you mean by rushing in here like this, addressing my guesta 
 in such an abrupt way, not to mention your exceedingly dibre- 
 pectful language regarding myself?" 
 
 "Your guests ! Why don't you present them to me, or are yon 
 a trifle delicate about introducing Annie Dale's son tome?" re 
 torted the young man, in a nervous, unnatural manner. 
 
 "Silence, sir!" thundered Colonel Mapleson, looking perfectly 
 aghast at this strange behavior on the part of his usually court 
 eous son. "What do you know of Annie Dale?" he continued; 
 "and why do you speak of this young man in that sneering way?" 
 
 "I know a great deal about Annie Dale and the suspicious 
 life she led in a certain mining district for a year," Everet re 
 torted, with reckless scorn. 
 
 He had been wrought to the highest pitch of angry excite 
 ment by finding Geoffrey and Mr. Huntress there before him. 
 
 "I know," he went on, ''how she was enticed away by the 
 promise of a marriage which never took place, and how she 
 afterward died doubtless of a broken heart leaving a name 
 less brat to inherit her shame." 
 
 "Everet! you have suddenly taken leava of your senses! I 
 believe you <rre in the delirium of fever," returned his father, 
 regarding his now flushed face and glittering eyes with alarm. 
 "But have a care over your words. How on earth you have be 
 come possessed of such strange notions is more than I can ac 
 count for." 
 
 "I can easily enlighten you. I have a couple of letters in mr 
 possession that were written by Annie Dale's lover, which will 
 prove all that I have hinted at; and I found a very pretty 
 rinj?, too, last summer, during my travels not a weddinq-riitr/, 
 either, mind you. I doubt if she evrr had that which was 
 lost, on the very spot where she had lived and died." 
 
 He drew both letters and ring from one of his pockets, as he 
 spoke, and flung thorn upon the table, before his father. 
 
 Colonel Maplpson recognized them at once, while he was 
 amazed by the fact of thoir being in the possession of his son. 
 One of the letters he remembered losing after a visit to the cot 
 tage where his Annie had once lived, and lie Imd been greatly 
 disturbed over the fact; but the other, and the ring which 
 his dear wife had lost one night while sitting on the porch in 
 their mountain home he could not understand how he came 
 bv them.
 
 808 PEA CE A T LAST. 
 
 "You found that ring?" he asked, amazed. 
 
 "Yes. I visited a certain cottage among the mountains of 
 New Mexico last summer, and while standing upon one of the 
 Bteps leading up to the door it gave way, and underneath I 
 found this ring." 
 
 "Ah! we never thought of looking under the step," said the 
 colonel, musingly. "It was a little loose for her finger just 
 then, and, slipping off, rolled away out of sight, and we thought 
 it very strange that we could not 'find it. Yes," he continued, 
 taking it up and regarding it tenderly, "Annie Dale never had 
 her engagement- ring until the day of her marriage, when this 
 was put on her finger as a guard to Iter wedding- ring! Annie 
 Dale was my loved and honored wife, Everet, and Geoffrey, my 
 BOU and hers," indicating the young man by a motion of his 
 hand, "will show you the certificate of our marriage, and the 
 ring with which she was wed!" 
 
 "Your wife! Annie Dale your wife!" Everet repeated, start 
 ing back, amazed, all his color fading again at those woids, and 
 shocked into more respectful speech by the unexpected ac 
 knowledgment. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVIII. 
 
 PEACE AT LAST. 
 
 "Yes, Annie Dale was my wife!" 
 
 Everet bent a sullen look upon Geoffrey. 
 
 "Then lie is not a " 
 
 An imperative gesture from his father silenced the obnoxious 
 Word that trembled on his lips. 
 
 "Geoffrey Huntress, as he has hitherto been known," he said, 
 "is my son, honorably entitled to my name, and an equal share 
 with yourself of all I possess a son whom I long mourned as 
 dead, but whom I have most gladly welcomed to my heart and 
 Lome this night, upon learning who he was." 
 
 "Would you have done so had you not been forced to it?" 
 Evevet rudely demanded. 
 
 "Everet, you are very disrespectful to-night," returned his 
 father, with a frown, "I cannot understand why yon should 
 manifest such a spirit of hostility. But we will not talk more 
 of this now; yon shall have the details of the story of my early 
 life later. I trust, however, that your sense of what is right and 
 just will prompt you to some acknowledgment for your dis 
 courtesy toward your brother." 
 
 "My brother!" retorted Everet, aroused afresh at the word; 
 "he has been nothing but a stumbling-block in my path ever 
 since I first saw him; he humiliated me before friends in a way 
 that I have never forgiven; he thwarted me in my hopes at 
 college and in many plans all but the last one," he concluded,
 
 PEA CE AT LAST. 309 
 
 with a taunting laugh, turning defiantly toward Geoffrey, who 
 Was regarding him with move of sorrow than of anger. 
 
 "What do you mean, my son?" demanded his father, who saw 
 that something was very wrong between them, and was almost 
 in despair over his inexplicable conduct. 
 
 "Has he not told you how I cheated him out of his wife?" 
 Everet asked, supposing, of course, that that wretfched story 
 had been rehearsed. 
 
 "Cheated him out of his wife!" repeated Colonel Mapleson, 
 growing pale, and glancing apprehensively from one to the 
 other. 
 
 His son gave vent to a short, nervous laugh, but feeling con 
 siderably crest-fallen at having so recklessly betrayed himself, 
 since he saw that nothing had been said about his miserable 
 plot. 
 
 Mr. Huntress here interposed, seeing that the truth must 
 come out, and explained in a few brief sentences what had 
 happened. 
 
 Colonel Mapleson sank back white and nervous, as he listened, 
 realizing, almost at the outset, the terrible thing which his son 
 hau so nearly accomplished. 
 
 "Do you know what you have done, Everet Mapleson?*' he 
 saitl, in a solemn, impressive tone, when his visitor concluded, 
 and the young man was startled and awed in spite of his 
 bravado. "You have been upon the brink of a fearful precipice; 
 yon have very nearly committed a dreadful crime, for which I 
 could never have forgiven you, for which you would never have 
 forgiven yourself; the girl whom you have sought to make your 
 wife is your sister." 
 
 The young man grew pale, but more at his father's tone than 
 from any conviction of the truth of his statement. But he 
 rallied after a moment. 
 
 "What staff are you telling me?" he retorted, contemptuously. 
 
 "It is no 'stuff;' it is sternest truth; Gladys Huntress is an 
 ado />(ed daughter," 
 
 "Ha!" and now Everet Mapleson seemed suddenly galvanized. 
 "Did Annie Dale have another child?" he demanded, with hue- 
 less lips. 
 
 "No; but she is your mother's child, by a former marriage." 
 
 "Great Heaven!" 
 
 There was no defiance or recklessness in his manner now. He 
 Bank breathless upon a chair, a horrified look upon his face, a 
 shiver shaking him from head to foot, perspiration starting from 
 every pore. 
 
 "My mother's child! Impossible! Who told you?" he ques 
 tioned, hoarsely. 
 
 "Your mother herself J She was unexpectedly brought face 
 to face with Mr. Huntress to-night; she recognized him and 
 fainted. Upon recovering she confessed to a former marriage,
 
 310 PEACE AT LAST. 
 
 and said, in order to conceal the fact, she had been obliged to 
 give away her child that Mr. Huntress was the ruaii who 
 adopted her." 
 
 Colonel Mapleson then went on to explain more at length 
 something of the occurrences of the eveuiug, but he was inter 
 rupted in the midst of his recital by Everefc throwing himseJl 
 prostrate upon the floor, while a heart-rending groau burst from 
 him as he fell. 
 
 When they raised him he was unconscious, and a small stream 
 of blood was trickling from his mouth. 
 
 He was carried at once to his room, a servant was immediately 
 dispatched for a doctor, while his anxious friends used what 
 remedies there weie at hand for his relief. 
 
 When the physician arrived he said his patient had evidently 
 been suffering from a severe cold for several days, and that this, 
 with weariness of body and a sudden shock of some kind, had 
 brought on the hemorrhage, while there were also some indica 
 tions of a brain trouble, and a severe illness would doubtless 
 follow. 
 
 Mr. Huntress and Geoffrey proposed going away early the 
 next morning, but Colonel Maplesou, who seemed greatly un 
 nerved by the excitement of the previous evening, begged them 
 to remain for a few days at least, as he could not bear to give up 
 Geoffrey again so soon after being reunited to him. 
 
 They had not the heart to leave him in his trouble after that, 
 and consented to remain long enough to learn what the prospect 
 of Everet's recovery would be- 
 But he grew steadily worse, and raved in the wildest delirium, 
 recognizing no one, although there was no return of the hemorr 
 hage. At the end of four days Mr. Huntress decided that he 
 must go home, but Geoffrey concluded that it was his duty to 
 remain with his father until the crisis in Everet's illness should 
 be passed, for Colonel Mapleson seemed to lean upon and to 
 experience much comfort from hi presence. 
 
 He proved of the greatest assistance in .the sick-room, where 
 he attended Everet most faithfully, and endeared himself to 
 the whole household by his gentleness and courteous bearing. 
 
 At the end of three weeks the fever turned, and Everft was 
 pronounced out of danger of any further brain trouble, although 
 it would be a long time before he would fully recover from the 
 weakness of his lungs. 
 
 Geoffrey withdrew himself immediately from the sick-room as 
 soon as the patient recovered consciousness, realizing that his 
 presence might be annoying to Everet, and retard his conva 
 lescence; although he remained at Vuo de 1'Eau for another 
 week, at the earnest request of both Colonel and Mrs. Maple- 
 son. 
 
 Then he felt that he could not stay longer away from Gladys, 
 and he returned to Brooklyn, taking with him the knowledge
 
 PEACE AT LAST. 311 
 
 of bis father's firm and lasting affection, and Mrs. Maplesou's 
 respect and friendship, together with the handsome fortune 
 which he had inherited from Robert Dale, and which Colonel 
 Mapleson had transferred to him. 
 
 It had been agreed by all parties that Gladys should never 
 be told the secret of her parentage, although Mrs. Mapleson 
 had wept bitterly when she consented to remain all her life 
 Unrecognised by the child for whom her heart yearned inex 
 pressibly. 
 
 She could bnt acknowledge, however, that it would be for 
 her daughter's happiness, and she was willing to sacrifice her 
 own feelings to secure that. 
 
 She had been greatly shocked upon learning of Everet's 
 wretched plot, and the narrow escape he had had from com 
 mitting a fearful crime, and she had pleaded with Geoffrey, 
 when parting with him, to forgive her son for the injury he had 
 done him, saying she felt sure that he would deeply regret it, 
 when he fully came to himself. 
 
 Geoffrey assured her of his full and free pardon, and actually 
 expressed the hope that he and his half-brother might some 
 time come to regard each other, at least with a friendly, if not 
 with brotherly, affection. 
 
 His return was a very joyous one. 
 
 Gladys had been assured by her father, long before this, that 
 she was free; that no tie bound her to Everet Mapleson; that 
 the events which had occurred upon the night set for the wed 
 ding had been simply a farce, the result of fraud of the worst 
 type, which rendered the ceremony illegal. 
 
 She was almost like her old, bright self when Geoffrey ar 
 rived, although not quite so strong as formerly, for she had suf 
 fered a fearful shock, and it was not surprising that its effects 
 should yet be visible. 
 
 Only a few days after Geoffrey's return, Mr. Huntress' 
 beloved pastor and his wife were invited to dine with the fam 
 ily, and later in the evening, when the servants were all below 
 everything having been confidentially explained to the rev 
 erend gentleman previous to his visit Geoffrey and Gladys 
 stood up in the drawing-room and were quietly made one, while 
 only those who were acquainted with the private history of the 
 young couple ever knew of this second ceremony, their fashion 
 able friends and the world all believing that the real marriage 
 had occurred at the time of the brilliant wedding before de 
 scribed. 
 
 No one was surprised that the European trip was postponed, 
 until warmer weather. "A sea voyage in the dead of winter 
 was a thing to bo dreaded; besides, Mr. and Mrs. Hnntross had 
 finally decided to brace up their courage and go with them, if 
 they would wait until spring." 
 
 They sailed about the middle of May, and had an unusually
 
 312 PEACE AT LAST. 
 
 smooth passage. They spent a whole year abroad a year of 
 delight, and such as few experience in this world, and then re 
 turned to Brooklyn, where Mr. and Mrs. Geoffrey Dale Maplo- 
 sou set up their own establishment on Clinton avenue, not a 
 stone's throw from their former home. 
 
 The change in Geoffrey's name, together with the discovery 
 of his parentage, had been very easily explained, and then, of 
 course, everybody said "they al\vays knew that he and Everet 
 Mapleson must have the same blood in their veins; but it was 
 really a very romantic circumstance Geoffrey having been in 
 jured and carried off by his nurse's husband in a tit of drunk 
 enness, and never discovering his parentage until now." 
 
 The next fall, after the young couple's return from Europe, 
 Colonel Maplesou and his wile paid them a visit, and it was 
 noticeable that a great change had come over the strangely- 
 wedded pair. 
 
 The stately anil soldierly colonel was devotedly attached to 
 his beautiful wife, who had acquired a peculiar gentleness and 
 sweetness, in place of her former imperious manner, which, 
 made her tenfold more attractive. It was evident, too, that she 
 wan strongly attached to her noble husband. 
 
 When she was presented to Gladys, she folded her closely iu 
 her arms. 
 
 "My dear," she said, witli a thrill of tenderness in her tones 
 that moved the young wife strangely, "I hope we shall be very 
 good friends, for. although Gooffrey is not my own son, I want 
 to regard you both as my children!" 
 
 Tears sprang into Gladys' eyes. 
 
 She lifted her face and kissed the lovely one bending above 
 her. 
 
 "I am sure I shall love you very, very dearly," she said. 
 
 And she did. A tender friendship was begun during that 
 visit, which grew stronger and more devoted with every year, 
 and when, at length, two little twin girls were born to Gladys, she 
 named one Alice and the other Estelle. 
 
 "For our two mothers," she said to Geoffrey, with a fond 
 smile. 
 
 Colonel Mapleson was very proud of his Annie's boy, but his 
 happiness would never be quite complete, he said, until there 
 could be perfect harmony between his two sons. Ho hoped 
 that time would bring even that to pass, for Everet had shown 
 great remorse over the deception that he had practiced upon 
 Gladys, and he finally made an humble, though manly, confes 
 sion to her, and entreated her pardon for the injury he had 
 done her and her husband. 
 
 But it was not until Geoffrey was called to the death-bed of 
 his father, three j r ear; after his marriage, that they really became 
 friends. 
 
 Tho making of Colonel Maplesou's will brought it about, for
 
 PEACE AT LAST. 313 
 
 he consulted his sons about the matter. Geoffrey refused abso 
 lutely to be named in it, except simply to receive an affectionate 
 remembrance from his father, and this attitude excited Everet's 
 wonder. 
 
 "Why do you do this?" he asked, coldly, and regarding his 
 brother with suspicion. "You are my father's elder son, and 
 entitled to half of his fortune." 
 
 "I do not wish it, believe me," Geoffrey answered. "1 have 
 enough as it is. I can never tell you," he added, earnestly, 
 "how much more to me than fortune, or any other inheritance, 
 is the name that I can legally claim from our father. Let that 
 be my share indeed, I will not have anything else." 
 
 Everet stood, thoughtful aad silent, for several moments. 
 Then, with an evident effort, he looked up in Geoffrey's face, 
 and said: 
 
 'I know that you might have att, had you chosen to take it, 
 and in that case /would have been a beggar. You have led me 
 to believe and not by this act alone, either that there is at 
 least one truly noble, nuselh'sh man in the world. If you do not 
 utterly despise me, will you henceforth recognize me as a 
 friend?" 
 
 He extended his hand as he spoke, but it shook visibly, and 
 he was very pale. It had not been an easy thing for this proud 
 young Southerner to make such a confession and appeal. 
 
 Geoffrey grasped it warmly, his manly face all aglow with 
 sincere joy. 
 
 "Not only my 'friend,' Everet, but, my brother, in name and 
 in truth," lie answered, heartily; and thus a life-long bond was 
 established between them, which strengthened with every suc 
 ceeding year, while the desire of Colonel Mapleson's heart 
 was granted him ere he closed his eyes upon all things 
 earthly. 
 
 A little later, Ad die Loring, who during all this time had 
 refused many nn eager suitor, became the mistress of Vne de 
 1'Ean, where she reigned the center of a happy and peaceful 
 household. 
 
 She often visited her girlhood's friend at the North, and enter 
 tained her, in turn, in her Southern home, where the elder Mrs. 
 Mapleson was supremely content in the presence of her child 
 and grandchildren, even though they were ignorant that no 
 other bond save that of mutual love and sympathy iiuited 
 them. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Huntress were also very happy in their chil 
 dren, and lived many years to enjoy them years which brought 
 with them an 
 
 "Old age serene and bright, 
 And lovely as a Lapland nigLt." 
 
 Mr. Huntress retired from active business s > >i :,i"ti r his r-
 
 3 U PEA CE AT 'LAS T 
 
 turn from Europe, resigning bis place in the firm to Geoffrey, 
 who developed great ability as a business man, and was as ener 
 getic and industrious as if he had his fortune still to make, 
 instead of already being the possessor of a handsome com 
 petence. 
 
 Gladys, true to her vow upon that wedding-day, which had 
 ended so sadly, and yet which, they all felt, had been wisely 
 overruled, divided her time between the duties in her own home 
 and the work of lightening the burdens of others, "reflecting 
 some of the happiness of her own life upon those less favored;" 
 thus laying up treasures for herself more precious and lasting 
 than either silver or gold. 
 
 "Who soweth good seed shall surely reap; 
 The year groweth rich as it groweth old, 
 And life's latest sands are its sands of gold." 
 
 [THE END.]