The Magic Cameo: A Love Story
Date: 2021-02-14T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: American fiction -- 19th century

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Title: The Magic Cameo: A Love Story

Author: Mrs. Georgie Sheldon

Release date: February 14, 2021 [eBook #64559]
Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Suzanne Shell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAGIC CAMEO: A LOVE STORY ***

The Magic Cameo
A Love Story

By MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON

AUTHOR OF
“The Churchyard Betrothal,” “Mona,” “Wedded
By Fate,” “A Hoiden’s Conquest,” “The
Lily of Mordaunt,” etc.

A. L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers New York

Popular Books

By MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON

In Handsome Cloth Binding

Price per Volume, 60 Cents

- Brownie’s Triumph
- Earl Wayne’s Nobility
- Churchyard Betrothal, The
- Edrie’s Legacy
- Faithful Shirley
- For Love and Honor
- Sequel to Geoffrey’s Victory
- Forsaken Bride, The
- Geoffrey’s Victory

- Golden Key, The; or a Heart’s Silent Worship

- Heatherford Fortune, The
- Sequel to The Magic Cameo
- He Loves Me For Myself
- Helen’s Victory
- Her Faith Rewarded
- Sequel to Faithful Shirley
- Her Heart’s Victory
- Sequel to Max
- Heritage of Love, A
- Sequel to The Golden Key
- Hoiden’s Conquest, A
- How Will It End
- Sequel to Marguerite’s Heritage
- Lily of Mordaunt, The

- Little Miss Whirlwind; or Lost for Twenty Years

- Lost, A Pearle
- Love’s Conquest
- Sequel to Helen’s Victory
- Love Victorious, A
- Magic Cameo, The
- Marguerite’s Heritage
- Masked Bridal, The
- Max, A Cradle Mystery
- Mona
- Nora, or The Missing Heir of Callonby
- Sibyl’s Influence
- Threads Gathered Up
- Sequel to Virgie’s Inheritance
- Thrice Wedded
- Tina
- Trixy, or The Shadow of a Crime
- True Aristocrat, A
- True Love’s Reward
- Virgie’s Inheritance
- Wedded By Fate

For Sale by all Booksellers
or will be sent postpaid on receipt of price

A. L. BURT COMPANY, PUBLISHERS
52 Duane Street New York

Copyright, 1898 and 1899
By Street & Smith

THE MAGIC CAMEO

THE MAGIC CAMEO.

PRELUDE.
THREE PICTURES.

Picture number one shows us a young man of about twenty-eight years standing on the veranda of a fine country residence that rises out of the midst of spacious and well-kept grounds, while stretching out and around on every hand are many broad acres of carefully tilled fields of grain, luxuriant waving grass, and, in the distance, a belt of woodland.

Behind the mansion are roomy and substantial barns and outhouses for various purposes, all in perfect repair and telling of comfortable quarters for horses, cows, and other kinds of stock. It is, in fact, a thrifty and ideal New England farm, and a home of which any man might reasonably feel proud.

But the young man standing upon the broad veranda has at this moment no thought of his prospective inheritance. His form is as rigid as that of a statue; his face is set and colorless; his eyes wide and staring and full of hopeless wretchedness, as they scan the letter which he is holding in his hand. The missive had been brought to him a few moments previous by the hired man who had just returned from the village post-office, and who had shot a sly glance and smile up at his young master, to indicate that he had not been unmindful of the delicate and flowing handwriting in which it had been addressed, that had caused such a glad light to leap into the eyes of the recipient and made him blush like a girl as he tore it eagerly open.

Let us read the lines which occasioned such a sudden transformation, blotting out the love-light from his eyes, burning to ashes all the tenderness in his nature and writing hard and cruel lines upon his face:

“Alfred: I know that you can never forgive me the wrong I am doing you, but, too late, I have learned that I love another and not you. When you receive this I shall be the wife of that other—you well know who. I wish I could have saved you this blow, so near the day that was set for our wedding; but I should have doubly wronged you had I remained and fulfilled my pledge to you with my heart irrevocably given elsewhere. Forget and forgive if you can.

“T. A.”

“My God! and she was to have been my wife one month from to-day!” bursts from the white lips of the reader as he finishes perusing the above for the second time.

He sways dizzily, then staggers toward one of the massive pillars that support the roof of the piazza, and leans against it, too weak from the terrible shock he has received to stand alone; and there he remains, staring sightlessly before him, oblivious to everything save his own misery, until an elderly gentle-faced woman comes to the door and says:

“Alfred, supper is ready.”

The man starts, stands erect, his brows contracted, his lips set in a white line of determination. He deliberately folds the letter, returns it to its envelope, and slips it into an inner pocket. As he crushes it down out of sight a look of hate sweeps over his face and blazes in his eyes.

Then he turns and follows the woman into the house.

Picture number two was sketched more than two years later, and shows a small, meagerly furnished room, in an humble tenement, located in a narrow street of a great Western city. It has only one occupant—a young and attractive woman, who is sitting before a fire in an open grate, for it is a chill November night.

Her face is stained with weeping; her eyes are red and swollen; great heart-rending sobs burst from her every now and then, and she is trembling from head to foot.

As in the first picture, there is a letter. She holds it in her hands, upon her lap, and she has crumpled it with her fingers, which are twitching nervously, causing the paper to rattle in her grasp.

“Merciful Heaven! can it be true?” she breathes, between her quivering lips. “I cannot, will not believe a human being could be so heartless, so lost to all honor and manliness.”

She raises the missive, spreads it out before her, and reads it through again, although every word was already seared, as with a hot iron, upon her brain. It was brief, cold, and fiendishly cruel. It was addressed to no one, and was also without signature.

“I’m off,” it began. “There is no use in longer trying to conceal the fact that I am tired of the continual grind of the last two years. It was a great mistake that we ever married, and I may as well confess what you have already surmised—that I never really loved you. Why did I marry you, then? Well, you know that I never could endure to be balked in anything, and as I had made up my mind to cut a certain person out, I was bound to carry my point. You know whom I mean, and that he and I were always at cross-purposes. The best thing you can do will be to go back to your own people—tell whatever story you choose about me. I shall never take the trouble to refute it, neither will I ever annoy you in any way. Get a divorce if you want one. I will not oppose it; as I said before, I am tired of the infernal grind and bound to get out of it. I’ll go my way, and you may go yours; but don’t attempt to find or follow me, for I won’t be hampered by any responsibilities in the future.”

The woman fell into deep thought after this last perusal of the letter, and she sat more than an hour gazing into the fire, scarcely moving during that time.

The cheap little clock on the mantel striking eight finally aroused her, and, with a long-drawn sigh, she arose, walked deliberately to the grate, laid the epistle on the coals and watched it while the flames devoured it, reducing it to ashes, which were finally whirled in tiny particles up the chimney by the draft.

“So that dream has vanished,” she murmured; “now I will come down to the practical realities of life. But, oh! what has the future for me?”

Picture number three is not unveiled until fourteen years later.

In a palatial residence on Nob Hill, in San Francisco, a distinguished-looking gentleman may be seen sitting in his luxurious library. Its walls are hung with an exquisite shade of old rose, the broad frieze representing garlands of flowers in old rose, gold, and white. The furniture is of solid mahogany, richly carved, upholstered in blue velvet and satins; costly draperies are at the windows; Turkish rugs of almost priceless value are strewn about the inlaid and highly polished floor, and statues, bric-a-brac, and fine pictures, gathered from many countries, are artistically arranged about the room.

The gentleman, who is in evening dress, excepting that he has on a smoking-jacket of rich black velvet, is lazily reclining in an adjustable chair, and engaged in cutting the leaves of one of the late magazines, while he smokes a cigar.

Presently the portieres of a doorway are swept aside, and a beautiful woman enters. She is in full evening dress, and clad like a princess in satin, of a deep shade of pink, brocaded with white. Diamonds encircle her white neck, gleam in her ears, and amid her nut-brown hair.

The gentleman turns to her, his face glowing with mingled pride and pleasure.

“Nell! what a vision of loveliness!” he exclaims, with an eager thrill in his tones.

She comes to him with a fond smile upon her lips, lays her fair arms around his neck, and kisses him.

“So much for your flattery,” she playfully responds.

“Ah, I am tempted to try for the same reward again,” he returns, in the same vein, as he captures one jeweled hand and lays it against his lips.

“But, dear, do you know how late it is getting to be?” questions the lady, as she glances at the gilded clock on the mantel.

“Well, I am all ready, except getting into my coat. Run away for your opera-cloak, and I will not be a minute behind you, though really, Nell, I am too comfortable to move,” concludes the man, in a regretful tone.

“Oh, you lazy, unappreciative fellow,” gaily retorts his companion. “Here one of the leaders in society is about to tender a brilliant reception to the distinguished mayor of the city, and he is so indifferent to the honor that he prefers to sit and smoke at home to receive the homage awaiting him. Come, sir; your wife is ambitious if you are not.”

She administers a playful box on his ear as she ceases, then trips away, while the gentleman watches her with a smile on his lips and his heart in his eyes.

He arises the instant she disappears, and is on the point of following her when his glance falls upon a paper which, until that moment, has lain unnoticed upon the table. He picks it up, and runs his eyes up and down its columns.

Suddenly a shock seems to go quivering through him, and every particle of color fades out of his face. He stands up as if transfixed for a full minute. Then the paper drops from his grasp.

“At last!” he mutters; “at last!”

He draws a long, deep breath, like one who, having been long oppressed, suddenly feels a weight removed. Then he throws back his shoulders and walks with a proudly uplifted head and elastic step from the room.

CHAPTER I.
AN ACT OF HEROISM.

A long and heavily laden passenger-train—the 3 o’clock limited express from Boston to New York—and composed chiefly of parlor-cars, was almost ready to pull out of the station. The engineer and fireman were in their places, while the porters, standing beside their steps, were awaiting the last signal from the gong.

Midway of the train, and sitting at the open window of her section, a young girl of perhaps fourteen or fifteen years, was sitting. She was a veritable pink-and-white beauty, with golden hair lying in soft, fluffy curls about her forehead, beneath which a pair of mischievous blue eyes—a saucy light gleaming in their azure depths—looked out and down upon the handsome face of a tall, well-formed youth, with an unmistakable air of high breeding about him, who was standing on the platform outside with a somewhat lugubrious expression on his countenance.

He was evidently about eighteen years of age, and everything about him indicated a scion of a wealthy aristocrat.

“Remember, Mollie,” he was saying, “you have promised to write me every week, and I shall expect you to tell me everything you hear, see, and do—yes, and think. I don’t know how I’m going to stand it to have you gone, for nobody knows how long, with the ocean between us and all our good times at an end.”

“Nonsense, Phil, you silly boy! You are going to be at Harvard, and, absorbed in your studies and your various clubs and societies, you will soon forget all about those ‘old times,’ and be bored beyond expression if I should take you at your word and inflict a letter, filled with foolish, girlish gossip, upon you every week,” the girl laughingly retorted.

Nevertheless, her saucy eyes grew a trifle sad while she was speaking, and a deeper pink glowed upon her cheeks.

“No, it is not ‘nonsense,’ and I shall never ‘forget,’ as you will prove to your satisfaction, if you will only do your duty,” the young man earnestly returned. “So send on your letters, and mind, Mollie, you don’t let any one steal your heart away from me, for you know you are to marry me just as soon as I am through college.”

He had lowered his voice during this last sentence, while he regarded the lovely face with a tender, admiring look that spoke volumes. The azure eyes drooped and a scarlet wave leaped to the delicately blue-veined temples; but she replied:

“Marry you as soon as you are through college, indeed!—who said so, I should like to know?” A tantalizing laugh revealed two rows of small white teeth between the ruby lips.

“Mollie! Mollie! don’t torment me,” the youthful lover returned, with a note of earnest entreaty in his tone. “You know that we have planned it all a hundred times, when you and I were playing ‘keep house’ together in the tent under the old elms at your home on the Hudson.”

“Oh, but that was only play, Phil. In another month you’ll be dancing attendance on the pretty Cambridge girls, and, after four years of such fun, you’ll cease to remember that such a being as Mollie Heatherford exists, or that she ever played Joan to your Darby under the elms at Sunnyhurst,” and two roguish eyes gleamed with mischief as they scanned the clouded face beneath her.

“You are cruel, Mollie. I shall always be faithful to you, and I wish you would give me some pledge before you go; say,” as his glance fell upon the small, white hand that rested upon the window-sill, and on which there gleamed several costly rings, “give me that cameo you are wearing to seal the compact. It really isn’t a lady’s ring, and would look far better on my hand than yours, and I’ll send you something pretty and nice in place of it. Now, Mollie, dear, be good to me—don’t go away and leave me in suspense.”

But Miss Mischief had no intention of being caught in the net so cleverly spread for her. She laughed roguishly back into the handsome face upturned to her, and saucily shook her head.

“No, I can’t give you the cameo, Phil,” she said, “and I’m not going to make any promises—now. Hark, there is the last bell. Good-by, and do yourself credit at college.”

The train began to move as she spoke. Phil clasped the hand outstretched to him while he ran along beside the car.

“Remember, it is mine. I shall claim it in four years, promise or no promise. Now, write me every week; don’t forget me; good-by.”

He had to relinquish the hand at last, but he took off his hat and waved a farewell, while his fond eyes lingered upon the sweet, smiling face looking back at him, until the train rolled out of the station.

He knew it would be the last time he would see it for a long while, for pretty Mollie Heatherford was soon to go abroad for an indefinite period. She had been spending a week with the Temples in Brookline—Phil’s home—making a farewell visit previous to her departure, and she was now on her way to New York to rejoin her father and mother, and the trio were to sail for Europe within a few days.

“By Jove! I believe she is the prettiest girl I ever saw, and she’ll have a pile of money some day. I’ll stick to Mollie and her pile, and the Cambridge girls may hang their harps on the willows for all me. I’m going to look out for number one.”

Such were the mental comments of Philip Wentworth, whose mother—a widow—had married a wealthy man by the name of Temple some four years previous. And these comments were an index to the young man’s character, which, summed up in a word, might be written selfish.

The express-train steamed rapidly on its way, bearing the pretty heiress of the Heatherford million toward her home. The day had been very hot and sultry—it was late in July—and some three hours after leaving Boston ominous clouds began to gather in the West. A little later the train ran into a terrific electric-storm.

Mollie Heatherford sat crouching in her section, white and trembling, and dreading every instant a deadly bolt which would bring swift destruction and annihilation to her, yet too proud and sensitive to confess her fear and seek the reassuring companionship of some fellow traveler.

The heavens were so thickly overcast, and the rain descended in such torrents it seemed almost like night in the car, and the porter began to light the lamps.

He had only half-completed his task when there burst upon the affrighted ears of the awe-stricken passengers within the train a startling, warning whistle from the engine, then a sudden shock and crash, followed by shrieks and cries of men, women, and children.

On this same afternoon, while “the Limited” was speeding on its way from Boston to New York, a youth of perhaps seventeen years might have been seen toiling beneath the blazing sun in a hay-field, adjoining the grounds surrounding a stately mansion, and which was located on the outskirts of a beautiful country town not far from New Haven.

Every now and then the young man would glance anxiously up at a small cloud that was floating along the western horizon, and every time he looked it seemed to have grown larger and larger. Then he would fall to work again with fresh vigor, apparently unmindful of the broiling heat and of the great beads of perspiration which rolled over his face and dropped upon the ground.

He was working alone, and it did not seem possible that he would be able to get all the hay in the field into cocks and covered with caps before the storm would be upon him. But there was a resolution in every glance of his eye, determination in every vigorous movement of his body, and he pressed on, while the cloud grew, mounting higher and higher in the heavens, while vivid flashes of lightning, followed by the heavy roll of thunder, gave warning that the storm was coming nearer and nearer.

He had timed himself well; the task was completed; the last cap spread as the first drops fell, when the youth shouldered his rake and turned his steps toward the farmhouse. He had to run for it, for the storm was fast overtaking him, but he reached the great barn just in season to escape the deluge.

Hanging his rake upon a beam, he removed his broad hat, wiped the perspiration from his face, and heaved a long sigh of relief.

“Well, I did it,” he observed, with a satisfied uplifting of his head, “but small thanks I’ll get for my efforts. However, that is not my affair. My part was to do as I’d be done by, thanks or no thanks. Great Cæsar! how it rains! What lightning! What thunder!” he exclaimed, as flash after flash swept athwart the murky sky and almost simultaneous reports crashed like the continuous firing of mighty cannons, while the rain came down in sheets and drenched the thirsty earth.

He stood watching the conflict of elements for a few moments, then he remarked again:

“I am sure I have earned the right to rest a while, so I’m going in to have a tussle with Tacitus for an hour or two. Ho! hum! I wonder if I shall be able to pass the exams. and enter college this fall.”

He tossed his hat upon a peg, then, passing through a side door, traversed a short passage, then a shed, and finally entered the roomy, pleasant kitchen of the farmhouse, where a tidy, good-natured looking woman was mixing biscuit for supper.

With a smile and a pleasant word to her, the young man crossed the room, opened a door and mounted a flight of stairs to a small room on the back of the house, and which overlooked a winding stream, and, a few rods away, the railroad. Here he threw himself into a chair before a table, upon which there were several books, and was soon absorbed in the “Annals of Tacitus.”

Suddenly there came a blinding flash of lightning, followed instantly by a crash that seemed to shake the very foundation of the earth.

“That was very near,” muttered the youth, looking up from his book and glancing out of the window.

A startled cry burst from him as he did so, and he sprang to his feet.

“Heavens! the old crooked maple has been struck and fallen directly across the track!” he exclaimed.

He snatched a cheap watch from his pocket and glanced at it, his face growing white with a terrible fear.

“The New York limited express will be due here in exactly half an hour. Unless something is done, some warning given before it rounds the curve there will be a horrible accident,” he soliloquized with pale lips.

He rushed from the room, down the stairs, through the kitchen, and into the shed, where, seizing an ax, he darted out of a back door unmindful of the pouring rain, through a garden, and down a bank beyond, and, in another moment, was on the railroad beside the great tree, whose trunk was at least twelve inches in diameter, and whose branches spread out over the track for many feet.

This maple had stood there on the bank for many years, while storm after storm had gradually undermined it, until it was held only by the strength of its own roots. The roadmaster of that section had, for some time, contemplated having it removed, as he felt that it was unsafe to allow it to remain. But he had neglected it just a little too long, and the present tempest had wrenched it from its place, causing it to fall directly across both tracks.

With quick and vigorous strokes the young man trimmed away some of the branches, so that he could get at the trunk, and then he fell to work with his ax as he had seldom worked before, forgetting that he had already performed the labor of two men that day, and the tree was finally severed just outside the rails nearest the roots.

But another division must be made before it could be removed from its dangerous position, and he sprang between the two tracks and fell to work again, the elements still keeping high carnival around him. The chips flew right and left, while with every blow of the ax the youth’s breath was forced from him with a shrill, hissing sound, showing that he was putting forth his strength to the utmost. But he had hewn only about two-thirds of the log when the whistle of a locomotive fell upon his ear and warned him that the train was only a mile away, speeding on toward swift destruction.

What should he do? He knew there would not be time to complete his task and drag the tree from the track before the train would be upon him, while there was a bridge over the road not fifty feet behind him, and beneath it a foaming, rushing, thundering torrent, into which the engine and coaches, if derailed, would doubtless plunge headlong.

A wild look of fear shot into his eyes. An expression of horror was on his pallid face as these thoughts flashed through his mind. The next instant he snatched a red bandanna from his pocket and started on a swift run down the track, tying the handkerchief to a branch of the maple as he went. On, on, like a deer he ran. The curve was reached and rounded. The train was in sight. Nearer and nearer it came thundering on; then the short, sharp sound of the danger-whistle fell upon the boy’s ear, and his heart bounded into his throat with a sudden sense of relief as he realized that his signal had been seen and recognized.

Then he dashed it to the ground, and, turning, sped back to the maple, and fell to work again with his ax with all his might.

The moment the engineer had espied the improvised flag he knew there was danger ahead, and, blowing the signal to warn the brakemen, he reversed his engine, and opened the valves, and it was this ready response to the waving bandanna that had caused the crash and shock which had so frightened and shaken up everybody on the train, although no real damage had been done, and he finally brought his engine to a standstill within three feet of the youth, and just in season to see the last blow from his ax, which cleft the trunk of the maple asunder.

Both he and the fireman sprang to the ground and ran toward him, reaching him just as, with a faintly murmured “Thank God!” he fell forward exhausted, and was caught in their strong arms before he could touch the ground. He did not entirely lose consciousness; but he was too spent and weak to move or even speak.

Many of the passengers left the train and gathered around him in spite of the rain, which continued to fall heavily, although it was gradually abating.

The conductor, comprehending at once what had occurred, and anxious to lose no more time than was absolutely necessary, ordered the youth to be put aboard the train and made as comfortable as possible until they reached the next station. Then the brakemen, with the engineer and fireman, removed the debris from the tracks, after which everybody was ordered back into the coaches, and the train went steaming on its way once more.

CHAPTER II.
A TOUCHING TRIBUTE.

The hero of the incident would have much preferred to have been left by the side of the railroad with the mutilated maple until he could gather sufficient strength to crawl back to the farmhouse, but he was too exhausted to express his wishes, and thus he was obliged to go along with the train.

The next stopping-place was New Haven, the express being due there a little after 7, and during the ride the youth, under the care of the conductor and some of the passengers, recovered sufficiently to tell who he was and where he belonged, as well as how he had discovered the obstruction upon the road. His name, he said, was Clifford Faxon, and his home was with a gentleman known as Squire Talford, who lived near the village of Cedar Hill, or between that place and New Haven.

He appeared to be rather reticent and sensitive about talking of himself, but some gentlemen adroitly drew him out and learned that he was an orphan, and had been bound to the Squire since he was thirteen, or for the last four years, working for his “board and clothes”; that he had attended the academy of the town from September to April of every year, and was hoping to work his way through college when his time was out.

As he came more fully to himself he gave his audience an account of how the maple had fallen across the railroad; how he had realized what the terrible consequences must be unless it was removed and the engineer of the express warned of the danger; how he had been inspired to take his ax and hurry to the scene and work diligently as long as he could to remove the obstruction, and, when he found that would be impossible, he had run forward and waved his red handkerchief to stop the train.

His listeners were thrilled with admiration and gratitude in view of his heroism and the incalculable debt which they owed him. Their sympathies were also enlisted for him, for they saw that he was a fine, manly fellow, and capable of far better things than serving a farmer, as a bound boy, for a mere pittance.

One gentleman, a resident of New Haven, said he knew something of his history, having learned it through the principal of the academy in the town where he lived, and he had never heard anything but good of him, while he was sure he had been under a hard master during the last four years.

The result of this was a proposition to see what could be done in the way of a testimonial to manifest the appreciation of the passengers, who had been rescued from probable death.

Two gentlemen were appointed in every car to see what they could raise toward this end, and they worked so zealously and to such good purpose that a handsome sum had been realized before the train steamed into the New Haven station.

Pretty Mollie Heatherford had listened to the thrilling story with bated breath and gleaming eyes, her cheeks glowing with repressed excitement.

“Why, he is a hero!” she cried, enthusiastically, as she emptied her purse—after reserving simply a carriage-fare, in case no one should meet her in New York—into the hat of the gentleman who told the tale in her hearing. “I want to see him. I want to shake hands with him, and thank him personally,” and she secretly determined that she would do so. When the train stopped at New Haven she was the first one to alight from the coach, eager to catch a glimpse of the young hero.

She pushed her way toward the baggage-car, in which a couch had been extemporized for the youth, and stood close beside the steps as young Faxon came down.

He was still very pale, but was fast recovering his strength, and the girl thought his face—although his features were not as clear-cut or as regular as Philip Wentworth’s—the finest, the manliest she had ever seen.

He was deeply tanned from his summer’s work in the fields. He was clad in a pair of overalls, without coat or vest or hat; and his feet were encased in coarse and clumsy shoes, while, as may be surmised, he was drenched and soiled from his rough work in the field and storm.

But, to admiring little Miss Heatherford, this lack of “purple and fine linen” and other accessories of high life to which she had always been accustomed, made not the slightest difference. It was the spirit of the youth, the character and nobility which were stamped upon his fine, open face, and that alone of which she was conscious.

And almost the first object that young Faxon’s great, dark eyes rested upon as he made his way from the car was the fair, upturned face of the beautiful girl with the eager light of hero-worship in her own blue eyes, the quivering of intense emotion hovering about her red lips.

She made her way close to his side, regardless of the crowd that was gathering to get a look at him, and held out a dainty white hand upon which sparkled rare and costly gems.

“I want to thank you,” she began, with almost breathless eagerness. “You have saved my life—you have saved all our lives, and it is such a wonderful, such a grand thing to have done! I am very grateful to you, for my life is very, very bright. I love to live. Oh, I cannot say half there is in my heart, but I shall never forget you. I shall love you for your heroism of this day always. Here, please take this to remind you that I mean every word I have said. It seems small and mean, in view of what you have done, but when you look at it I want you to remember that there is one grateful heart in the world that will never forget you.”

While she was speaking she had slipped from her finger the exquisitely carved cameo ring which Philip Wentworth had begged her to give him only a few hours previous, and, as she ceased, with tears in her eyes, she thrust it into the brown hand of the youth, and, before he could protest against accepting it, she had glided away, and was lost among the crowd.

The next moment the throng parted, and a gentleman stood before him, claiming his attention.

In a few words of grateful acknowledgment he presented him with what he termed “a slight testimonial” of the appreciation of the passengers for his act of heroism that afternoon, and wished him all success in the future.

The testimonial was in the form of a good-sized wallet, well filled with greenbacks and coins of various denominations. Then he took the boy by the arm, led him down the platform to a carriage, and, putting a five-dollar bill into the coachman’s hand, bade him take him to his home, wherever that might be.

Young Faxon, with tears of emotion in his eyes, sprang into the vehicle, glad to escape from the curious crowd, and was driven away amid the cheers of the grateful passengers of the “limited express,” which, a moment later, was again thundering on its way toward its destination.

The storm was over. The clouds were breaking up and dispersing, revealing patches of cerulean sky between the rifts, while, in the west, brilliant rays from the declining sun streamed in upon the hero of the day through the carriage window as he was driven out of the city toward the home of Squire Talford.

Glancing through the opposite glass he saw a radiant rainbow spanning the eastern sky, its vivid colors reflected in a second and almost as perfect as an arch. His young heart was strangely thrilled by the sight.

Was it a bow of promise to him he asked himself. Did it portend a future that would be brighter than the last four years had been, of release from a hard and cruel task-master, of a broader outlook and the opportunity to indulge the aspirations of a heart that had long been hungering for education, culture, and intellectual advancement?

Yes, he was almost sure of it, for, clasped close in his brown hands, he held the fat wallet which would at least be the stepping-stone toward the achievement of the one great desire of his heart—a college course at Harvard; and his eyes grew bright, the color came back to his cheeks and lips, and his spirits were lighter than they had been for many a long month. Then his eyes fell upon the beautiful cameo, which had been presented to him by “the prettiest girl he had ever seen,” and which he had mechanically slipped upon his little finger. But he laughed outright, as the incongruity between the costly and exquisite jewel and the hard, brown hand it graced, and the mean apparel in which he was clad, flashed upon him.

“I wish I knew her name,” he mused, as he studied the beautiful design. “What lovely eyes she had! What wonderful hair—bright as the gold of this ring. I shall always keep it. It shall be my talisman, my mascot, and sometime, when I have won a worthy position for myself in the world, I will try to find her and tell her what encouragement, what a spur both her words and gift were to me. I shall never forget what she said. Ah! if I might hope to win, by and by, the love of some one as beautiful as she! But, of course, she did not mean anything like that,” he concluded, with a sigh and deprecatory shrug of his shoulders.

When the carriage drove to the door of Squire Talford’s stately mansion, and the proud owner, who was sitting upon the veranda, saw his “bound boy” alight from it, his brow contracted with displeasure, and an angry gleam burned in his cold gray eyes.

“Well, sir, where have you been, and how does it happen that you return in such style?” he demanded, in sharp, curt tones.

Clifford Faxon colored a vivid crimson, more at the sarcastic tone than at the peremptory words. But in a respectful manner he related what had occurred, although he made as light as possible of his own agency in the matter, except in so far as it was necessary to explain that, after his unusual exertions in the hay-field and his almost herculean efforts to remove the fallen tree from the track before the arrival of the express, he was so prostrated that he had to be taken aboard the train and carried to New Haven, when some of the passengers had insisted upon sending him home in the carriage.

“Humph!” ejaculated the squire, as he concluded, and eying him sharply from beneath his heavy brows, “and was that the extent of their gratitude?”

“No, sir,” replied the youth, flushing again and glancing at the wallet in his hand. “They made up a purse for me.”

“Ah-a! how much?” questioned the man eagerly.

“I do not know, sir. I have not counted it yet.”

“Give it to me. I’ll count it, and take care of it for you,” said the squire peremptorily.

“Excuse me, sir, but I prefer to take care of it myself,” said the youth respectfully but firmly.

“What! do you defy me?” roared his companion. “Give me that money instantly! Do you forget that you are bound to me; that I am your master?”

The boy’s eyes flashed, and he was silent for a moment. Then, meeting the glance of the infuriated man with a look that never quailed, he replied quietly, but with a reserve force that made itself felt:

“No, sir; I do not forget that I am bound to you for just one month longer. Until September 1st I shall acknowledge and serve you as my ‘master.’ At the expiration of that time my bondage will cease, and I shall be free!”

“You impudent whelp!” exclaimed Squire Talford, in a towering passion, as he sprang to his feet and descended the steps of the driveway, where the youth was standing. “Give me that money this instant, or I will thrash you within an inch of your life; do you hear?”

“Take care, sir!” Clifford returned with an emphasis that caused the man to pause involuntarily, while his dark eyes flashed with a dangerous light.

He stepped back a pace or two and folded his arms tight across his chest, as if to restrain the surging passion within him, which he feared might get the better of him.

“Take care, sir!” he repeated, “you have ‘thrashed me within an inch of my life’ for the last time, and I mean what I say, Squire Talford. I have been your bond-slave for four long, weary years; ever since my mother who, when she was dying and thought she was making a wise provision for me, signed a paper which made you my ‘master’ until I should be seventeen years of age, which, thank God, will be just one month from to-day. I do not need to rehearse to you what that bondage has been. You know as well as I do that my lot has been that of a serf, that I have been made to do the work of a man; yes, and in some instances, like to-day, for example, that of two men, during most of that time. For this I have received my board, lodging, and clothes—such as they are,” he interposed, his scornful glance sweeping over his coarse garment.

“I have served you faithfully, patiently, and you know it,” he resumed, “not because of any personal regard or respect that I have entertained for you, or of fear of your many unjust ‘thrashings,’ but”—his tone softening and faltering slightly—“because my mother taught me to obey, always, the golden rule, to suffer wrong rather than commit a wrong, and, once having made a contract, to abide by it to the letter. This, sir, is the reason why you see yonder hay-field as it is”—with a gesture indicating the white-capped cocks at which he had labored so hard that afternoon. “Much of that hay would have been soaked by the rain had not duty bidden me to do unto my neighbor as I would be done by, and so I did my utmost to save it. Now, sir, having done my best for you to-day and always, I am in no mood to have you lay so much as your finger upon me in anger.”

The man and the youth stood looking straight into each other’s eyes for one long, silent minute, the man noting the broad, square shoulders, the muscular limbs, and dauntless air of the figure before him. Then he stepped back a pace or two with an impatient shrug.

“Well, have you done?” he questioned, with a sneer, but his face, even to his lips, was white with repressed passion.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then be off and attend to your chores,” was the stern command.

“Pat can do the chores to-night, sir. I think I have done enough for one day,” was the quiet but decided response, and the young man turned coolly away, walked around to a side door, entered the house, and mounted to his room.

Throwing himself into a chair he dropped his head upon his table with a sense of weakness and weariness such as he had seldom experienced. The reaction had come, and he realized that the excitement of the last few hours, especially of the last few moments, had taken more out of him than a week of ordinary work would have done.

“The end is near,” he muttered, “and I hail its coming, for I am afraid that I could not much longer keep my promise to my mother and remain in the service of that tyrant.”

He sat thus for, perhaps, fifteen minutes. Then, lighting a candle, he opened the precious wallet and proceeded to count its contents.

His face took on a look of wonder as he laid out, one by one, the various bills and noted their denomination. He had not counted upon such generosity, even though he had realized that the purse was crowded to its utmost capacity.

“Seven hundred and fifty-four dollars!” he exclaimed in astonishment, as he laid the last coin upon the table. “Surely I must be dreaming! But no, these crisp fives, tens, two twenties, three fifties, besides the gold and silver, tell their own story. But oh! it does seem too good to be true! And now my first act must be to put it where it will be safe. Give it to Squire Talford, indeed! Never! It would be the last I should ever see of it. I will take it to Professor Harding. He will advise me what to do with it.”

After replacing the money in an orderly manner in his wallet, he arose and proceeded to change his clothes, dressing himself with great care.

CHAPTER III.
PRETTY HEIRESS PLEADS FOR CLIFFORD.

Clifford Faxon was really a striking-looking young man when arrayed in his best, which is by no means saying very much for his clothes, which were of the cheapest material.

But with his gentlemanly bearing, his clear, honest brown eyes, and frank, genial face, he was one who always attracted a second look from those whom he met.

One might have taken him for a son and heir of the squire, rather than a menial in his employ, as he issued once more from the house.

“Well, sir, where are you going now?” demanded Squire Talford, who was still sitting upon the veranda, and whose musings regarding his relations with his bound boy had not been of the most soothing nature during the last half-hour.

He well knew that, when Clifford’s time should expire, he would find it no easy matter to fill his place with another so capable and faithful, and he was irritated beyond measure over the probability of having to hire another man and pay full wages for what he had been getting for little or nothing during the last four years.

“I have an engagement with Professor Harding—it is my evening for reading Greek and Latin with him,” Clifford respectfully replied, and then proceeded on his way, apparently unmindful of the customary “humph!” to which his employer always gave vent whenever anything annoyed him.

When Clifford was obliged to leave the academy in April, according to the terms of his contract with Squire Talford, the principal had expressed a great deal of disappointment, for he would have graduated with high honors if he could have remained until the close of the school year, but his hard master would not give him the two months to complete the course. “The farm work must be done and Clifford could not be spared,” he coldly told the professor, who had presumed to intercede for his promising pupil. So the boy had been obliged to go into the field to plow, hoe, and dig, while his more favored classmates went on in advance of him and graduated.

But Professor Harding was determined that the boy’s education should not be interrupted, and told him that he would give him certain evenings in every week during the summer, and, if he could complete the course before fall, he should have his diploma, even though he could not acquire it in the ordinary way.

Clifford gladly availed himself of this opportunity, for his highest ambition was to prepare himself for and obtain a college education.

As he wended his way toward his teacher’s house his heart was beating high with hope, in spite of the weariness of his body, for, since counting the money in his possession, he had conceived the daring purpose of taking the examinations for Harvard for the coming year.

Professor Harding greeted him, as he always did, with a smile of pleasure, for he liked the plucky, manly boy.

“You are late to-night, Cliff,” he remarked, as he entered. Then, observing, that he was a trifle pale, he inquired: “Is anything wrong, my boy?”

Tears sprang involuntarily to the boy’s eyes at the kindly tone and smile; but, quickly repressing all signs of emotion, he seated himself and gave his friend a brief account of what had occurred, and closed by producing the munificent testimonial which he had received from the passengers of the “limited express” for preventing a terrible accident.

“I have brought this money to you, Professor Harding,” he observed, as he laid it upon the table before his friend, “to ask if you will invest it for me until I need it? It is my nest-egg for college, and I am going to take the exams. this fall.”

“Seven hundred and fifty dollars, Cliff!” the man exclaimed, in surprise; “that is surely a handsome gift, but it is far too little for the service you have rendered—that could never be estimated in dollars and cents. Why, the corporation ought to give you a thousand more for saving their property from being wrecked.”

“I am more than satisfied,” said Clifford, with a smile.

“But I am afraid you are a trifle presumptuous to contemplate entering college on so small an amount,” said his friend gravely. “The expenses will be heavy, you know. I feel sure you will pass the exams. all right, but I am thinking of the draft upon your strength later on if you try to work your own way.”

“I am going to try it, all the same,” said Clifford, his face brightening at the assurance of his teacher that he would “pass.”

“This money will surely suffice for one year with economy, and that will give me quite a start, while I am sure I do not need to tell you that I shall make the most of my time.”

“Indeed, you do not—you have always done that, ever since I have known you, but I wish you had some friends who could give you a lift along the way now and then. Have you no aunts or uncles? Do you remember your father, Cliff, or know anything about his family?” the professor thoughtfully inquired.

“No, sir,” said the boy with a sigh, “my mother would never talk about my father. Whenever I questioned her she would always put me off by saying, ‘Wait until you are older, my son, and then I shall have something to tell you.’”

“And did she leave no papers to explain what she meant?”

“No; at least, none that I could ever find.”

“Well, there will be some way provided for you, I am sure,” said the professor. “I will gladly take charge of your little fortune until you need it. I will see that it is safely invested for you to-morrow. Does the squire know about it?”

“Yes, and demanded it of me, because I am still under bonds,” replied Clifford, with a flash in his eyes.

“Demanded it!” repeated his companion, in surprise.

“Yes,” and the young man repeated, word for word, what had passed between himself and his task-master upon his return from New Haven.

“Well, I must say he is a hard man, and I cannot understand how any one as rich as Squire Talford is supposed to be can be so penurious and indifferent to so promising a fellow as you are, my boy!”

“Thank you,” responded Clifford, with a laugh, “I am certainly fortunate in having so kind a friend as you have always been to me, and now”—opening one of his books—“I am ready for my lesson.”

He read for an hour, becoming so absorbed in his work that he forgot his weariness and the trials of his young life, while his teacher followed with a manifest interest, which betrayed how deeply his feelings were enlisted in this pupil, who was so ambitious and such a credit to him.

Before 10 o’clock Clifford was back in his own room, where, on his table, he found an appetizing little lunch awaiting him. Until that moment he had forgotten that he had had no supper.

“Well,” he said, as he sat down to it, “I surely have one other good friend besides the professor. Maria always looks out for me; I am sure I should often go hungry but for her.”

Maria was Squire Talford’s woman-of-all-work. Less than half an hour later he was sleeping soundly and restfully, the consciousness of duty well done and a more promising outlook for the future sweetening his rest.

“Papa—please papa, do as I ask you; you are very rich, are you not?”

“Well, yes, Buttercup, I suppose I am what would be regarded as a rich man, even here in New York.”

“Then you can send this poor boy some money, just as well as not. Only think, papa, but for his bravery and the awful work that he did in that dreadful storm, there must have been a terrible accident, and I should never have come back to you, to say nothing about all those other people.”

“Hush, Goldenrod! I cannot bear that you should even hint at such a calamity; the house—the world would be utterly desolate without you. What would ten thousand fortunes be to me if I should lose you! Yes, Mollie, I will send this lad a substantial token of my gratitude, if I find he is worthy and likely to make a good use of money. I must be sure of that first,” and Richard Heatherford gathered the slim, graceful form of his only darling into his arms and held her close to his heart, while his eyes rested with tearful fondness upon the fair, flushed face that was lifted so earnestly to his.

She was his idol—this sweet, golden-haired, azure-eyed maiden, whom he had named Marie for his French mother, but whom he almost invariably addressed by some other tender pet-name, expressive of his fondness for her, while to her playmates and school friends she was known by the familiar name of Mollie.

She was sweet and lovable, always blithe and cheery, the life of the house, and a favorite with all who knew her.

Mr. Heatherford had met her in New York on her arrival on “the Limited,” and, the train being, of course, a little late, he was in a state of painful suspense until it rolled into the station, and he held his darling safe in his arms. When the two were seated in their elegant carriage behind a fine pair of bay horses, with driver and coachman in cream-white livery, and on their way uptown, Mollie, sitting beside her father with his arm enfolding her, had told the story of the thrilling experience of the afternoon, while the man’s face had grown as white as chalk, as he realized how very near he had come to losing his choicest earthly treasure.

Mollie had begged him then to send that brave boy “a lot of money,” but, for the time being, he did not pay much heed to her request. He could think of nothing, talk of nothing, but his thankfulness over her wonderful escape from an appalling doom. But the following morning, when, after breakfast, she followed him to the library and renewed the subject, he was more ready to listen to her, and finally yielded to her request to do something handsome for the lad, provided he found, upon inquiry, that he was worthy.

“Oh, he is certainly worthy, papa,” Mollie asserted with enthusiasm, “you never saw a nicer face than his. He isn’t handsome or stylish, like Phil, you know”—with a little mocking laugh—“but he has a pair of great, earnest brown eyes which make you feel good just to look into. His face is as brown as a nut—all but his forehead, which is white and high and nicely shaped like yours, papa dear,” and she emphasized her statement with a fond little caress planted directly between his brows. “He had no hat on,” she resumed; “he was in his shirt sleeves and wore overalls, and his shoes were as coarse and clumsy as they could be; but I never thought of his clothes after once looking into his face—it was so good, so honest, and true.”

“Really, sweetheart, you are very enthusiastic over this rustic hero of yours,” said Mr. Heatherford, and smiling at her earnestness, “but I cannot wonder, now that I begin to realize something of the feat that he accomplished.”

“And papa”—Mollie went on, now blushing and speaking with some embarrassment, “when we reached New Haven I went to him and thanked him for what he had done, and—I gave him that ring you let me buy last spring.”

“What! that cameo?”

“Yes; you know I wanted to give it to Cousin Rex when he went to California, but his mother had just given him a nice ring, and so I bought him something else and kept the cameo. I have always liked it, for it was so beautifully carved; so, even though it isn’t exactly a lady’s ring, I have worn it, now and then, myself. I happened to have it on yesterday.”

Mr. Heatherford laughed aloud with amusement.

“Well, well, Buttercup! So you gave it to this young Faxon—I believe you said that is his name—as a souvenir! Of course, my darling, I do not care anything about the ring, but what on earth will your rustic hero do with it? He certainly will not want to wear it with overalls and brogans, and if he has a particle of sentiment in his composition, he would never think of realizing money on it when it was presented under such romantic circumstances.”

“Well, papa, I’m afraid it wasn’t the most appropriate gift in the world,” said Mollie, a shadow falling over her bright face, “but I just had to do something to show him how grateful I was, personally, and he certainly looked as if he was glad to be appreciated.”

“Never mind, dear,” said her father comfortingly. “I will write to-day and make some inquiries, and if I find he is all right, I will do something handsome for him. Let me see—you said that he told some of the gentlemen aboard the train he wanted to go to college?”

“Yes, he said that he had nearly finished his course in the academy of the town where he lives, and was going to try to work his way through college,” Mollie replied. “Just think of it, papa!” she went on earnestly, “and it doesn’t seem fair, does it? There is Phil, who really doesn’t care particularly about having a college course, only it is the proper thing, and so he is going to Harvard in September, and he has every wish gratified—plenty of money, fine clothes, and lots of good times; and here is this poor boy, without any one but himself to depend upon, and he is going to work his way through! It is a queer world, isn’t it?” she concluded, with a sigh of perplexity.

“There, there; don’t bother your pretty head about it, Goldenrod; it is a problem you will never solve,” said her father, stroking her shining head with a caressing touch; “go and do your reading for mama, while I write my letter and get the matter off my mind.”

“But to whom will you write?” queried Mollie.

“I think I will address my letter to the principal of the academy; he will probably be able to tell me more about this young seeker after knowledge than any one else.”

And the gentleman proceeded to put his plan into immediate execution. He wrote a brief but comprehensive epistle, addressing it to the “Principal of the Academy, Cedar Hill,” telling him that he wished to show his appreciation of young Faxon’s heroic act in some practical way, and asking his advice regarding the best method of doing this.

He gave no name, as he said he preferred to remain incog, and not hamper the lad with any sense of obligation, but that any communication sent to a certain lock box in New York would reach him. He stated that an immediate reply was desired, as he was on the eve of going abroad.

Professor Harding’s face glowed with genuine pleasure when he received the letter the next morning, for now he saw that it would perhaps be practicable for his protégê to enter college. He replied immediately, giving a brief history of Clifford Faxon’s life and circumstances, speaking of him in the highest terms, and claiming that any assistance rendered him in his efforts bestowed, and in behalf of the boy, in whom he was deeply interested, he thanked his unknown correspondent most heartily for his kind intentions.

A day or two later there came to Clifford a cashier’s check for a thousand dollars, made payable to himself, and with it a few sentences of hearty appreciation of his recent act, and also of encouragement for the future.

But the donor and writer was anonymous.

CHAPTER IV.
CLIFFORD FAXON’S VOW.

Clifford regarded himself as the most fortunate fellow in the world when this generous gift was received.

“Was anybody ever so lucky before! I am sure an ax was never so effectively wielded!” he exclaimed, his face radiant with happiness, as he discussed the gift of his unknown benefactor with his teacher. “Now, my education is assured, Professor Harding, and if I don’t win a scholarship, now and then, to help me out, it will not be for lack of energy and industry.”

“Cliff! what an ambitious fellow you are!” said his friend, smiling at his enthusiasm, “but if you set out to win a scholarship I feel pretty sure that you will get it.”

“Thank you. Now, another important point upon which I would like your judgment—do you agree with me in my preference for Harvard?”

“Yes, I think so,” replied the professor. “If I should consult my own pleasure, however, I suppose I should say go to Yale; for then I could see you frequently, and perhaps help you over a hard place now and then; but as I am a Harvard man myself, and it is also your choice, I will be loyal to my alma mater and say go there.”

“Then Harvard it will be,” said Clifford, “and as for the rough places, why, I can write you when I come to them.”

Again Professor Harding smiled, for he knew the boy well enough to feel sure that he would master all difficulties without any assistance from him, for he had seldom known him to seek aid, if, by any means, he could conquer by his own efforts. Thus the college question was settled.

Meantime he was to work out his contract with Squire Talford—until September 1st—when the professor said he must come to him and spend the remainder of the time, before the beginning of the school year, in preparing for his examinations, and he would not “thrash” but coach him “within an inch of his life.”

Our young hero was jubilant over the prospect before him. His daily tasks seemed but play to him; he was up with the lark, and worked with a will until sunset, and, after supper, improved every moment until bedtime conning his books.

“You are a born mathematician,” his teacher remarked to him one evening, after giving him some intricate problems to test his knowledge, “and I have not the slightest fear for you in mathematics; but you are still a trifle behind in Greek and Latin, and so we will devote the most of our time to those branches,” and at this hint of his deficiency Clifford worked along those lines with redoubled diligence.

He had found himself very popular after his heroic deed became known to the public, but he bore his honors with exceeding modesty, and had but little to say about the affair. Glowing accounts of it had been published in both the New Haven and local papers. Professor Harding had been interviewed, and had spoken in the highest terms of commendation of his pupil, while, as Squire Talford and his peculiarities were well known, there appeared more than one strong hint regarding the hard life which the boy had led during the four years of his bondage with him.

According to the conditions of the contract which the squire had made with Mrs. Faxon, Clifford was to receive twenty-five dollars in money and a suit of new clothes on the day when his time expired. The contemplation of this approaching expenditure of money made the wretched miser—for he was nothing else, when it came to putting out his dollars for other people—cross and miserable, and he racked his brain for some excuse by which he could evade his obligation.

He broached the subject to Clifford one evening about a week previous to the expiration of his time.

“I suppose you’re bound to go the first of the month?” he remarked, with evident embarrassment, for he had felt very uncomfortable in the lad’s presence ever since he had so boldly faced him and freely spoken his mind.

“Yes, sir; my time will be up one week from to-night.”

“Couldn’t you be persuaded to sign for a couple of years longer, if I’d agree to do better by you?”

The youth flushed crimson, and a peculiar gleam leaped into his eyes at the proposition; but, instantly putting a strong curb upon himself, he quickly responded:

“I think not, sir; I have made my plans to go to college, and I do not care to change them.”

“What good will a college education do you?” the man demanded, with an ill-concealed sneer; “you won’t have a penny when you get through, and, if you’re aspiring to a profession, there’ll have to be another four years’ course atop of that.”

“I am not looking beyond the college course just now, sir; when I have accomplished that I feel sure that the way will be opened for me to choose and fit myself for my future.”

“Humph! perhaps you imagine you’re going to have windfalls all along the route,” was the sarcastic rejoinder, “but, if you do, let me tell you, you will find yourself mightily mistaken.”

Clifford made no response to this thrust, and after an interval of silence the squire abruptly resumed:

“How about that twenty-five dollars that I was to pay you when your time was up and the new suit?”

“Why,” said Clifford, lifting a look of astonishment to the man’s face, “of course, I expect that the conditions of the contract will be fulfilled.”

“Oh, you do! Why, money has been pouring in upon you so fast of late you can afford to buy your own clothes,” said the squire, with an uneasy hitch in his chair and a frown of displeasure.

Clifford’s face flamed an indignant red, and it seemed to him as if he must give vent to the scorn which sent the hot blood tingling through every nerve in his body.

“Squire Talford,” he said, after a moment spent in trying to control himself, “I have no wish to say anything to you that I shall ever regret, but, truly, I should suppose that your self-respect would prevent you from suggesting anything so penurious and dishonest, after the four years of faithful service that I have given you, especially when you take into consideration the fact that I have never been decently clad during all that time, nor had a dollar of spending-money, except what I have myself earned by picking berries in their season, and doing odd jobs for other people after my regular work was done. No, sir, I shall not purchase my own suit. I feel that I am justly entitled to all that the contract calls for, and I shall demand its fulfilment.”

“Oh, you will, will you!” was the rasping retort, while the man was white with rage.

“Certainly, and it is little enough—far too meager for one of my age to have to start out in life with. But I suppose my poor mother was too ill to realize what scant provisions she was making for me, though I presume she trusted to your humanity and honesty to at least provide suitably for me during the four years I was to live with you.”

“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed his companion viciously, and with peculiar emphasis. “Your poor mother, perhaps, realized more than you seem to imagine she did; she was glad enough to get you housed in a respectable home, without being too particular about the conditions.”

Clifford sprang erect, stung to the soul by the insinuating tone and words of his companion.

“What do you mean, sir?” he demanded, in a voice that shook with suppressed anger. “What is it that you mean to imply in connection with my mother, who was one of the purest and loveliest of women?”

“Oh, nothing—nothing!” retired the squire, with a sinister smile, “only it is pretty evident that she never told you much about her early life, while—ahem!—if I’m not mistaken, you never saw your father, did you?”

“No,” and now Clifford was deathly white and his eyes wore a hunted look, as a terrible suspicion flashed into his mind. “Oh, what do you mean?”

“Well, perhaps it will be just as well for your peace of mind, my aspiring young man, if you don’t get too inquisitive,” the man retorted maliciously. “I can tell you this much, however: Your mother, Belle Abbott, as she was known in her younger days, was one of the handsomest girls I ever saw; but she was a—coquette; she had more beaux than you could shake a stick at, and she got her pay for it in the end.”

“Did you know my mother when she was a girl?” queried Clifford, with a look of astonishment.

“I should say I did,” was the grim response.

“And—my father also?” said the youth eagerly.

“Ahem! I had that honor,” sneered the squire. “But about that suit of clothes,” he added, rising and abruptly changing the subject. “If you insist upon it, why, I suppose I shall have to get them. I’ll step in to see Black, the tailor, to-morrow morning and talk the matter over with him.”

But Clifford had been too highly wrought up to care much about clothes or anything else in connection with his contract. His curiosity had been excited to the highest pitch, and he was determined to learn something about the father whom he had never known—about whom his mother would never talk—if it was possible—to wring any information from his companion, who, he realized, was determined to torment him to the last point of endurance.

“Who was my father? Tell me what you know about him!” he exclaimed, also springing to his feet and placing himself in the squire’s path.

The man regarded him silently for a moment, an evil expression in his cold, gray eyes; then a smile that made Clifford shiver relaxed his thin, cruel lips.

“Who was your father?” he repeated, with cold deliberativeness; “he was a treacherous rascal, if there ever was one, and it is no credit to you that he was your father; and if you were ten years older I should say that he had come back to haunt me! Tell you about him!” he continued, in a terrible tone. “I’ll tell you this much—I hated him; I still hate him as few people have the power to hate, and if you are wise you will never mention him in my presence again, for I might forget myself and wreck my vengeance upon you.”

He turned abruptly as he concluded and entered the house, without giving Clifford time to protest or ask another question. The boy, left alone, sank back into his chair, cold chills creeping over him, his heart burdened with tantalizing fears and suspicions. The squire had called his father a “treacherous rascal.”

In what, he wondered, had he been treacherous and dishonorable? Why was it no credit to him—his son—that he was his father?

Surely, it seemed to him now, in the light of this interview, as if the squire had been continually wreaking his hatred of his father upon him during the four weary years that he had lived with him. But what had caused this hatred? What did it mean?

What was the reason that his mother had always been so reticent upon the subject. She would never talk with him about his father or her early life, and always appeared so distressed and excited whenever he questioned her that he was forced to desist.

Once, however, she had told him, and only a short time before she died, that if she should be taken from him before he was eighteen years of age, he might open a certain box, which she had always kept locked, and read some letters and papers which he would find in it.

But when that time came—when, after his wild grief over his irreparable loss was somewhat spent, he went to look for these papers, they were gone—the box was empty.

Whether she had shrunk from having him see them and learn of some great sorrow—perhaps shame—that had evidently preyed upon her mind for years, and had destroyed them, or whether they had been stolen from her, he could have no means of knowing.

Evidently Squire Talford was, in a measure, posted upon certain facts connected with the early life of both his father and mother, and it was just as evident that he intended to keep him in the dark regarding them; whether because they were of any real importance, or because he simply wished to torment him because of his avowed hatred, he could not tell.

What rankled most bitterly in his heart was the man’s taunt that it would be better for his peace of mind if he was not too inquisitive.

Clifford was extremely proud and sensitive, and it galled him almost beyond endurance to have it insinuated that there might be some stigma resting upon his birth and upon his dear mother’s honor.

But no; he did not believe that could be possible, and he resented the suspicion as soon as it took form in his thought, for he felt sure that his pure, gentle, and refined mother had never knowingly done wrong. If she had been deceived, the sin was not hers, but another’s.

He sat in his room that night for a long time meditating upon these things, but growing more wretched and perplexed the more he considered them.

“Well, I can help nothing,” he said, at last, throwing back his head with an air of conscious rectitude; “I am what I am; I can gather nothing definite from Squire Talford’s miserable insinuations. I may not even be entitled to the name I bear, but I know that I will make it one that a son of mine—if I should ever have one—will be proud to own.”

And with that worthy determination he resolutely drove the subject from his thoughts by burying himself in his books, and when he finally retired to rest he fell into as sound and refreshing slumber as if he had not a care in the world.

CHAPTER V.
A DARING TRICK.

The morning following the interview between Squire Talford and Clifford, the former repaired to the establishment of the tailor, where he was accustomed to have his clothing made, to have a talk with the man regarding the “freedom suit” which the contract demanded for his “bound boy.”

He inquired Mr. Black’s price for making; then he asked to see the goods, with the intention of selecting the very cheapest he had in stock.

But Mr. Black informed him that he had worked up everything so close he really hadn’t anything on hand suitable for a young man like Clifford, but he was expecting a fresh invoice that very afternoon, and would send him samples as soon as they came.

“Very well,” said the squire; “and as I have to have a new suit for myself this fall, send along something that will do for me also, and I will give you both orders at once.”

Mr. Black promised he would do as requested, and then the squire went about other business; and about half an hour before tea-time that afternoon a boy appeared at Squire Talford’s door, with the promised samples.

His ring was answered by the maid of all work, or perhaps the housekeeper would be the more proper term, for Maria Kimberly had been a member of the squire’s household for upward of fifteen years. She was a widow, and her maiden name was Barnes. She had come there a girl in her teens, about two years after the marriage of the squire, and for six months had been under the training of his wife. Then she had married and gone away to a home of her own; but, being left a widow before she had been a wife a year, she had returned to the service of Mrs. Talford, whom she loved and served most faithfully as long as she lived, and, being competent in every respect, had acted as housekeeper for the squire ever since her death, which had occurred about five years previous.

She was a shrewd, practical, commonplace person, but possessing quick sympathies and a kind heart, and from the day that Clifford had come into the house she had befriended the bright, but lonely, boy, growing more and more fond of him as the years went by, and she had slyly shown him many a favor and made many a rough place smooth for him.

Now, when she saw the tailor’s boy at the door with the package in his hands, she instantly surmised the nature of his errand, for she had overheard some of the conversation regarding the “freedom suit.”

Always feeling herself a privileged person in the house, and being especially interested in this matter, she calmly unfolded the parcel and proceeded to examine its contents.

“H’m,” she breathed, after adjusting her glasses and testing the quality of the various samples, “some of ’em are fair to middlin’, and some of ’em you could shoot peas through; of course, he will buy the cheapest suit for him; he won’t give the boy a decent suit if he can help it. I’ve half a mind to show ’em to Cliff and see what’d be his choice.”

She stood a moment considering the matter, then she deliberately slipped the package into her pocket and returned to the kitchen, where she had been busy getting supper when the bell had interrupted her operations.

A few minutes later Clifford came in from the shed, bringing a huge armful of wood, which he packed neatly in the wood-box behind the stove, taking care to make no litter to offend Mrs. Kimberly’s keen eyes, for the woman was neatness personified, and would not tolerate the slightest disorder in her immaculate domains.

“My, how good those biscuits smell!” the youth observed appreciatively, as Maria opened the oven door to take a look at the snowy puffs inside.

“Wait till you get a nibble at ’em,” said the woman, with a satisfied nod of her head; “and I’ve got a turnover for you, too. I had some apple and a little dough left over when I was makin’ the pies this mornin’,” she added, lifting a kindly look to his face.

“Then you should call it a leftover instead of a turnover,” said Clifford, laughing. “You are always doing something nice for me, Maria. I’m afraid you have spoiled me with your dainties, and I shall miss them when I go to Cambridge, and have to be satisfied with what I can get in some third-rate boarding-house.”

“There ain’t no fear that anybody’ll ever spoil you,” returned Maria, with significant emphasis; “but I own I am consarned about your digestion bein’ spoiled by the poor cookin’ in them dreadful boardin’-houses. But come here,” she continued, drawing him to a window and taking something from her pocket with a mysterious air, “if you were goin’ to have a new suit which o’ these pieces of cloth would you choose?”

“Ah! some samples!” exclaimed the boy, an eager look on his face. “Did the squire tell you to show them to me?”

“Never you mind what the squire told me to do, I just want to see what kind o’ judgment you will show in your selection,” Mrs. Kimberly responded, with a knowing air.

Clifford examined the various slips in silence for several moments, and finally separated two from the others.

“This is a pretty style of goods,” he remarked, holding up one of them, “but rather light, perhaps, for fall and to be serviceable; the other mixed goods I like almost as well.”

“Yes, and it’s a better cloth, too—the best in the lot,” interposed his companion; “it’s close and firm, and would do you good service.”

“Well, then, if I am allowed to choose, I’ll take it,” said Clifford; “and, yes, on the whole, I believe I shall like it better than the other.”

“All right,” observed Maria, hastily gathering up the samples and returning them to their wrapper as she caught the sound of a latch-key in the front door. She slipped them back into her pocket.

Later, when she was serving the squire at his solitary meal, she laid the package from the tailor before him, curtly remarking:

“Here’s somethin’ a boy brought for you this afternoon.”

The squire removed the wrapper and examined its contents. Finally separating two of the samples from the others, he laid them beside his plate, and tossed the remainder into a waste-basket that stood under a desk behind him, and the sharp eyes of Maria Kimberly observed that one of the selected samples was the very piece which Clifford had chosen, while the other was the coarsest, ugliest goods among the lot.

“Goin’ to have a new suit, squire?” she briefly inquired, with a curious gleam in her eyes.

“Yes, I need a new fall suit, and Cliff has got to have one, too; how will this do for him?” and the man passed the shoddy up to her.

“Humph! you might shoot peas through it,” she said, with a scornful sniff, and using the same expression as when she had examined the cloths by herself.

“Not as bad as that, I reckon; but it will have to do for him,” said the man coldly. “This is better goods, and I think I’ll have my suit made from it. What do you think of it?” and he held it out to her.

There was a bright spot of red on the woman’s cheeks and a resentful gleam in her eyes as she took it.

“This is something like, but t’other ain’t worth the thread ’twould take to make it up,” she said, with considerable asperity.

“It will have to do,” was the curt response, and the man resumed his interrupted supper, while the housekeeper vanished into the kitchen.

She threw herself into a rocker and began swaying herself back and forth with more energy than grace, muttering now and then, and nodding her head angrily in the direction of the dining-room door. She continued this until the squire rang his bell to signify that he had finished his meal, when she returned to the other room and began to gather up the dishes.

Suddenly she paused, as her glance fell upon the two samples, that still lay beside the squire’s plate, he having forgotten to take them when he arose from the table.

“It’s a pesky shame!” she muttered indignantly. “He hain’t a soul in the world but himself to spend his money on, and he’s got a tarnel sight more’n he knows what to do with. I sh’d think he’d be ashamed to give the boy a suit like that.”

She picked up the samples and fingered them nervously. Then she noticed that a tag bearing a printed number was pinned to each. These numbers corresponded to those on the list that had been sent with the samples, and against each of which the price of the goods was carried out, but this list the squire had tossed into the waste-basket with the discarded samples.

“’Twould serve him right,” the woman thoughtfully muttered, with a vicious gleam in her eyes and a backward glance over her shoulder toward the veranda, where she knew the squire was sitting absorbed in his evening paper. The next minute she had changed the tags on the goods!

“Mebbe ’twon’t amount to anythiny, but I’ll resk it, and if I git caught I’ll pay for it out o’ my own pocket,” she whispered; “that boy desarves the best that can be had, and I only hope that fortune’ll favor the trick.”

Then she laid the samples on the squire’s desk, where she thought he could not fail to see them when he sat down to it, after which she went back to her work, a curious smile wreathing her thin lips.

An hour later Squire Talford lighted the student-lamp and turned to the table for his samples, for he was about to write his order to the tailor.

Of course, he did not find them, and, going to the door leading into the kitchen, he inquired:

“Maria, where are those pieces of cloth I left on the table at supper-time?”

The woman was paring apples for the morrow’s baking.

“I put ’em on your desk,” she replied, in a matter-of-fact tone, but with her mouth full of apple and a very red face, too, if he could but have seen it.

“Oh!” said the squire, with an inflection which intimated that he might have known where they were if he had stopped to think. He found them, and, seating himself at his desk, he wrote his order to the tailor.

The following is an exact copy of his letter when it was finished:

“Cedar Hill, August 24, 18—.

“Abel Black, Esq.

“Dear Sir: Samples received and examined. You can make a suit for me from goods numbered 324. Use 416 for a suit for Clifford Faxon—will send him to be measured to-morrow afternoon. Make his first and at once, as he must have it by September 1. My measurements you already have.

“Respectfully yours,

“John C. Talford.”

After taking an impression of the above, as he did of every letter he wrote, he sealed, addressed, and stamped it; then went out into the balmy summer night for his habitual stroll and smoke before going to bed.

A few minutes later Maria Kimberly, whose ears had been on the alert, stole softly into the dining-room and approached the writing-desk.

Her eyes gleamed with an exultant light as she saw the letter addressed to the tailor and the pieces of cloth shoved one side as of no further use.

“Cliff, my boy, fortune favors you for once, and no mistake,” she said. “If he’d sent them pieces o’ cloth along with his letter Mr. Black would ’a’ found out that they’d been meddled with, and you’d had to wear that measly old shoddy. I’ll jest die a-laughin’, though, when the squire’s suit comes home, but it’ll serve him right,” she concluded, with a chuckle of malicious glee.

Then with dexterous fingers she changed the tags on the samples back to their original places, after which she put them carefully away in a drawer of the desk, in case they should ever be wanted again, as she felt sure they would.

The following afternoon Clifford was sent to the tailor to be measured for his suit, and as he was a favorite with Mr. Black—as, indeed, he was with every one who knew him—that gentleman took great pains to have every measurement exact, and secretly resolved that the boy should have a suit of clothes that would do him credit, even among the stylish collegians at Harvard.

He was told that they would be ready for him the following Saturday evening.

Friday night ended Clifford’s four years’ servitude with Squire Talford, and, after packing his few belongings, he had an interview with the man, received the stipulated twenty-five dollars, and took a respectful leave of him.

His heart was light. He suddenly felt like a different being as he put the money away in his pocket and realized that he was—free!

The only regret he experienced was in the thought of leaving Maria, and the woman broke down and cried heartily when he stepped into the kitchen to say “good-by” to her.

“Oh, Cliff!” she sobbed, as she grasped both his hands, “you’re the only being I’ve really loved since Sam and Mrs. Talford died. I can’t bear to have you go, for your bright face and cheery ways have helped me through many a lonely day. But I’m glad for you—I’m downright glad, for I know you’re goin’ among your equals, and that you’ll get to be a man to be proud of. But I shall miss you—I’ll miss you more’n you’ll ever know,” and the tears streamed like rain over her flushed cheeks.

“Why, Maria!” exclaimed the boy, astonished and also deeply touched to see her so overcome, “I had no idea you would care so much about my going. I shall miss you, too, and your many kindnesses, to say nothing about your fine doughnuts, fluffy biscuit, glorious pies, and the ‘leftover,’” he added, with a cheery laugh. “But I’m not going to forget you by any means. I shall always come to see you when I have a vacation.”

“Will you now—sure?” the woman exclaimed eagerly and in a grateful tone.

“I certainly will, and”—with a roguish twinkle in his handsome eyes—“when I get through college, if I am ever fortunate enough to have a home of my own and you are at liberty, I will give you an invitation to come and preside over my culinary department.”

“Do you mean it, honor bright, Cliff?” demanded Maria, straightening herself and looking him wistfully in the face.

“Of course I mean it, and would consider myself mighty lucky to get you,” he earnestly returned.

“Then shake on it,” said the woman, holding out one hard, red hand, while with the other she wiped away her tears, “and there ain’t the least shadow of a doubt but I’ll be at liberty when you want me.”

Clifford gave her a cordial grip; then, with a last good-by, he went away to Professor Harding’s home, where he was to remain until college opened; but he left a gleam of sunshine behind him that warmed and cheered Maria Kimberly’s lonely heart for years.

CHAPTER VI.
CLIFFORD GOES TO COLLEGE.

Upon his arrival at Professor Harding’s home Clifford received a most cordial welcome, and was at once made to feel that he was one of the family, and the atmosphere of peace and refinement of which he had always been conscious in connection with this household was most congenial to him.

The next day was spent in discussing plans for the future, laying out the work he was to do before the school year opened, and also in making himself useful to Mrs. Harding in a way that won him an even warmer place than he had yet occupied in her heart.

Saturday evening the much anticipated new suit was sent to him, and was duly admired by the whole family.

“Really, Cliff, the squire for once has done the handsome thing,” remarked the professor, as he critically examined the suit. “This is a fine piece of cloth, and everything is first-class.”

“Yes, sir, and I am very much pleased,” Clifford heartily responded, little dreaming to what strategy he owed his fine feathers.

The next morning he dressed himself with great care for church, feeling an unusual pride in his linen, and a thrill of gratitude as well, for Maria had made him some fine shirts and polished them to the last degree with her own hands.

When he came forth from his room he looked every inch the gentleman, and many an eye rested admiringly upon him as he walked down the aisle with the professor’s family and took his seat in their pew.

Squire Talford, not being a church-going man, was not there to observe the change which new linen and fashionably cut garments had made in his bound boy, and he did not once dream of the practical joke that had been played upon him until the following Tuesday, when his own suit came home.

Accompanying it was a note from the tailor, which read thus:

“Dear Sir: I fear you have made a mistake in the selection of cloth for your suit. I cannot quite understand it, as heretofore you have ordered fine goods; but as your instructions were explicit I have done the best I could and hope you will be satisfied.

“Respectfully yours,

“Abel Black.”

The squire looked perplexed as he read the letter, which, with the bill, had been enclosed in an envelope and slipped under the string which bound the box that contained the suit.

He, however, proceeded to inspect its contents, and the moment his glance fell upon the coarse, rough cloth and he comprehended the situation a furious exclamation burst from him. He snatched the garments from the box and threw them angrily upon a chair.

“The fool!” he snarled, “he has made the biggest blunder of his life—he has made up for me the cloth I ordered for that boy, and, I suppose, has given him a suit of that fine piece of goods. Blast the man! but he shall pay dearly for it. He will never do another stitch of work for me. The idea, to pretend to think that I would wear cloth like this! He must have known better. And yet,” referring to the letter, “he says he is afraid that ‘I made a mistake in my selections, but that my directions were explicit.’ Oh, no, Abel, my friend, you can’t shove the blame off upon me in any such way; I always keep a copy of my letters, and I’ll soon prove to you that this is none of my doing.”

He went to his letter-press, drew forth his book, and turned back to the date on which he had ordered the two suits. After reading it through he began to hunt about his desk for something. Failing to find what he wanted he called out impatiently:

“Maria, Maria Kimberly, where are you? Come here. I want you.”

Presently the door leading into the kitchen was opened and the woman put her head inside the room, curtly inquiring in tones which she always assumed when the squire was out of sorts:

“What’s wanted, squire?”

Then her glance fell upon the new suit lying in a heap on a chair, whereupon her face suddenly took on a more ruddy hue and her eyes began to twinkle appreciatively.

“Did you throw away those samples of cloth that I showed you a week or more ago?” the man demanded.

“I never throw away anything o’ yourn, squire. I leave that for you to do,” said Mrs. Kimberly, somewhat loftily.

“Then where are they?” he asked impatiently.

“Oh, I reckon you’ll find ’em in one o’ the drawers or pigeonholes,” said Maria, coming forward and taking another comprehensive squint at the suit as she did so, the squire meanwhile pulling out and inspecting various drawers with considerable show of irritation.

“What’s that?” Maria inquired, after a moment, and pointing into a drawer where some dark, frayed edges were protruding from beneath a couple of letters.

“Humph!” grunted the squire, as he drew forth the missing samples, and Maria smiled complacently.

Then, adjusting his glasses the man compared the numbers on the tags with those in the copy of the letter which he had written to the tailor, and in which he had given the order for the two suits of clothes. His face was a study as he began to realize that Abel Black was in no way responsible for the “blunder,” for there, in black and white, sure enough, his “instructions were explicit.”

“Thunder and lightning! I don’t understand it. I never did such a thing before in my life!” he muttered, with a very red face, as he was forced to admit to himself that he had blundered in writing the numbers.

“Your new suit’s come, hain’t it, squire? Is there anything wrong about it?” calmly inquired Maria, with the most innocent air imaginable.

“Wrong!” shouted the infuriated man, “I should say there was. I got these numbers misplaced someway in giving my order, and that dunce of a tailor, instead of coming to find out whether I made a mistake or not, has made up for me the cloth I meant Cliff should have, and vice versa.”

“Good land! you don’t say so!” exclaimed Mrs. Kimberly, with every appearance of being greatly astonished. “Sure enough, this is the cloth”—bending to examine it and to hide the convulsive twitching of her mouth—“that I said you could shoot peas through.”

“Just so,” said the squire, bestowing a withering look upon the offensive garments.

“And Cliff’s suit was made off the other goods?” inquired Maria, trying hard not to betray eager interest she experienced in the matter.

“Of course—yes,” seizing the bill and tearing it open. “Here it is charged to me—forty-five dollars! and I suppose that young upstart is strutting around and feeling as fine as a turkeycock in a suit that cost three times what I mean it should.”

A spasmodic, but quickly repressed snort escaped Mrs. Kimberly at this passionate outburst.

“Ahem!” she supplemented, “’tis kind of a tough joke on you, ain’t it, squire?”

The man turned on her with a fierce imprecation.

“Maria Kimberly,” he thundered, “if you ever give it away I’ll make you sorry till your dying day. I should be the laughing-stock of the whole town if it became known.”

“Sure enough, so you would! But mum’s the word, if you say so, squire,” Maria asserted, with another hysterical catch of her breath. Then, with an effort at composure, she inquired: “Does it—the suit—fit you?”

“Fit! Do you suppose I’d put it on—that mass of shoddy?” snapped the man, with angry derision.

“Oh, then, you don’t intend to wear it?” observed Maria, with well-assumed surprise.

“Of course not.”

“But it’ll be almost like throwing away a lot of good money,” said the woman, who rather enjoyed piling on the agony.

The squire groaned, not so much for the loss of the sum which the shoddy suit represented, but because his supposed blunder had resulted in such good fortune for Clifford.

“Perhaps,” Maria remarked, after a moment of reflection, “you can sell it to Tom, the milk-driver; he’s about your build, and I heard him say a while ago that he was goin’ to get him some new clo’s before long.”

This proved to be a happy suggestion, and appealed at once to the discomfited man. Suffice it to say that he made a bargain with the milk-driver later, and so managed to get rid of the obnoxious garments; but for years he was sore over the matter, and could never bear the slightest reference to the subject. To the tailor he simply said that he was disappointed in the suit and ordered another made.

When Maria Kimberly left his presence after the above interview she repaired at once to the kitchen garden, ostensibly to pick “a mess of shell beans” for the morrow’s dinner; but could any one have seen her crouching among the tall bean-poles, and laughing until the tears rained over her face, and she was utterly exhausted with her mirth, he would have thought that Squire Talford’s usually sedate housekeeper had taken leave of her senses.

The days slipped very quickly by to Clifford, who was bending all his energies toward preparing for the ordeal before him.

Professor Harding accompanied him to Cambridge a day or two before the date set for his examinations, to show him about a little, get him settled, and introduce him to some of his old acquaintances, and to give him more confidence.

The young man acquitted himself most creditably, and won honors in mathematics, Greek and Latin, and his teacher felt justly proud of him, and well repaid for his own efforts in his behalf.

After seeing him located in a moderate-priced and homelike boarding-place, with a good woman whom he had known during his own college days, the professor wished him good luck and Godspeed and returned to his own duties in Connecticut.

Clifford set to work in good earnest—every moment of every hour was improved to the utmost, and, to his surprise, he did not find his duties nearly so arduous as he had anticipated.

He had always been very systematic in whatever he had to do, and, possessing a rare power of concentration, he was enabled to commit his lessons with comparative ease.

Thus he found that he would have considerable leisure time, and this he resolved to turn to account to increase his limited resources, and so began to look about for employment. But what to do was the question.

This was answered for him within a week or two by overhearing some of the juniors and seniors complaining of their blurred and unsightly windows, and asserting that they could find no one to do satisfactory cleaning for them.

Acting upon the impulse of the moment, Clifford stepped up to them, and remarked in a straightforward, manly way:

“Gentlemen, I am looking for work to help me through my course—let me try my hand upon your windows.”

They stared at him with a supercilious air for a moment, but as he met their glances with a front as unflinching as their own, and without manifesting the slightest embarrassment on account of his request, one of the number observed:

“Say, let’s try him, boys, the janitors are so rushed they’re no good, and we don’t want any woman prowling about,” and forthwith Clifford had half a dozen orders, and set that very afternoon to begin operations.

From that time he had all he could do at ten and fifteen cents per window, according to size, and his work proved to be so satisfactory that he was frequently offered a tip besides. But this he scorned to accept in every instance.

“Thanks. I have but one price,” he would invariably observe, and never failed to give the exact change.

Generally he was courteously treated by his patrons, but now and then he would meet a snob whose sole aim appeared to be to make him feel the immeasurable distance between a heavy purse and a light one. But even in these cases he proved himself a match for such customers. He would fill his order to the very best of his ability, but he would never take a second one from the same party.

“Very sorry,” he would say, with the utmost politeness, “but I am too busy. I have all the orders I can fill at present. You had better speak to one of the janitors.”

One day he was passing along a corridor with his pail and brushes, when some one, evidently in a hurry, passed him. The next moment the young man paused, turned back and called out in an overbearing tone:

“Say, here! you window-washer; I want to speak to you—I have some work for you to do.”

Clifford’s face flushed a sudden crimson, then grew as quickly white. He set down his pail, and, turning, found himself face to face with a member of his own class. He bowed politely to him.

“My name is Faxon,” he quietly remarked. “You are Mr. Wentworth, and we are classmates, I believe.”

Philip Wentworth stared coldly at the speaker for a moment, and with an air which plainly indicated that, although they might possibly be in the same class, he regarded himself as composed of very much finer clay than his impecunious brother collegian.

“Oh, ah! really!” he remarked at length. “I simply wanted to tell you that I have some cleaning for you to do.”

“I hope it will be no disappointment to you, Mr. Wentworth, but I can take no more orders at present,” Clifford calmly replied, and, picking up his pail, he moved on, leaving his would-be patron with a disagreeable sense of having been politely sat upon.

“Insolent upstart!” he muttered angrily, and, turning impatiently on his heel, he pursued his way in the opposite direction.

And thus pretty Mollie Heatherford’s would-be lover, who had begged so earnestly for the costly cameo which she had worn on that never-to-be-forgotten day, when she so narrowly escaped a terrible doom, and the hero, to whom she had presented the valuable gem, met for the first time, and as classmates at Harvard.

CHAPTER VII.
CLIFFORD ACQUITS HIMSELF WITH HONOR.

Clifford had been keenly stung by the manner in which Philip Wentworth had saluted him.

“Say—here! you window-washer!” rang continually in his ears, as he went about his work. He felt very sure that the young man knew his name as well as he knew his, for they had met every day in the class-room. However, whether he knew him or not, there was no excuse for his assuming the supercilious manner and tone that he had in addressing him. These feelings continued to rankle in his heart for some time, and then Clifford pulled himself up sharply.

“How foolish I am!” he thought. “The fact that I am poor, and have to wash windows to eke out my small resources will neither make nor mar my life. What I myself am and what use I make of my opportunities will alone count in the race between me and my classmates. At the same time, I am not going to put myself in a way to be browbeaten by any man living. I can find work enough to do for people who are civil, and I have no intention of being tyrannized over by cads.”

And he carried out his determination to the letter, always bearing himself in a gentlemanly manner, and so for the most part winning the respect of those with whom he came in contact.

The weeks sped by, and nothing of special interest occurred during the winter. Clifford moved on in the even tenor of his way, working with a will until spring came, summer opened, and with it the all-important examinations.

They were over at last, and, to his great joy, he passed with honors, and won the—scholarship.

He was a proud and happy fellow, and, on class-day, while he was dressing for the exercises, he brought forth the cameo ring which Mollie Heatherford had given him a little less than a year previous, and viewed it tenderly.

“I do not even know her name,” he murmured regretfully, “but to me she was, and still is, the loveliest girl that I have ever seen, and this beautiful ring will always be a precious talisman to me—something to incite me always to work for the best and highest results. I wonder if I might venture to wear it to-day as a reward for my year’s work?”

He slipped it upon the little finger of his left hand, and held it off to note the effect, a thoughtful look on his fine face.

“It is a lovely thing,” he continued, drawing it toward him again, and studying it attentively for the thousandth time. “The carving is particularly fine. Yes, I will wear it just for to-day.”

A few hours later Clifford was standing beneath a great tree on the campus conversing with one of his classmates. Almost unconsciously he had lifted his left hand, and laid it against the trunk of the tree. It was a firm, strong, shapely hand, and the costly circlet upon the fourth finger stood out conspicuously upon it.

He and his friend were absorbed in discussing some of the numerous events of the week, and were unaware of the presence of any one else, until they were startled by a voice close beside them, exclaiming with marked emphasis:

“By thunder!”

Both young men turned to find Philip Wentworth standing beside them and staring, with a look of blank astonishment and dismay on his face, at the ring upon Clifford’s finger.

“Well, Wentworth, what are you thundering about?” laughingly inquired Clifford’s companion, who was known as Alf Rogers, and was a prime favorite in the institution.

Without appearing to heed his question, Wentworth bent a flashing look upon Clifford.

“Where did you get that ring?” he demanded sharply.

Clifford flushed at his peremptory tone, and his hand involuntarily dropped to his side. But he immediately lifted it again, and held it before him, where all three could plainly see the gem he wore.

“Oh, this cameo?” he observed, his face softening to sudden tenderness, which did not escape his interlocutor, as he gazed upon it.

“Yes,” curtly and emphatically replied Wentworth.

Clifford was tempted to tell him that it was none of his business, but refraining from so discourteous a retort, he quietly returned:

“It was given to me.”

“Who gave it to you?” and Wentworth’s lips twitched nervously as he put the question, while there was a savage gleam of jealous anger in his eyes.

Clifford’s ire began to get the better of him now.

“Pardon me,” he said coldly, “if I tell you that is a matter which cannot concern you in the least.”

“Don’t be so sure, young man; it does concern me, and far more, perhaps, than you have any idea of,” was the excited retort. “I could swear that that is the only ring of its kind in the world, and I should recognize it if I should see it in China.”

“Possibly you may be correct, Mr. Wentworth, ‘that it is the only ring of its kind in existence,’” calmly observed our hero. “I should not be surprised if such were the case, for the carving is peculiarly fine, the subject a rare and difficult one. Nevertheless, it was a gift to me, and is one that I prize very highly.”

“It can’t be possible!” cried Philip hotly, “that ring belongs to a young lady who is now traveling in Europe.”

“You are mistaken, Mr. Wentworth,” said Clifford with quiet emphasis.

“I am not; I swear it, and—I can give you double proof of what I have stated,” Wentworth asserted, glancing at a lady and gentleman who were slowly approaching them.

The former was a very handsome woman of about forty-five years, and there was a strong resemblance between her and Philip Wentworth. She was very elegantly dressed, and her diamonds were of the finest water, and she was accompanied by the professor of Greek, with whom she was conversing in a bright and animated way.

But Clifford did not appear to connect her in any way with the subject of his controversy with Wentworth, or realize that he had referred to her in stating that he could give double proof of what he asserted.

“I imagine that you will find it difficult to verify your declaration,” he observed, with quiet dignity.

“Do you dare me to do so?” demanded Philip aggressively.

“Certainly not; this controversy is of your own seeking, and is of small moment to me, excepting, of course, that it is somewhat annoying. You have, however, aroused my curiosity to a certain extent, and since you claim that you can prove that my ring belongs to another, I should like to know upon what grounds you felt justified in making that statement,” Clifford observed, with a composure which showed that he had no fear regarding the result.

“Mother!” said Philip, stepping forward a pace or two and speaking to the lady who was approaching.

“Ah, Phil!” she returned, with a bright, fond glance, “I was looking for you; you know you promised to take me over the museum, and I have a great desire to see those wonderful glass flowers.”

“Wait a moment, please, mother,” the young man replied, “there is a ring here that I would like you to see,” and, without even the courtesy of an introduction, he pointed at the circlet upon Clifford’s finger.

Although greatly embarrassed by the uncomfortable position in which he so unexpectedly found himself, he politely lifted his hat to the lady and extended his hand so that she might examine the contested jewel.

“Mollie’s ring!” she exclaimed, in a tone of great surprise, while her eyes flew to Clifford’s fine face, with a curious, searching look. “Why! it surely is the ‘magic cameo’ about which we have had so much sport with her!”

“Now, are you satisfied that I knew what I was talking about?” demanded Philip Wentworth in a tone intended only for Clifford’s ear.

He made no reply to the taunt, and there was a moment of awkward silence, when the professor, seeing that there was something amiss, yet not comprehending what it was, although he realized that Wentworth had done a rude thing, observed in a friendly tone:

“It is surely a remarkably fine bit of work, Faxon; but allow me to present you to Mr. Wentworth’s mother, Mrs. Temple, Mr. Faxon; also Mr. Rogers.”

Both gentlemen lifted their hats, and the lady acknowledged the presentation with gracious courtesy, after which the professor inquired of Mrs. Temple:

“Is there a peculiar or remarkable history connected with Mr. Faxon’s ring, which you appear to recognize?—you spoke of it as ‘the magic cameo.’”

“Oh, no, it is only a little family joke,” the lady laughingly replied; “we have a young friend who owns a cameo so exactly like this that it seems as if it must be the same, and she has always claimed that whenever she wore it something good never failed to happen to her. She became so thoroughly imbued with the idea that we used to laugh at her about her magic cameo. Of course, this cannot be the same, for I am sure that Mollie would never have parted with it under any ordinary circumstances. I am surprised, however, to find it duplicated; I did not suppose there was another like it in existence. I hope, Mr. Faxon, it will prove to be a mascot for you as well as for our little friend,” Mrs. Temple concluded, and smiling brightly up into the manly face above her.

“Mother, this is not a duplicate; this is Mollie’s ring,” Philip here interposed with a frown and note of impatience in his tones.

“Are you not a trifle rash, Phil, in making such an assertion?” his mother questioned with a gentle reproof, a slight cloud of annoyance sweeping over her face.

“I am sure I can prove it,” he returned loftily. Then, addressing Clifford, he inquired: “Have you any knowledge of a secret connected with this ring?”

“A secret!” our hero repeated wonderingly; “no, I do not know of any secret,” and he eyed it curiously, flushing as he did so.

Philip Wentworth’s eyes glowed with malicious triumph.

“Well, I happen to know that there is one,” he declared. “Mother, you shall disclose what peculiarities you know regarding Mollie’s ring.”

“Really, Phil, I am afraid you are making a mistake,” Mrs. Temple remarked, flushing and looking greatly disturbed, “but since you seem determined to press the matter I will say that the secret is this—the stone can be raised and underneath there is a plate on which there is engraved a horseshoe, inclosing the words ‘For luck’ and the initials ‘M. N. H.’”

Clifford’s heart beat with great, heavy throbs as he listened to this. He had never dreamed that his precious ring was going to create such an excitement, and become the object of a romantic episode when he had put it on that morning. He now heartily wished that he had left it locked away in his trunk.

“If your ring is like the one I have described,” Mrs. Temple continued, “you can touch a tiny spring just under the double gold beading of the setting, and the stone will open out on a hinge.”

Clifford carefully examined the setting, found the tiny spring, pressed it, when, lo! the stone slipped from its place, and with a great heart-bound, he distinctly saw the small horseshoe, with the words “For luck” and the initials “M. N. H.” engraved within the circle.

Without a word he extended his hand to Mrs. Temple for her to see. One glance was sufficient to assure her that her son’s assertions were correct. The ring surely was the very same that she had seen in Mollie Heatherford’s possession.

“How very strange!” she murmured. “I had supposed Mollie so superstitious regarding her ‘mascot’ that nothing would ever induce her to part with it.”

The professor also examined it with curious interest, and then glanced wonderingly at the various members of the party.

“Now, have I proved my position?” demanded Philip, turning with ill-concealed exultation to Clifford.

Our hero’s face had grown very pale; but it also wore a very determined expression.

“You have certainly proved that you have seen the ring before, but you have by no means proved that it does not belong to me,” he calmly replied.

“Will you explain how you came by it, then?” demanded Wentworth. “Knowing what we do, and being intimately acquainted with the young lady in whose possession it was, the last time we saw her, we naturally feel that we are entitled to know how you came by it.”

“Pardon me,” returned Clifford, with dignity, “that does not necessarily follow. I have told you that the ring is mine, that it was a gift to me, and I have told you only truth.”

“Was it given to you by a lady?”

“That question I must decline to answer,” Clifford coldly responded. “But this much I will say,” he added, after a moment of thought, “the ring came into my possession one year ago the thirtieth of next month—July.”

“Mother! that was the very day that Mollie went to New York after her visit with us! She wore the ring that day—it was on her finger when I bade her good-by at the station!” Philip Wentworth exclaimed, flushing crimson, as he recalled how he had begged it of Mollie and been refused, while he now realized that there was a possibility that she had given it to this “proud upstart,” but why or wherefore was beyond him to imagine. He was galled almost beyond endurance and stung to the quick, and a fierce hatred of his classmate took possession of him then and there.

“Well, never mind, Phil,” said his mother gravely, “and I think you should let the matter rest. Mr. Faxon has his own reasons, no doubt, for not wishing to say more. Come, I am afraid it is too late, after all, for me to go into the museum to-day,” she added, glancing at her watch. “I think the carriage will be waiting for me, and I have a reception to attend this evening.”

With a gracious smile and bow to her recent companions she took her son’s arm, thus forcing him to escort her to one of the entrances to the college grounds, where she had ordered her coachman to await her.

He did not accompany her with a very good grace, and there was a heavy frown upon his face, which betrayed that he was greatly irritated over his failure to extort Clifford’s secret from him. The professor stood gravely regarding our hero for a moment, as if he also would have been glad to learn more, and was not quite pleased over his reticence; then he excused himself and went away; but both young men could see that the recent occurrence had left an unpleasant impression on his mind.

It certainly had been a very awkward interview, and the evidence was rather against Clifford, for he had been proven ignorant of a most interesting secret connected with the ring which he claimed as his own.

“Well!” he observed, glancing at his friend, “this has been a queer experience.”

“I should say so indeed!” Rogers exclaimed, with an expression of disgust, “but Wentworth is a purse-proud cad anyway, and if his mother and the professor had not been here I should have been tempted to knock him down for his insolence. You held yourself well in hand, Faxon, and I admire you for it.”

CHAPTER VIII.
AN INSOLENT DEMAND.

In spite of the court of inquiry and the mortification to which he had been subjected, Clifford was by no means crushed, in view of his recent encounter with Philip Wentworth, who, he had long been conscious, had been nursing a grudge against him ever since the day of their first meeting. On the whole, when he came to think the matter over by himself, he was secretly pleased with the outcome of it, for he had at least learned the secret of his precious ring and the initials of the fair unknown who had been its donor.—“M. N. H.” He wondered what they stood for.

Mrs. Temple and Wentworth had both familiarly spoken of her as “Mollie,” but he would have given a great deal to have learned her full name; yet he was too proud to ask it, or to acknowledge to them that he was in ignorance of it.

“Mollie!” he found himself repeating over and over, until the homely name rang like sweetest music in his heart.

The ring was a thousand times more precious to him now than it had ever been, with its hidden legend which would hereafter possess as great a significance to him, almost as much as that of the fetish of the African devotee.

The face of the young girl was still as clear and distinct in his mind as the carving of his cameo, and he still thrilled in every pulse of his being whenever he recalled the beautiful azure eyes that had shone with such intense earnestness as she watched for him to come forth from the car at New Haven, the quiver of her red lips and the light of heartfelt gratitude illumining her delicate, clear-cut features.

How his heart leaped as he seemed to hear again the music of her fresh young voice, as she gave utterance to those eager, impulsive words: “Life is very bright to me; I love to live; I shall never forget you; I shall love you for the heroism of this day—always.”

He had said those last words over and over to himself many, many times, until they had awakened in his own heart a love for that peerless girl that would never wane—a love that meant a thousandfold more than she had intended to imply, and which would never be satisfied with less than a full requital from its object.

This mood was on him now stronger than ever as he thought over that never-to-be-forgotten scene. But how dare he dream of such a thing! It surely seemed to him the height of presumption, and he flushed a guilty crimson in view of his audacity.

Then another train of thought was started, and his handsome brown eyes were clouded with pain as he questioned within himself what this sweet, golden-haired, blue-eyed “Mollie” could be to Philip Wentworth, that he should so arbitrarily demand how he had become possessed of the ring that had once been hers.

When he had told him that it did not concern him, he had exclaimed with repressed passion, “It does concern me, and more, perhaps, than you have any idea.”

What did he mean by that? he wondered. Could it be possible that there had been a boy-and-girl love affair between those two, and that Philip Wentworth had become madly jealous upon seeing the ring upon his hand and failing to ascertain how it had come there?

This was not a very pleasing thought to him, but he had at least learned that the fair “Mollie” was at present traveling in Europe, while he also reasoned that there could not have been any very confidential missives exchanged, or the young man would not have been so in the dark regarding the presentation of the cameo, and these facts afforded him some consolation. Then his mind reverted to the beautiful woman whom the professor had introduced as Mrs. Temple, and whom Wentworth had addressed as “mother.”

He felt sure that they were mother and son, in spite of the different names they bore, for there was a strong resemblance between them, although she had deported herself like a gracious and high-bred lady, while he was a veritable snob.

Probably, Clifford reasoned, she had been a widow, and had married a second time a man by the name of Temple, and he wondered if there was a Mr. Temple now living, and what he was like. But these people and things soon slipped from his mind, for, early the next morning, he left Cambridge for the White Mountains, where his ever-thoughtful friend, Professor Harding, had secured for him a position as head porter in a hotel, where he usually spent a portion of his summer with his family. Clifford found his friends already there, and was welcomed most cordially by them.

He found that his duties would be somewhat heavy, although they were not, on the whole, disagreeable, while they would give him a complete rest and change from the close mental application of the last ten months.

It is needless to say that he was most faithful in his new position, for it was his nature to do well whatever he had to do, and, before a fortnight had passed, the proprietor of the house, Mr. Hamilton, confided to Professor Harding that he had never before secured so efficient and gentlemanly a person for the place.

The guests, also, all seemed to appreciate him, for he was always courteous in his bearing, and attentive to their wants. He would never allow any loud talking or rough handling of baggage from the men who worked under him, while he managed to systematize everything connected with his department so that there was no confusion and seldom a mistake.

He had been there a little over a month, when one day, as he was returning from the post-office with the afternoon mail, he met with an adventure.

He rode a large and valuable bay horse that belonged to Mr. Hamilton, who, after he learned that Clifford knew how to handle horses, liked to have him exercise the animal occasionally. The day had been unusually warm, and Clifford was allowing his steed to make his own pace up a steep incline, while he read a letter which he had received from his good friend, Maria Kimberly, who was almost his only correspondent.

Upon reaching a small plateau he checked his steaming horse to allow him to rest before climbing the next ascent. He finished his letter, refolded and tucked it away in a pocket, then, removing his hat, and wiping the perspiration from his forehead, he turned in his saddle to look back upon the valley behind and beneath him.

“What a view!” he said aloud, and with kindling eyes; “it is worth a great deal to have such a scene as this to look upon day after day, and nature paints the loveliest pictures, after all.” Then, with a glance above and beyond him, he continued: “And the hills! the everlasting hills! how wonderful they are! I have read somewhere that ‘rocks and mountains stand for the solid and grand ideas of Truth.’ It is a beautiful thought, and makes them a hundredfold more lovely to me. I believe I am receiving an inspiration this summer that will never leave me——”

“Ahem! you appear to be struck on the hills, Faxon,” a voice here interposed with a mocking inflection, and, glancing toward the spot from whence it seemed to proceed, Clifford saw to his astonishment the face of Philip Wentworth peering at him over a boulder that lay almost on the edge of the mountain road, and was half-concealed by a clump of sumac that was growing beside it.

He had been sitting behind the rock where, screened by it and the growth of sumac, he had been idly gazing into the depths below, for the road just there ran along the edge of an almost perpendicular precipice.

He had seen Clifford approaching, although he was himself unseen, but he had had no intention of making his presence known, until our hero’s eloquent outburst fell upon his ears, whereupon he became irritated beyond measure. He was dressed in the height of style—in an immaculate suit of white linen, and he carried a cane having an elaborately carved ivory head.

He came around into the road and stood there looking up into Clifford’s face with a derisive smile. Clifford colored vividly at his manner of addressing him, but quickly recovering himself, he courteously returned:

“Ah! good afternoon, Mr. Wentworth. Yes, I am in love with these grand mountains, but I had no idea that I was rhapsodizing before an audience. It has been a warm day,” he concluded, and drew up his bridle preparatory to moving on, when his companion detained him.

“Wait a minute, Faxon,” he said, “I’ve been wanting to see you ever since class-day, but no one could tell me where to find you. It’s about that ring, you know; I’m dying to know just how you came by it.”

“It was a gift, Mr. Wentworth,” Clifford briefly replied.

“So you said before, but who gave it to you?” demanded Philip, with a frown.

“I cannot tell you.”

“Hang it all! don’t be so deucedly secretive,” was the impatient retort. “Was it given to you by a lady?”

“Pardon me, but I cannot tell you,” Clifford reiterated.

“Will not, you mean,” Wentworth angrily rejoined.

Clifford did not deign to answer this thrust, and his silence, which stood for assent, was maddening to his companion. All his life he had been the pampered idol of his mother, who had seldom denied him a wish, and he had grown up selfish, arrogant, and almost lawless.

During his own father’s life, he had been curbed to a certain extent, for the man possessed good sense and judgment, and, had he lived, would doubtless have brought out the best that was in his son; but the man had been cut down just when the boy had needed him most, and so his mother had spoiled him until he had become intolerant of all opposition to his wishes.

Thus Clifford’s calm indifference to his demand drove him into a white heat of rage.

“You do not need to tell me where it came from,” he burst forth, “for, as I told you before, I know who had possession of it up to three o’clock of the day when you claim that it was given to you—given, ha!” he concluded, with an insulting significant laugh.

All the blood in his body seemed to rush into Clifford’s face at this cowardly insinuation.

“Wentworth! do you mean to imply that I came by it through dishonorable means?” he sternly demanded.

“Well, that is a point upon which I have my own opinion,” Philip retorted, “but I can swear to this that at the hour I have named on the thirtieth of July, of last year, that ring was on the hand of a certain lady of my acquaintance. She was on the point of starting for New York, and as I was taking leave of her I asked her to give it to me as—as a souvenir.”

“Ah!”

It was only an exclamation, and it had escaped Clifford almost involuntarily, but it expressed a great deal, and his heart had given a great throb of exultation over the knowledge that what his blue-eyed, golden-haired divinity had refused to give the rich and aristocratic Philip Wentworth, she had, freely, and even enthusiastically, bestowed upon him, a poor bound boy, who had stood before her, hatless and drenched to his skin in his shirt-sleeves and overalls and wearing a pair of clumsy shoes, the like of which this petted son of fortune would have scorned for his servant.

Young Wentworth was excessively nettled by the monosyllable, and instantly regretted having betrayed so much.

“I am only telling you this,” he hastened to explain, “to prove how preposterous it seems in you to claim that this lady should have given you the ring, after having refused it to me, and I will also add, as a clincher, that Miss—the lady is my fiancée.”

For a moment Clifford felt as if he had been struck a blow in the face, and the sense of a terrible loss settled upon his heart. Then, as he recalled the youthful face that had been lifted so earnestly to him, and also the fact that the girl had not discarded short dresses, a faint smile of skepticism involuntarily curved the corners of his mouth. Philip was quick to note it, and was exasperated by it.

“You do not believe it,” he said sharply, “but it is true nevertheless; the matter was arranged when we were mere children, and we have grown up with the understanding that we are to be married when I am through college. Faugh!” he interposed, with a shrug of impatience, “why do I tell you this, I wonder? I am a fool to give it away to you; but, Faxon, I want that ring! Do you hear?”

Clifford gazed down upon the handsome, imperious face upturned to him with an expression of amazement. The audacity of the demand almost paralyzed him for the moment.

“You want the ring!” he repeated, when he could find voice.

“That’s what I said,” Philip returned consequentially. “I can’t have you wearing a ring that belongs to my fiancée. Of course, I am willing to pay you something handsome for it rather than have any words over the affair—say, fifty dollars, and ask no further questions regarding how you came by it.”

Clifford was filled with indignation, both at the imputation flung at him and the proposition to barter his gift for money. Sell his precious ring—his “mascot,” with its magic legend and initials of its fair donor! Never! He would almost as soon have parted with his right hand, and he grew very white about the mouth at the thought. But he seldom gave outward expression to anger, no matter how deeply moved he was, and, after a moment spent in making an effort to speak calmly, he said, in a low tone of quiet decision:

“Mr. Wentworth, I could not, for a moment, think of surrendering my ring to you.”

“I’ll make it a hundred, if you like,” persisted Philip.

“No, sir; I would not part with it at any price.”

Philip Wentworth’s face grew livid with mingled rage and disappointment.

“—— you, for an obstinate upstart!” he exclaimed furiously, and, lifting his slender cane high above his head, he dealt Clifford’s horse a fierce and stinging blow upon the thigh. It was a terrible shock to the beautiful and spirited creature, who scarce ever had known the touch of a lash. With a snort of fear he wheeled, sprang erect upon his hind legs, and the next moment was pawing the air on the very edge of that almost perpendicular precipice.

CHAPTER IX.
PHILIP WENTWORTH FINDS AMUSEMENT.

Clifford was in fearful danger for one awful moment, as the horse hung swaying on the brow of the precipice, and, seemingly, about to be dashed over the edge and down upon the rocks below.

To all appearance horse and rider were doomed—their fate sealed. But with a dexterous movement the young man drew his bridle taut, his fingers gripping it like claws of steel, his muscles unyielding as iron, and thus he held the animal poised in the air for a brief instant, like a statue, but for his frightened trembling; then, pulling sharply upon the bit with his left hand, he swung him around and away from the frightful chasm, and eased him down until one forefoot touched the ground, when the intelligent creature helped himself farther away from his dangerous position, though still snorting and quivering in every limb from fear.

“Be quiet, Glory! it’s all right—whoa! stand still!” Clifford called out in a reassuring voice, as he gathered the bridle into one hand, and with the other stroked and patted the reeking neck with a gentle, encouraging touch, and continued to talk soothingly to him, until he was comparatively calm again.

It had been a hairbreadth escape, and Clifford’s face was absolutely colorless, but not so white or frozen with fear as that of Philip Wentworth, who had become conscious that his ungovernable temper had well-nigh made a murderer of him.

The eyes of the two young men met for one moment, then Clifford spoke quietly to his horse, bidding him go on, and went his way up the mountain road.

He was very thoughtful as he pursued his way back to the hotel, and was deeply thankful. He was almost dazed, and could scarcely realize what had happened. But for the reaction, the weakness almost amounting to faintness, that had crept over him, it would have seemed more like a dream—a horrible nightmare—than a reality.

He drew in long, deep breaths and tried to brace himself up, and, gradually, he began to feel the strength coming back to him; but the strain upon him, both mentally and physically, had been something terrible.

Finally he forgot about himself in thinking of Philip, and wondering what his sensations could have been while watching that desperate battle for life.

“What a frightful temper he has!” he mused, as he recalled the young man’s distorted face when he struck that almost fatal blow. “I am thankful that I am not so cursed, or rather that I was taught in my boyhood to govern myself. If he has any conscience he must have suffered more than I did during that moment of terrible suspense.

“How ridiculous to tell me that he is engaged to that slip of a girl!” he continued, with a skeptical smile, “and yet,” he added, more soberly, “I know that such arrangements have been made by parents for their children, and so what he said is not impossible. But I should be sorry, from the depths of my heart, for her if she was doomed to spend her life with one who possesses such a disposition. Still, I do not believe that she is lacking in spirit, and I imagine it would not be an easy matter to drive her to do anything regarding which she had conscientious scruples. I am very sure that there is much strength of character behind those earnest blue eyes. However, if she loves him she will probably marry him,” he concluded, with a long sigh of regret and a look of pain in his eyes.

He rode his horse directly to the stable upon his return to the hotel, and gave orders to have him carefully groomed; then he returned to his duties in the house, and kept his own counsel regarding his recent adventure.

It would have involved too many explanations to have talked about it, and, since no harm had befallen the horse, he felt under no obligation to speak of the affair to any one.

That evening there were several new arrivals, and among them some people who were registered as Judge and Mrs. Athol and Miss Gertrude Athol, from Buffalo, New York. Miss Athol was a remarkably beautiful girl of about eighteen years, and as Clifford saw her during the disposal of her trunks in her rooms, he thought that, with one exception, he had never met one more lovely. She also was a blonde of the purest type, tall and willowy, and possessing an air of repose and refinement, together with an unusually sunny smile, that made one feel as if he had come into a different atmosphere when in her presence.

There was one peculiarity about her that seemed to intensify her beauty; she had great, soft, almond-shaped brown eyes, which contrasted exquisitely with her delicate complexion and pale-gold hair, and which gave marked character to her face.

“She is a true lady,” Clifford said to himself, as he mentally compared her with some other young people who were guests in the house, and who appeared to regard every employee as their slave, whose sole duty consisted in serving their lightest caprice.

About the middle of the next afternoon an elegant equipage dashed up to the door of the hotel and four people alighted and entered the house. Clifford instantly recognized Philip Wentworth and his mother, and they were followed by a stately, rather pompous, gentleman, with iron-gray hair, a pair of keen, dark eyes, and a shrewd, clear-cut, intelligent face, while he led by the hand a little girl of about five years, a charming little fairy, who resembled both Philip and Mrs. Temple, and who was most daintily clad, and with a great hat set on her sunny head, framing her bright, laughing face in a most picturesque manner.

The gentleman was William F. Temple, and the child was Miss Minnie Temple, the pet and idol of the entire household. This quartet were shown into a reception-room, whereupon they sent cards up to Judge and Mrs. Athol, who, as it proved, were old friends of Mrs. Temple, Mrs. Athol having been a chum of hers at Vassar during their school-days. From that time the two families were also inseparable.

They drove or went fishing and rowing on the lake, or made excursions to various points of interest almost every morning; the afternoons were devoted to bowling, golf, or tennis, while they alternated in dining each other and attended card parties, hops, and receptions at various hotels in the evening.

During all this time Clifford and Philip Wentworth were continually coming in contact with each other; but the latter never betrayed, by word or look, that he had ever met him before, and ordered him around like any ordinary porter.

Clifford was often galled inexpressibly by his overbearing manner, particularly so in the presence of Miss Athol, who was always gracious toward him.

Early one morning Mr. and Mrs. Temple, accompanied by the Judge and Mrs. Athol, started out on a trip to the summit of Mount Washington, leaving little Minnie Temple to spend the day with Miss Athol, to whom the child had become very much attached.

Philip Wentworth put in his appearance at the hotel after luncheon, and about half an hour later, accompanied by Miss Athol and his young sister, and armed with books, a lunch-basket, and a rug, started forth again, evidently to spend the afternoon in the woods.

He had been very devoted to Gertrude Athol ever since her appearance upon the scene, and had constituted himself her escort upon almost every occasion, while there were times when his manner toward her bordered strongly upon that of a lover.

Clifford had been quick to observe this, and was secretly indignant at the growing intimacy, for he had by no means forgotten the statement which Wentworth had made to him regarding his relations with a certain little lady who was traveling in Europe. He watched them this afternoon as they sauntered slowly down the road in the direction of a pretty little nook, familiarly known as “The Glen,” Philip carrying Miss Athol’s sun-umbrella with an air of proprietorship, while little Minnie skipped on before them, bright and happy as a bird.

“What a sweet little fairy that child is!” Clifford murmured, as his eyes rested fondly upon her, for, strange as it may seem, a strong friendship had sprung up between himself and Miss Minnie, who never came to the hotel without seeking him out to have a social little chat with him.

He continued to watch the trio until they disappeared around a bend in the road, when he went back into the office, and resumed some clerical work connected with his duties.

“The Glen” referred to was, in fact, something of a misnomer, for it was nothing more or less than a quiet nook on a small plateau, carpeted with moss, almost entirely surrounded by a luxuriant growth of great pines, and overlooking a picturesque valley and strong, rugged mountains beyond.

It was almost on the edge of a precipice, and not far from the very point where Clifford came so near losing his life only a short time before.

Upon arriving at their destination, Philip spread the rug he carried upon the ground, close by a big boulder, and the three sat down, removing their hats and making themselves generally comfortable. Then Philip opened one of the books he had brought—a new novel that was creating quite a sensation—and began reading aloud to his companion.

But Miss Minnie did not relish any such prosaic way of spending her afternoon, and, becoming lonely and restless, began to wander about to see what of interest she could find for herself. At first Philip tried to keep her beside them, but, finding that she would not be quiet, and fretted constantly at the restraint imposed upon her, finally gave her permission to play about, provided she would not go beyond a certain limit.

She soon found amusement in gathering ferns, with here and there a bright leaf from some sumac bushes growing near the road at a point where she was perfectly safe, and the two young people returned to their book and gave themselves up to the enjoyment of the hour.

To Gertrude Athol the companionship of Philip Wentworth evidently meant a great deal, if one could judge from the coming and going of her color, the tender light within her eyes whenever they met those of the young man, and the shy, happy smiles that hovered about her mouth.

The story which they were reading, and pausing every now and then to discuss, had for its heroine a young girl who had been sent into the country one summer to recuperate after a long illness, and while there had met a young man of the world, who, after becoming acquainted with her, monopolized her time, and made love to her in an indefinite kind of way, yet never committing himself beyond a certain point. He completely won the girl’s heart, and she poured out all the wealth of her nature upon this suppositious lover, only to awake from her blissful dream at the end of the season, when he came to bid her a stereotyped farewell, and then drifted out of her life forever. The blow was more than the girl could bear in her delicate state of health, while the shame she experienced upon realizing that she had been systematically fooled, just for the amusement of an idler, who found no better entertainment at hand, almost turned her brain. She could not rally from it, and quietly folding her hands in submission to the inevitable she drooped and died before the year was out.

“Oh, what a sad, sad story!” Gertrude exclaimed, when Philip reached this point, and her red lips quivered in sympathy with the unfortunate girl; “and what a wicked thing it was for Gerald Frost to do! It is heartless for any man to play with a woman’s affections in any such way.”

“It was simply a summer idyl,” replied Philip, lifting his eyes from the book and feasting them upon his companion’s beauty, “and there are thousands of such incidents occurring every year.”

“But it is atrocious—it is a crime!” retorted the girl spiritedly, “and a man who will deliberately set himself at work to do such a deed is at heart as bad as a murderer.”

“Oh, Gertrude! Miss Athol! your language is very severe,” laughed Philip.

“Yes, it sounds harsh, but it is true, all the same,” she persisted, “and if Gerald Frost is a fair type of the summer male flirt, too much cannot be said in condemnation of him.”

“And what about the summer girl flirt?” questioned her companion laughingly.

“She is even worse, for one expects sincerity and sympathy from a woman, and she shames and degrades her sex when she descends to such ignoble pastime,” she gravely returned. “At the same time, a man has the advantage over a woman in such a case, for it rests with him to put the all-important question, and it is inhuman to win a young girl’s heart, and then cast it from him as worthless. I am glad to think, however, that there are comparatively few Amy Linders in the world. I would never have finished the book like that—I think the author has spoiled it.”

“How would you have finished it? What would you have done if you had been in Amy Linder’s place?” Philip inquired, and shooting a glance of curiosity at the flushed, earnest face beside him.

“I certainly would not have drooped and died,” she returned, with a scornful curl of her lips. “I never would have given the man who had so wronged me the satisfaction of knowing how thoroughly he had fooled me.”

“Ah, you tell what you would not have done; but, on the other hand, what would have been your course of action?”

Miss Athol drew her willowy figure proudly erect, and her fine eyes blazed with the dauntless spirit within her.

“I would have lived it down,” she said, her voice vibrating with intense feeling. “I would have risen above it, and some day, later on, I would have caused that man to wonder if he had not made the greatest mistake of his life; he should have learned to despise himself for having so belittled himself and dishonored his manhood by trying to wreck the happiness of a defenseless girl simply for amusement.”

She was glorious as she gave utterance to these animated sentences and Philip was, for the moment, carried beyond himself by the magnetic influence of her beauty and her spirit. He caught the white hand that lay nearest him, and impulsively pressed it to his lips.

“Ah! no one could ever meet, play the part of lover to you, and then leave you,” he cried, with a thrill of passion in his tones. “I——”

“Oh, I wonder where Minnie is!” Gertrude interposed, and withdrawing her hand before he could complete what he was about to say. “Great heavens, what was that?”

Both sprang to their feet as a frightened scream at that instant fell upon their ears, and turned their terrified faces toward the sound just in season to see the flutter of white garments as they disappeared over the edge of the plateau, not a dozen yards from where they stood.

CHAPTER X.
A FRIGHTFUL ACCIDENT.

The child had played contentedly enough with her ferns and leaves until a brilliant butterfly had appeared upon the scene and attracted her attention, when she began to chase it, and, unmindful of her promise to her brother, ran too near the edge of the precipice, lost her balance, and fell with a terrified shriek into space.

Philip Wentworth rushed forward, an inarticulate cry of horror bursting from his lips, threw himself upon his knees, grasped a young tree that was growing there, and leaned over the chasm to see—he dare not think what.

“Oh, God!” he groaned, as he stared into the abyss below.

“Mr. Wentworth!—oh!—is she—killed?” gasped Gertrude Athol, as she sprang to his side, her face as white as the flannel of her outing dress.

“I don’t know—I do not dare to hope that she is not,” the young man returned, but still gazing as one mesmerized upon the scene beneath him.

Gertrude stooped over, steadying herself by leaning upon his shoulder, and she caught her breath sharply as she took in the situation.

Down, down, at least a hundred feet, she caught sight of a mass of white lying like a ball of cotton in the midst of the heavy foliage of a tree.

Many years previous a tiny maple seed had found lodgment among the rocks and earth of the mountain, which arose hundreds of feet, like a perpendicular wall, and this had sprouted, taken root, and grown until now quite a vigorous tree projected out at right angles from this wall, and as the plateau above shelved outward at the top, the child had fallen straight into the middle of the interlaced branches and heavy foliage, and thus she had been almost miraculously saved from being dashed upon the rocks in the ravine below.

But there was not a movement, not a sound, to tell those breathless watchers above whether the little one was still living; she certainly was not conscious, or she surely would have made the fact known.

“Oh! what can we do?—this is terrible!” cried Gertrude, with white lips and shivering as from a chill. “But”—in an eager tone—“the child is safe, I fancy! she could not have been badly hurt just dropping into the tree; she is only breathless and faint from the fearful fall through space. Oh! Mr. Wentworth, I am sure if some one will only go to her rescue before she revives she can be saved.”

“Saved!” gasped Philip, with a shudder of horror; “why, she is as dead to us and the world at this moment as if she had already been dashed upon those rocks so far beneath her; for no one would risk his life down that precipice to attempt her rescue.”

“Some one must! Some one shall!” cried the panting girl. “Oh! if we had a rope and some one would lower me, I would go. Run—run to the hotel; tell them to bring ropes—I know she can be saved—go! go!” she concluded imperatively, while she tried to drag him to his feet.

But he appeared to be paralyzed—rooted to the spot.

“Run!” he repeated, regarding her with a dazed expression. “I could not run to the hotel if my own life depended upon it. Oh, Minnie! my poor darling!” he concluded, a sob of despair bursting from him.

Without another word, but like a flash, Gertrude turned, shot past him, and sped over the ground toward the hotel. Fast and faster she flew, never once pausing, until, spent and breathless, she sank upon the steps leading to the veranda.

Clifford, from the office window, had seen her coming, and, realizing that something was wrong, sprang forth to meet her.

“Miss Athol!—tell me—has anything happened? What can I do for you?” he exclaimed, as he reached her side.

“Oh, Mr. Cliff!”—she had heard him called Cliff, and knew him by no other name—“Minnie Temple has fallen over the cliff at the glen. A tree has broken her fall; she is caught in the branches; I have come for men and ropes to save her.”

Clifford’s face had grown rigid, and his heart sank heavily in his bosom as he listened. He had been growing to love the bright, pretty child, and he felt personally bereft at the thought of losing her. But he paused to ask no questions, although he feared the case was hopeless. He turned abruptly on his heel, and darted into the house.

“John!” he called to an assistant, who had just come up from the basement, “go to the stable, and get the longest and strongest ropes you can find; go quick! Then find Sam, come here, and wait for me.”

The man knew the case was imperative from his looks and tones, and hurried away to do his bidding, while Clifford sprang up two flights of stairs two steps at a time to a side room, which was remote from any of the fire-escapes on the building, and where a knotted rope had been placed to be used in the event of an emergency.

He snatched this from the strong hook to which it was attached, tore a sheet from the bed, and then darted back down-stairs, where he found the men, John and Sam, awaiting him.

“Come,” he said briefly, and then hurried on down the road after Miss Athol, who, having done her errand and caught her breath again, was flying back along the way over which she had just come.

As soon as they reached “The Glen,” where they found Philip still crouching where Gertrude had left him, his face buried in his hands, Clifford went straight to the edge of the plateau, and peered down into the ravine.

Instantly his eyes brightened, and a look of determination leaped into them as they rested upon that little motionless form half-buried in the dense foliage of the tree.

Stepping back he threw off his light linen coat and vest, after which he knotted the fire-escape rope firmly around the trunk of a young oak, and threw the remainder of it over the cliff, and was glad to see that it was plenty long enough for his purpose.

Then he attached one end of a larger rope which John had brought to the same tree, and secured the other around his own body.

“Oh, Mr. Cliff! you are going down for her!” eagerly exclaimed Gertrude, who had been breathlessly watching his movements, and her eyes met his with a look of dawning hope in their brown depths.

“Certainly; some one must go,” he said briefly.

Involuntarily the girl’s glance wandered to Philip Wentworth, a slight frown contracting her brow. He still sat upon the ground, his face covered, and the very picture of despair. Clearly, he was wholly unfitted to be of any special use in this fearful emergency.

Clifford’s next move was to firmly knot the diagonal corners of the sheet he had brought and slip it over his left shoulder and under his right arm.

“What is that for?” questioned Miss Athol.

“To put the child into. Do you not see? It makes a kind of pouch, and, swung over my back, will leave my hands free to use in climbing.”

“Oh, yes,” she breathed; “how thoughtful of you, and she will be safer so than she could possibly have been in almost any other way.”

“Yes,” he said simply, and smiled a look of encouragement into her white face.

“Now, John, Sam, and Wentworth, too, we shall need your help,” he continued, turning sharply upon Philip to arouse him to action. “I am going down that fire-escape. John, I want you to keep hold of this other rope that is tied to me, and pay it out as I go—but not too fast, just enough to feel my movements, and be sure you do not lose your head or your grip, for in case the other rope should slip or I should need to rest a moment a little tightening up upon it will be a great help to me, and possibly avert a serious accident. When I start to come back pull it up evenly and steadily—don’t let it slip, for I shall need to depend a good deal upon its support. When I get back here to the edge of the plateau you will—every one of you—need all your wits about you to help me on to terra firma once more. Now, obey orders, and, God helping me, I will do the rest.”

He stepped calmly forward to where the rope hung over, laid hold upon the trunk of the tree to help himself off, then, seizing the knotted fire-escape, slipped slowly down into space.

At this moment Philip Wentworth sprang to his feet and went forward, his face still white as marble, but evidently doing his utmost to brace himself up to assist in the rescue of his idolized little sister.

Miss Athol, however, feeling that she could not trust herself to watch that perilous descent, went back to the boulder and sat down, covered her face with her trembling hands, and prayed for the hero who was risking so much to save a human life.

Other people, having learned that an accident of some kind had occurred, had begun to gather about the place, though scarce a word was spoken, and “The Glen” was almost as silent as if no one had been there.

Hand over hand, calmly and steadily, Clifford descended the rope, clinging to it with his feet—from which he had removed his shoes—as well as with his hands, never once looking down, but always up, with never a shade of fear in his brave brown eyes.

Those above him, watching with breathless interest, grew dizzy and almost faint, as they looked, to see him swaying backward and forward, and from side to side, like some erratic pendulum ’twixt earth and sky, for the rope, being loose at the lower end, he could not control it, and it seemed as if he would never be able to stand the strain until he reached his journey’s end.

John McQueen, a strong and sturdy Scotchman, stood a resolute and faithful sentinel at his post, and paid out the rope in his hands just fast enough to make it a help and a support—and Clifford told him afterward that he never could have accomplished his task but for the trust he reposed in his brawny arms and cool head—until, at last, the brave fellow touched the trunk of the maple, and so far, all was well.

Here he paused to rest for a moment or two, for the strain had been great, and his hands burned and stung from their contact with the rough rope.

His next act was to secure the loose end to the tree, making it as taut as possible, and thus prevent the swaying, which had so annoyed and hampered him in making his descent. His upward climb would be the “tug-o’-war,” and he realized that he must neglect no measure that would be of the slightest advantage to him.

Then he began his perilous climb outward upon the trunk of the maple toward that snowy mass lying among its dark-green foliage.

A single slip or false movement would have sent him whirling through space to the bottom of the ravine. Very cautiously he edged his way, almost inch by inch, taking great care not to shake or disturb the branches where the child lay, lest she be dislodged before he could reach her.

At last!

His hand grasped the garments, and the long-drawn breath that heaved the chest of every watcher above told how intense was the excitement, how terrible had been the suspense of the last few moments.

Gently, cautiously, Clifford drew the still, little form toward him until he could encircle it with his strong arm, and then he slowly retraced his way along that slender stem.

It was a perilous task, but the ropes were reached at last, and again he paused to rest, while he bent a tender, anxious face over the inanimate burden now clasped close to his breast, and placed a hand over the little heart.

He detected slight pulsations there, and gave a reassuring nod to those who were keeping such anxious vigil above.

At last he placed the child within the pouch which he had made of the sheet, swung it gently around upon his back, and secured the loose corners about his waist to prevent his burden from swaying away from his body, and then he was ready for the ascent.

Full one hundred feet he must climb that perpendicular strand with that precious little form upon his back.

Would he be able to accomplish the task? He did not presume to answer the question as it flashed through his brain; he put the thought quickly away from him almost before it had taken form.

But his brave heart never faltered in his purpose as he resolutely grasped the rope and lifted himself from the supporting maple.

But who shall describe the agony of suspense that tortured the hearts of those who were lying, face downward, upon the edge of the cliff, and watching the struggle for life.

Philip Wentworth could not endure it, and knowing that there was now plenty of help upon the ground, he retreated, faint and sick, from his position by the oak to the boulder where Gertrude was sitting, and waited in speechless anguish for the end.

Faithful John McQueen, who had been a worshiper at young Faxon’s shrine from the first day of his appearance at the hotel, never once took his eyes or his thoughts from the rope in his hands, or for a moment forgot the important part he was playing in the tragic scene.

Up, up, Clifford came, nearer and nearer toward the goal, and with every foot of advancement the sustaining rope was shortened just so much, with a firm and steady pull that was a source of continual encouragement and support to the valiant hero.

At length his right hand, now almost purple from his exertions, grasped the last knot just below the edge of the cliff.

This was the most critical moment of all, for the plateau shelved outward, and it hardly seemed possible that the young man and his burden could be drawn safely up over the brink.

But willing hands and strong arms reached down and grasped him, while John held his rope with an iron grip, and in another moment he was lifted out of space and onto solid ground once more.

His face was almost as purple as his hands, the veins upon his forehead stood out in knots, his breath came in shrill, quivering pants between his livid lips, and the moment he was relieved of his burden he sank exhausted, well-nigh unconscious, upon the rug which Gertrude had dragged forward to receive him.

CHAPTER XI.
CLIFFORD MEETS WILLIAM TEMPLE.

Gertrude then held out her arms for Minnie, and the child was surrendered to her. She had begun to show signs of returning animation; there was already a little color in her lips, the heart was beating, the chest heaving slightly, and ere long she opened her eyes to find herself gazing straight into the familiar faces of her brother and friend.

Gertrude smiled reassuringly, and, bending, kissed her fondly.

“Oh!” breathed the child, with a convulsive shudder, “was it a dreadful dream! Oh, Phil, did I fall?”

“Never mind the dream, Minnie, dear,” returned the young man evasively. “You are awake now, and we will go back to the hotel.”

“But I am so tired, and I feel so queer,” gasped the little one, settling back limp and white again in Gertrude’s arms.

“Give her to me!” said Philip, in a tone of alarm. “I will carry her to the hotel, and we must have a doctor immediately.”

He gathered her up tenderly, and hastened away, his whole thought centered upon her.

But Gertrude, keenly anxious for Clifford, lingered and went to the spot where he lay, with a pile of coats under his head for a pillow and weak as a child, his breath coming in great gasps. She knelt down beside him, an expression of deep reverence in her beautiful eyes.

“I hope you are better,” she said gently.

He looked up and smiled.

“Oh, yes; I shall soon—be—all right,” he panted, and she could see how his heart still throbbed and shook him from head to foot with its every pulsation. “Those—last few feet—were—rather more than—I—had calculated upon,” he added, after a moment.

A look of infinite pity swept over the fair girl’s face, and, drawing her perfumed handkerchief from her belt, she wiped the moisture from his forehead and about his lips, which were still frightfully livid.

“Cannot one of you get some water for him?” she inquired, glancing up at those who were gathered around and apparently paralyzed into inactivity.

“Yes—I would like—a glass—of water,” said Clifford trying to moisten his dry lips.

“You shall have it,” said Gertrude, leaping to her feet. “Come with me, somebody, and I will send back a bottle of water.”

She sped out of “The Glen” as if her feet had been winged, and was closely followed by one of the waiters at the hotel.

They soon overtook Philip, who was toiling up the hill with his burden, and, telling him of her errand, Gertrude swept on past him without pausing. On reaching the hotel she saw that a carafe was filled with cold, fresh water, and, giving this to the man, she begged him to hurry back with it with all possible speed.

Then she turned her attention to Minnie, who was borne directly to her room and put to bed, while Philip hastened after a physician.

After a careful examination of the child the doctor said that she was all right, excepting that the shock of the terrible fall had, perhaps, unsettled her somewhat, but that rest and quiet would soon restore her to her normal condition.

This assurance was very comforting to both of the young people, who had been extremely anxious regarding the child’s condition.

As soon as the proprietor, Mr. Hamilton, learned what had happened he sent a carriage to convey Clifford home, who, upon his arrival, was borne directly to his own room, and told to remain there until he should be fully recovered from the terrible strain which he had sustained.

The whole household had learned the story of his exploit by this time, and great wonder and admiration were expressed by every one in view of his heroism and power of endurance, as they gathered upon the veranda while he was being carried into the house.

He was very glad to avail himself of his employer’s command to keep his room until he felt perfectly able to resume his duties, for he was anxious to escape the crowd and notoriety, while, too, he was fearfully spent from the efforts which he had been obliged to make during the last half of the steep ascent.

There had been moments when, if only his own life had been at stake, he would have felt that it was scarcely worth the terrible struggle he was making. But the consciousness that the life of another depended upon him—the responsibility which the presence of that innocent and beautiful child entailed upon him—was undoubtedly the one spur which proved to be the salvation of both.

He did not lack for kind attention, for Mr. Hamilton and faithful John McQueen could not seem to do enough for him, while Professor Harding and his wife insisted upon taking turns in watching with him during the night, to administer nourishment at stated times, and prevent the necessity of his making any exertion for himself.

He slept considerably, and was much refreshed the next morning, although still weak and unable to rise, and it was thought best that he should keep his bed for a few days.

Late in the evening of the day of the accident Mr. Temple and his party returned from their excursion, and were greatly excited upon learning what had occurred, while they were also unspeakably grateful over the fact that a terrible tragedy had been averted, and the idol of the household had been spared to them.

Gertrude was most enthusiastic and vivid in her description of the event, while her admiration of Clifford and the manner in which he had conducted himself was expressed in the highest terms.

“I knew the moment when I first saw that young man that he was no ordinary porter,” she observed, with glowing eyes. “He carries himself like a nobleman—he has a remarkably fine face and figure, and he is invariably courteous and gentlemanly, while if ever any one showed himself a hero in the face of seeming impossibilities, he has done so to-day. Don’t you agree with me, Mr. Wentworth?” she concluded, appealing to Philip for confirmation of her assertions.

“Y—es, he has really done a—a brave thing,” that young man felt compelled to admit, but he did so in a decidedly half-hearted and unappreciative manner, and with a flush of irritation at Gertrude’s high praise of one whom he had long cordially disliked and regarded with secret jealousy.

Miss Athol turned upon him with a look of astonishment. Her lips curled slightly, and parted as if she were about to retort in a spirited manner, but before she could voice her rebuke—whatever it may have been—Mr. Temple inquired:

“But who is he? What is the young man’s name?”

Philip preserved an obstinate silence, and Mrs. Temple, who had never happened to meet Clifford face to face during her visits to the hotel, did not realize who they were talking about. So Gertrude continued to be spokesman.

“I really do not know his name,” she said. “He seems to be a kind of upper porter about the house, and you must have seen him. I have heard him called Cliff, which I have supposed to be his given name abbreviated; what his surname may be I have not the slightest idea.”

“And he is a fine fellow, I am very sure,” Judge Athol here interposed. “A young man evidently above his present position, although he is very unassuming. I have sometimes imagined that he might be some college student taking advantage of the summer vacation to earn his tuition and expenses for next year.”

Still, in the face of all this and the incalculable debt that he owed him, Philip Wentworth remained silent. He was conscious that it was mean and churlish to withhold what information he could give regarding Clifford Faxon; not to acknowledge in a manly fashion, that he was his classmate, and give him due honor, not only for having proved himself to be a noble and worthy young man during his first year at Harvard, but also for having that day risked his life to save that of his young sister.

But some spirit of perverseness held him mute, and even though he was thankful from the depths of his heart for the safety of Minnie, whose advent in the family had aroused all that was best in his nature, he almost resented the fact that Clifford had been her savior.

A singular grudge against Clifford had taken possession of him from the moment of their first meeting, when Clifford had plainly shown him that, even though he was poor and struggling against great odds for an education, he, at least, was no menial, and not lacking in independence and self-respect.

The discovery that he had in his possession the costly cameo, which Mollie Heatherford had declined to give him, together with his refusal to tell how he came by it, and also the fact that he had recently come very near being accountable for his life, all served to stir his anger and jealousy and increase his animosity.

It spoke but very little for the manliness of this would-be aristocrat that he did not now, in the face of his great obligations to Clifford, make an effort to crush out these feelings from his heart, confess the injustice he had done him, and accord him due gratitude. But obstinacy was not the least of his many faults, and he resolutely turned away from the still, small voice which was pointing out the path of duty to him.

“Well, whoever he is, I must see him, and make acknowledgment of the immense debt we owe him,” Mr. Temple observed in reply to Judge Athol, and with a very perceptible break in his voice, as his glance wandered to the little form lying upon the bed in the adjoining room, now wrapped in restful slumber.

But it was, of course, too late that night to see Clifford, and he was forced to wait until the morrow, when he drove over to the hotel directly after breakfast to ascertain how his darling was, and to interview the hero of the previous day.

Miss Minnie was up and none the worse for her tragic experience of the day before, but Clifford excused himself when Mr. Temple sent up his card and requested an audience. He was still considerably under the weather, and said he did not feel like talking about the ordeal through which he had passed just at present, and so the gentleman was forced to curb his impatience.

He came every day to inquire for him, and to bring him delicacies of various kinds to tempt his appetite; but it was not until the fourth morning after the accident that he achieved the object of his visits.

As his carriage drove to the door of the hotel on this occasion, Clifford was sitting upon the piazza, and almost himself again, although still a trifle weak. Little Minnie was with her father, and waved her dimpled hand to Clifford the moment she espied him.

Clifford smiled a welcome to the pretty child, and, rising, went forward to greet her. The moment her father lifted her from the carriage she bounded up the steps and sprang toward Clifford, seizing with both her little hands the one he extended to her, and a strange thrill went tingling along the young man’s nerves at her touch.

He told himself that it was on account of the fearful experience which they had shared, and that, because of it, a bond had been established between them that would forever unite their hearts in a mutual interest in each other.

Mr. Temple followed his little daughter, his lips quivering visibly.

“I am sure you must be the young man to whom we all, as a family, owe so much,” he said, as he extended a trembling hand to Clifford. “Words are tame. I have no power to adequately express what I feel, but if there is anything on earth that I can do for you, you have but to make it known, if it is attainable, it shall be done.”

Clifford gazed into the clear-cut face of the man before him, and somehow, in spite of the genuine emotion which he betrayed, he was instantly repelled by him.

“Thank you,” he returned, as he released the hand that he had taken, and with the frank, genial smile which won almost every one, “you are very kind, but, pray, believe me, the knowledge that Miss Minnie is safe and well is reward enough for me.”

“I do not doubt that, young man,” responded Mr. Temple, while he gazed as if fascinated into Clifford’s clear, earnest eyes; “but that fact in nowise lightens my sense of personal obligation. Let me do something for you, my young friend. I have wealth and influence—let me give you something out of my abundance—at least enough to lift you out of your present position and start you handsomely in life.”

Clifford flushed from various emotions. He could well understand the man’s feelings. He knew it was only natural he should wish to make some return, or tangible expression of gratitude for the rescue of his little daughter from a horrible fate; he knew he would have felt the same had the situation been reversed; but an unaccountable repugnance against accepting pecuniary aid from this man for having saved the life of his child and Philip Wentworth’s sister took possession of him. Besides this, the feeling of affection which had been aroused in his heart for the little one made him shrink sensitively from anything of the kind.

“Thank you,” he said again, “but I could not accept money for what I have done.”

He spoke gently and courteously, but with a note of firmness in his tones that warned his companion it would be useless to press the matter further.

A cloud of disappointment settled over Mr. Temple’s countenance, and a sense of irritation, in view of being denied the privilege of canceling a heavy obligation, made him suddenly compress his lips and avert his eyes. He was all the more galled because of the inequality of their positions.

Had Clifford been his equal in wealth and station he could have waived the matter gracefully; he would have considered it an insult to offer money to a man on the same plane of life with himself for such a deed, but, as it was, he now felt a twofold obligation, and chafed against it.

“I am afraid you are unduly proud, young man,” he observed, after a moment of awkward silence. “I am told that you are an employee in this hotel, and the natural inference would be that you have your own way to make in the world. As a rule, most young men would not be averse to a little help upward—to a good start in some lucrative business, or a plump little nest-egg for the future.”

Again Clifford flushed and he straightened himself a trifle.

“No, sir, I am not proud—at least, not more so than is right, I think,” he gravely responded. “What I did for Miss Minnie I would have done just as readily for the poorest child in the village, and so, you perceive, I could not accept a pecuniary reward from you and preserve my self-respect. It is true that I am poor; that I am an employee in this hotel for the summer for the purpose of earning money to help me through college——”

“College!” interposed Mr. Temple, in surprise.

“Yes, sir; I have just completed my freshman year.”

“Where?”

“At Harvard, and——”

“At Harvard!” repeated the gentleman, with a shock of astonishment and dismay; “then you must have been in the same class with my stepson.”

“Yes, sir; Mr. Wentworth and I were classmates,” was the quiet reply.

CHAPTER XII.
PHILIP WENTWORTH’S PROPOSAL.

This was something of a facer to the banker, as he recalled the events of the evening following the rescue of Minnie, when Philip had remained so persistently silent regarding any knowledge of the hero of the day.

He colored and frowned with mingled perplexity and annoyance. He could not quite understand why his stepson should have been so averse to telling what he knew about him; still, he was not blind to his faults. He knew that he was excessively proud; he knew, too, that in disposition he was jealous, and he reasoned, possibly Miss Athol’s enthusiastic praises had aroused his ire and obstinacy, and that was why he would not acknowledge an acquaintance with him. It did not occur to him that they might have quarreled at college. At the same time, even if they had, he would have felt ashamed of such an ignoble spirit, in view of the magnitude of the obligation they were all under, and the almost unexampled exploit which Clifford had achieved, and which was worthy of the highest honor that could be paid him.

He knew, of course, that Philip must have recognized him, and there was no excuse for the contemptible silence which he had maintained; but, considering the relationship which they sustained to each other, he could not with dignity pursue that point farther, and so he wisely concluded to ignore it.

“Well, well,” he said, assuming an approving tone, “you are certainly very enterprising, and, really, I—it seems to me that you might at least allow me to make the remainder of your course a trifle easier for you; in fact, give me the privilege of putting you through college.”

This offer was surely a temptation to Clifford, and for a moment the vision of having no further care during the next three years except that of acquitting himself creditably in his studies was very alluring. But almost immediately there came a violent revulsion of feeling, and he scorned himself for having entertained it even momentarily. He lifted his head, which had been bowed in reflection, and looked his companion frankly in the eye, and replied with quiet dignity, yet appreciatively:

“Thank you, sir; you are very good to suggest it, but I am doing very well. I have a scholarship for next year, and that will be a great help to me. I also have some money in the bank, and with my summer earnings I shall be able to meet all my expenses.”

“You are incorrigible,” said Mr. Temple, smiling, although a frown at the same time contracted his brow, for he was greatly nettled over not being able to carry his point. “However, you will at least tell me your name, for I shall watch your future career with no little interest.”

“Thank you, sir; my name is Clifford Faxon.”

“Clifford Faxon,” the man repeated, in a peculiar tone, and as if he was trying to remember when and where he had heard the name before.

Then he stooped suddenly and drew his little daughter, who was still clinging to Clifford’s hand, toward him, and lifted her in his arm, hugging her close against his heart with a movement that was almost convulsive, while our hero observed that he had grown white as the child’s dress.

“Well, Mr. Faxon,” he said in a brisk tone the next moment, “you surely have good courage, and I wish you all success in life. Are—may I inquire—are your parents living?”

“No, sir; my mother died nearly five years ago, and my father I never saw,” Clifford returned, although he faltered slightly over the statement regarding his father.

He was extremely sensitive over the uncertain fate of his father, and also in view of the uncertain relations that had existed between him and his mother.

Mrs. Faxon, while she would never talk about her husband, had never said outright that he was dead, but what little she had said had led Clifford to infer that such was the case. Ever since he had been old enough to reason for himself he had surmised that there was some mystery connected with him, and he had been sure of it after Squire Talford had flung at him those exasperating hints and sarcasms.

“Ah! that means, I suppose, that he died before you were born,” Mr. Temple observed, with his eyes fastened upon the fair little face resting upon his breast; “but”—as Clifford did not reply to the observation—“have you no relatives? Pardon me if I seem inquisitive,” he interposed, glancing curiously at the young man’s grave face, “but, after what happened the other day, I cannot fail to experience a personal interest in you.”

Clifford hesitated a moment before replying. Then he said in a somewhat reserved tone:

“No—I have no relatives that I know of. My mother was alone in the world, and supported herself and me by teaching as long as she was able to work.”

“And have you been shifting for yourself ever since she died?” queried his companion.

“Yes, sir, in a way. I was bound to a man by the name of Talford, who lives in Cedar Hill, Connecticut, for four years, until I went to college.”

“Ah-a! bound, were you? Who bound you to him?”

“My mother,” Clifford replied, beginning to grow restive beneath this catechising.

The man might feel an interest in him, but he thought he was carrying it rather too far in thus prying into his personal history, while he always chafed when his mind reverted to that contract with the squire.

He had never been disturbed in this way until the man had revealed to him the bitter hatred which he had entertained for his father, and he could never understand how his mother, if she had been conscious of this enmity, could have consigned him to his care, or, rather, his tyranny; it had been a blind problem to him for more than a year.

“Was the man good to you?” Mr. Temple inquired, after a moment of silence, during which he had been studying the young man’s face with a strangely intent look.

“No; he was a cruel tyrant,” Clifford returned, with tightly compressed lips and clouded eyes, as his thoughts flashed back over those four weary years. “He made a slave of me—he hated and abused me for some unaccountable reason. But if I live I will yet show him that his hated and despised bound boy was capable of becoming, at the very least, his equal,” he concluded, with blazing eyes.

Then he colored with mingled confusion and annoyance that he should have given vent to such an outburst. He had very rarely lost control of himself like this, and he mentally took himself to task very severely for it.

He looked up to find Mr. Temple regarding him steadfastly, and with an expression that affected him strangely, it was so singularly penetrating and intense. The man started as he met his eyes. Then he observed in a preoccupied tone:

“I am sure you will; I am sure you will. Well”—with a little shake, as if recalling himself to the present—“as I have said before, I wish you all success in life, and remember, if at any time you should need a—need help in any way, you will not fail to get it if you will apply to me. My business address is No. —— State street, Boston.”

“Thank you, Mr. Temple,” Clifford replied, and then, as another carriage drove to the door, he bowed and left the gentleman to attend to the new arrivals.

William Temple turned away and went slowly down the steps to his own equipage, hugging his child to him with an intensity that was almost fierce.

“Minnie! Minnie! Oh, my darling!” he murmured, with quivering lips and a look in his eyes that was positively wild.

“Why, papa, what is the matter with you?” questioned the child in a wondering tone, while she softly patted his cheek with one plump little hand.

“Nothing, dear,” he replied, capturing the hand and kissing it passionately. “I was only thinking.”

“What were you thinking, papa?”

He bent a half-dazed look upon her sweet face.

“Oh, I was thinking what if—what I should do without you,” he returned unsteadily.

“Oh!” said Minnie, with an air of perplexity; “but that needn’t make you feel bad, for you don’t need to do without me—the nice gentleman brought me back to you, you know.”

The man folded her to him convulsively again with a suppressed groan.

“No, thank Heaven! I have you still,” he murmured, with his lips against her cheek; “and—and the world would be a blank to me without you.”

He placed her tenderly upon the seat of the carriage; then, entering himself, ordered the coachman to return to his hotel; but all the way back he seemed to be absorbed in thought, and barely heeded the prattle of the little one beside him.

The following morning the family—all save Philip—left for Saratoga. The young man did not seem disposed to accompany them. He said he did not care for the races, and, besides, he had some notion of joining a fishing-party to Maine.

So he remained behind, but instead of accompanying the fishermen to Maine he lingered, and continued to pay court to Gertrude Athol.

Possibly he might not have been so persistent in his attentions to her had he not been piqued by the young lady’s manner toward him of late. Ever since the day of Minnie’s accident she had been decidedly cool, not to say scornful, in her bearing when in his presence. His lack of courage and his total inefficiency at “The Glen,” together with his ingratitude and pretended ignorance of all knowledge of Clifford, had aroused her contempt and indignation, and, even though she had secretly learned to love him, and had been led to infer that he also loved her, she was so bitterly disappointed in him, she found it very difficult to forgive and treat him cordially.

Several times when he called she excused herself from receiving him on plea of being “engaged” which so galled the proud young gentleman that he secretly vowed that he would yet gain her favor again, “just to conquer her, if for no other reason.”

Three successive days after his mother, stepfather, and sister left for Saratoga, he called and received the same message in every instance. Then he employed strategy to achieve his purpose; watched the house to ascertain when she went out for a stroll, and followed her.

Her resort was under the shadow of a great rock on the mountain, about quarter of a mile back of the hotel, and when he came upon her, although she appeared to be reading, he saw that there were traces of tears upon her cheeks. She greeted him with studied coldness, and yet her heart had given a great bound of mingled joy and pain at his appearance.

“Ah! I have found you at last,” Philip observed, in a reproachful tone, but with a gleam of triumph in his eyes. “You have been cruel to me, Miss Athol. Please tell me wherein I have sinned, and allow me to atone, if atonement is possible.”

“I am not aware that Mr. Wentworth has been accused of any especial sin, unless, indeed, his own conscience has turned accuser,” Gertrude replied, with icy formality.

Philip colored consciously.

“You need not try to evade me in any such way,” he said; “you certainly are cherishing something against me, for, even though you have not voiced it, your looks and acts are more audible than words. Now tell me of what I am guilty.”

Gertrude regarded him steadily for a moment.

“Well,” she said at last frankly, “I confess I have been wholly unable to understand or account for your conduct of last Tuesday.”

“Ah! please explain; how was I so unfortunate as to displease you on that occasion? To what, especially, do you refer?” Philip gravely inquired, while he ventured to seat himself beside her, although her manner was not particularly inviting.

“Why, to your utter indifference, apparently, to the heroism of Mr. Faxon in saving the life of your sister. Your strange silence when Mr. Temple was making inquiries regarding him, and the fact that you have utterly ignored the young man ever since when you should be eager to show him every possible honor for the unexampled deed of self-sacrifice which he performed. Why, if it had been my sister whom he had saved, I should have been eager to thank him on my knees and crown him for his wonderful courage.”

Philip Wentworth gave vent to a scornful laugh at this.

“Fancy,” he said, with a sneer; “just fancy me going down on my knees to Clifford Faxon, the drudge and window-washer of Beck Hall at Harvard!”

“What!” exclaimed Gertrude, turning to him with a start, “you don’t mean to say that you knew him before you came here!”

Philip instantly regretted having committed himself to such an admission; but he had spoken impulsively and under a sense of irritation.

“I can’t say that I claim him as an acquaintance,” he sarcastically returned, “even though we were in the same class last year.”

“A classmate!” cried Gertrude, with significant emphasis and heightened color.

“Y-e-es,” her companion somewhat reluctantly admitted, “though why such poverty-stricken devils as he will persist in going to college, I can’t imagine.”

“Can’t you, indeed?” retorted Miss Athol, with curling lips and flashing eye. “Really, Mr. Wentworth, do you fondly imagine that all the good things of earth are attainable only by those who happen to have been born with the proverbial spoon in their mouths? And you have known this young man all the time, and have pretended you did not!” she went on indignantly. “You have turned your back upon him, so to speak, refusing to accord him a single manifestation of gratitude for the incalculable debt which you owe him, or even admit to others that he has done a praiseworthy act.”

“Jove! Miss Athol, but you are hard on a fellow!” Philip here burst forth, and having changed color half a dozen times during her spirited speech.

“Hard! I? I should say that is a term that would better apply to yourself,” she retorted. “Why, it seems to me that you are perfectly callous. I admire Mr. Faxon. He is a gentleman, in spite of his poverty and the menial position which he occupies, and certainly he is no coward. I honor him for his determination to get an education, even though he is willing to become a ‘drudge’ to obtain it, and I, for one, shall always be proud to claim him as an acquaintance.”

It would be difficulty to describe the conflict of emotions that raged within Philip Wentworth’s breast as he listened to the above brave and spirited defense of the man he hated; but it only acted as a spur to goad him on to achieve his purpose, and make a complete conquest of the fearless girl who had so nobly constituted herself Clifford Faxon’s champion.

He leaned suddenly forward, and boldly grasped her hands, which were lying idly in her lap.

“Miss Athol—Gertrude,” he began, in tones that shook with the passion that possessed him, “after what you have just said, I suppose it would better become me to slink out of your sight and hide my head, but I cannot. In spite of all, I am going to tell you that I love you madly, devotedly, and that I am even presumptuous enough to hope that I may yet win you for my wife. Perhaps, my darling, I may be a ‘coward’; no doubt Faxon, whom you so affect to admire, is worth a dozen such useless fellows as I, who am, unfortunately, an heir to the ‘proverbial spoon.’ But I can’t help it, though I am humiliated beyond expression by your scorn, and I will do anything in reason to atone for my seeming ingratitude, or whatever you may choose to call it, if only you will forgive me; smile on me once more; tell me that you will try to love me, and will some day marry me.”

CHAPTER XIII.
A REVELATION.

Philip Wentworth, when he began his impulsive declaration, had no more intention of making her a definite proposal of marriage than he had of hanging himself. It had been, and still was, his one aim in life to marry Mollie Heatherford, just as soon as his college course was completed.

Mr. Heatherford was numbered among New York’s richest men, and, as Mollie was his only child, Philip was looking forward to the handling of her magnificent inheritance, “when the old man should pass in his checks,” as he was wont to express it to himself.

The moment he stood committed to Miss Athol he could almost have bitten his tongue out with mingled anger and chagrin. He had simply been amusing himself in seeking her society, and making love to her something after the fashion of the story which they had read and discussed in “The Glen” on the day of Minnie’s accident, but, even though he saw he was winning the girl’s heart, he had never intended carrying the affair to a point-blank offer of marriage.

But egotism, vanity, and obstinacy were the strongest characteristics of his nature, and when Gertrude had so dauntlessly turned upon him, expressing her contempt for his conduct in no measured terms, and so fearlessly manifesting her admiration for, and espousing the cause of, Clifford Faxon, he had been goaded to jealous fury beyond all self-control, and a rash determination to conquer her and make her confess her love for him had taken possession of him. But instead of entangling her helplessly in his net, he had unthinkingly fallen into his own trap.

Gertrude was startled, to say the least, with the turn the conversation had taken. She had been conscious for some time that Philip Wentworth held a very warm place in her heart. He was handsome and brilliant, and had made himself attractive to her by those thousand and one flattering little attentions which render men captivating in the eyes of women.

But at heart she was a noble and most conscientious girl, and she had been bitterly disappointed upon discovering such weak and despicable traits in the character of her admirer as Philip had manifested, and the suffering which this had caused had carried her beyond herself, and thus she had given vent to the scorn that has been described.

But a sudden revulsion of feeling had come when he confessed his affection for her, and appealed so humbly, apparently, for her forgiveness, and she began to feel that it would not be so very difficult to pardon him and influence him to nobler sentiments, and, womanlike, she at once began to reproach herself for her harsh judgment of him.

“Why,” she exclaimed, with crimson cheeks and averted eyes when he paused for her reply to his suit, “you have literally taken my breath away, Mr. Wentworth.”

“And what have you done to me, I should like to know?” he retorted, as he shot her a roguish look, while he lifted one of her hands and imprinted a deferential caress upon it. “You have just flayed me alive, figuratively speaking.”

“Forgive me,” she murmured. “I am afraid I have said more than I ought.”

“Ah! but the sting lies in the fact that you could have thought such hard things of me,” Philip replied, in a tone of tender reproach. “Still,” he continued, drawing her gently toward him, “if you will only forgive the sinner and try to help make him a better man in the future, all that will be wiped out. Dearest, you can mold me to your own sweet will. I know that I am full of faults, but I am also your willing slave, eager to be led where you will. Gertrude, command me and love me, and no one was ever more tractable than I will be.”

Little by little he had drawn her toward him while he was speaking, until he had slipped his arms around her unresisting form, and she lay upon his breast, all her scorn, contempt, and indignation merged and swallowed up in her all-absorbing love for him.

It was very easy to forgive such an earnest pleader, and she told herself that one so ready to confess his faults would be easily reformed, and she was not averse to undertaking the task.

“Darling, you do love me; you will be mine?” he pleaded, in a tender whisper, with his lips close to her glowing cheek.

“Yes, Phil, I am forced to confess that I do love you,” Gertrude replied, in low, tremulous tones.

“And you are mine—you give yourself to me,” he persisted.

“Yes, dear, when the proper times comes—when you have completed your college course and are ready for me.”

A wave of triumph swept over the young man’s features. He had won his cause, he had gained his point, and that was the most he cared for.

It mattered little to him that he was desecrating holy ground in winning the love of this pure and lofty-minded girl. His own future he had marked out for himself, and if Mollie Heatherford returned safe and sound from Europe, and with her fortune intact, he had not the remotest idea of redeeming his troth to Gertrude Athol. He was simply fooling her to the top of his bent, for the sake of conquest and the want of something more to occupy his time.

How he was to get out of the scrape he had so unwittingly got into he did not know; but he did not trouble himself about that just then—he would find a way when the right time came. Meanwhile he would enjoy the present and let the future adjust itself.

So, the two were pledged—at least, so Gertrude understood their relations. But they agreed among themselves that they would preserve the matter a secret until Phil should be through college. It was sufficient, the fair girl said, with a trustfulness worthy of a better return, to know that they belonged to each other, and there would be time enough for their friends and the world to know it when their plans were more mature.

That same day by the evening post there came to Philip Wentworth a dainty missive from across the water, and it was full of entertaining incident and charming descriptions, and bore at the end the signature of Mollie Heatherford.

“By Jove!” the young man exclaimed, with an amused laugh, after he had read the epistle, “this is getting to be highly entertaining—one lady-love in Europe whose thought centers upon me; another here who firmly believes her life to be bound up in mine, and vice versa. Mollie, however, is but a child as yet, and hardly the companion I crave just at present. Gertrude is more to my mind for the time being. She is lovely, bright, and charming, and delightful company, so I will enjoy her society while I may.”

Such were the spirit and reflections of this vain and pleasure-seeking egotist, in whom selfishness was the mainspring of life.

The Athols remained at the mountains only a few days longer, as they had promised to visit some friends living upon the Hudson, while Philip, now that his object had been accomplished, had consented to give up his trip to Maine, and rejoin his mother at Saratoga.

But before their separation Philip—to keep up the farce he was playing—had slipped upon Gertrude’s finger a costly diamond.

“I did not have it marked,” he explained, “because of our agreement to keep our own counsel, but that can easily be done later,” and she, having the utmost confidence in him, was content.

Before her departure Gertrude sought an opportunity to have a little talk with Clifford. She found him, on the morning of the day she was going to leave, on the upper veranda of the hotel, where he was repairing a broken blind.

“You are always busy, Mr. Faxon,” she observed, with a cordial smile, as she seated herself in a rocker near him.

“Yes, Miss Athol,” the young man respectfully replied, as he removed his hat and tossed it upon the floor; “to be busy is a condition inevitable to my position, you know.”

This was said without the slightest evidence of self-consciousness, or of false pride because of the necessity which obliged him to occupy a humble position.

Gertrude watched him in silence for several minutes, admiring his fine, stalwart figure, his easy bearing, and feeling an additional respect for him because he did not pause in his work on account of her presence, and the fact that she had opened a conversation with him.

“I believe you love to work—you always appear to be absorbed in whatever you are doing,” she remarked, at length.

Clifford turned a smiling glance upon her, and she was impressed more than she ever had been before with the frank and genial expression of his face and the depth and earnestness of his clear brown eyes.

“Thank you,” he said. “I am sure that is a tribute worth winning. Yes, I do love to work—that is, I love to do well whatever I have to do.”

“That is certainly a most commendable spirit,” replied the girl, a slight shadow falling over her face as she thought of the aimless, pleasure-loving life that her lover was in the habit of leading—drifting with the tide, culling whatever was agreeable that was within his reach, and seduously avoiding everything that required personal effort, or anything of a self-sacrificing nature. “And I dare say,” she added, “you do your studying with the same cheerfulness and energy. I understand you are a Harvard student.”

Clifford colored a trifle, and wondered why she should be so interested in what concerned him.

“Yes,” he replied, after a slight pause, and with a thrill of feeling in his tones that betrayed more than his words, “I love to study; but, perhaps”—with a light laugh—“my interest in my present occupation is not prompted so much by a genuine love for it as for the privileges I expect to secure by means of it during the coming year.”

“I think you need not have qualified your previous statement, Mr. Faxon,” Gertrude gravely remarked, as she watched the shapely hand that was dexterously manipulating the screw-driver; “or, if it required any qualification at all, I should say that something higher than a mere liking or love for your work prompts you in whatever you do.”

Again Clifford turned a smiling look to her, and the light in his eyes thrilled her strangely.

“Can one be actuated by a higher motive than love?” he questioned.

“Well, I suppose not,” she thoughtfully responded, “and yet I have always regarded duty, or a conscientious desire to do what is exactly right, as a pretty high motive.”

“But what governs conscience?” inquired Clifford.

“God,” said Gertrude gravely.

“Yes, and God is—love,” was the quick, earnest response. “So love fulfills all law, moral as well as civil. Don’t you see that one must have a love for truth and justice in order to obey the dictates of conscience and feel a desire to do what is exactly right?”

“But conscience might sometimes prompt one to do that which would be very disagreeable. My duty to my neighbor or mankind in general might require something of me that I would absolutely hate to do,” Miss Athol argued. “Where would love come in in that case?”

“Yet it would be the very highest type of love that would lead one to obey such a demand of conscience or duty,” Clifford replied, his earnest eyes meeting hers; “it would be love for the principle of right-doing.”

“That seems almost paradoxical, doesn’t it, Mr. Faxon?” said Gertrude, smiling, “that one could love to do what one absolutely hated to do?”

“But the love of the principle that would incite one to adhere to that which was right and just would bring results which would annihilate or make one lose sight of the hatred, and so, after all, it would be love alone that would be the mainspring of the act,” Clifford returned, in a quiet, matter-of-fact tone, which plainly indicated that he was wont to argue along this line, and had settled some knotty problems for himself according to this rule.

“Yes, you are right,” Gertrude remarked, after a moment of thoughtful silence, while Clifford, having completed his work, gathered up his tools and arose to go about other business.

She arose, also, and went nearer to him.

“I thank you, Mr. Faxon,” she continued, “for having revealed to me what the highest type of love is; it is, indeed, as you have said, ‘a principle,’ and not a mere sentiment, and if the world were governed by it, according to your interpretation, we should make rapid strides toward the millennium. But, really,” she interposed, with a silvery laugh, “I had no idea we should have such a grave discussion. We have, almost unconsciously, wandered quite deeply into a metaphysical argument, and I have had something of a revelation.”

“A revelation?” Clifford repeated inquiringly.

“Yes; I have learned that love, according to the common acceptation of the term, is a synonym for selfishness; that is, that human affection, when actuated simply by personal attachment, is a selfish love. But, according to your higher interpretation of the word, it is a divine principle. Is not this a revelation?”

“Yes, and you are very receptive to have grasped it so readily,” Clifford replied, while he regarded her expressive face earnestly.

“I am going away after lunch,” Gertrude continued, smiling up at him, “but I shall not forget our little chat of this morning; it has done me good, and, let me add, you have been very kind to us all since we have been here. I am glad to have known you, and I hope we shall meet again some time.”

She frankly extended her jeweled hand to him as she concluded, and her beautiful eyes held something like an expression of reverence in them as they swept the fine face before her. He took her hand in the same spirit of friendliness that it was offered.

“Thank you, Miss Athol,” he said, “it will certainly give me great pleasure if I am ever so fortunate as to have my path cross yours again in the future.”

He bowed courteously to her as he concluded, then turned and quietly left the veranda.

Gertrude Athol’s sweet face was very grave as she stood where he left her, and thought over their recent conversation.

“‘An upstart,’ the ‘window-washer and drudge of Beck Hall,’” she repeated, under her breath and with clouded eyes. “Why, there is the stamp of true royalty on every feature of his grand face! He is the truest gentleman, in every sense of the word, that I have ever met. I am sure he is a man with a wonderful career before him, and he is certainly one of whose acquaintance I shall ever be proud. I wonder——”

What she wondered she did not frame in words, but she lifted her left hand and gazed at the ring which she had worn less than three days, with a look which held in it something of anxiety and doubt.

CHAPTER XIV.
AN UNEXPECTED ENCOUNTER.

The Athols left the hotel that afternoon. Philip Wentworth disappeared from the town the following morning, and no incidents of importance in connection with Clifford occurred during the remainder of the season, throughout which he continued to do honest and faithful work for his employer, and thus commended himself to every guest of the house.

Indeed, he proved himself so efficient, so courteous, and obliging under all circumstances, that Mr. Hamilton, who had conceived a feeling of friendship for him, made arrangements with him to return to him the following year, and under much more favorable conditions.

Meantime the Temples were well launched upon the topmost wave of social popularity in Saratoga. They had taken one of the most luxurious suites in the Grand Union Hotel, where Miss Minnie had her white-capped and white-aproned nurse, Mrs. Temple her maid, and Mr. Temple his valet.

No equipage was more stylish or elegant, no horses more spirited or better bred, no coachman or footman in finer liveries than those of this wealthy gentleman, who registered as a citizen of Boston, but who, it was rumored, had made the bulk of his fortune in the mines of Colorado and California, and who, it was also stated upon good authority, had twice been mayor of San Francisco, and might have been governor of the State, if he had chosen. What more did one need to become popular?

His handsome and cultivated wife was no less conspicuous, for no one was more charming in manner; no one wore richer or more tasteful costumes or finer jewels than she. Her husband was very fond and proud of her, and they were frequently referred to as “an ideal couple.” He loved to see her arrayed in silks, satins, laces, and rare gems; he doted upon having Minnie clad in the finest and daintiest of garments, and was never in a happier frame of mind than when, seated in his carriage with these, his two idols, he could roll about the country and note the admiring glances bestowed upon them.

He realized that it was a weak point; that it bordered upon vulgarity to be so proud of his wealth, and to love display to such an extent; but he had not been a millionaire so very long, and he had not yet outgrown the sense of exultation which had attended the lucky find that had so suddenly lifted him out of the depths of poverty to the very pinnacle of luxury and success.

Less than a score of years ago this distinguished gentleman, now figuring as “William Temple, banker and broker,” had been a penniless adventurer, although he fondly believed that this portion of his history was buried in utter oblivion for all time.

One chill, dreary night, in early spring, cold, hungry, and with scarce clothing to cover him respectably, he had wandered into a small mining-town of the far West. The proprietors of a rude hostelry had given him a scant supper, and allowed him to sleep in the adjoining stable. The next morning he had let himself to a carpenter, and for several weeks followed this trade, earning a couple of dollars a day.

Then one Sunday he, in company with another carpenter, made a trip to a mining-camp higher up among the mountains. The following morning they gave their notice to their employer, and, a week later, with picks, shovels, and a few supplies, started out on a prospecting tour.

Just one month from that time the hungry, destitute man, who a few short weeks previous had been wandering aimlessly about eking out an insufficient existence, stuck “pay-gravel” and—his fortune was made.

Two years afterward he made another lucky find in a California mine, and gold poured in upon him in a perfect flood.

Four years later, upon an imposing building in a busy street of San Francisco, might have been seen in heavy gilt letters, the legend: “William Temple, Banker,” while behind the glass doors of his private office the man sat for a few hours of every day to keep an eye upon the corps of efficient workers who managed his princely business.

There was little resemblance in the stately, distinguished, richly clad gentleman to the hungry, poverty-stricken carpenter and miner of a few years previous.

During the early years of his life he had acquired a good education, and thus, when wealth turned her tide upon him, it was no difficult matter, with careful reading, attention to the rules of etiquette and the accessories of broadcloth and fine linen, to make a good appearance and gain a foothold in society.

Not very long after establishing himself in San Francisco and attaining a position among the élite, he met the beautiful and accomplished widow, Mrs. Wentworth, from New York, who, with her son, a lad of about ten years, was visiting some friends in the city.

They were mutually attracted toward each other from the first, and, after a brief courtship of three months, they were married and set up a magnificent establishment on “Nob Hill,” and became at once prominent among the leaders of society.

The following year Mr. Temple, having become interested in politics, and ambitious to attain to even greater heights, was elected mayor of the city, and served in that capacity for two years.

Then Mrs. Temple, becoming anxious to have her boy fitted for Harvard, where his own father had been educated, and also beginning to yearn for the East, which had always been her home, entreated her husband to retire from business, rest upon the laurels he had won, cross the continent, and locate in some convenient suburb of Boston, where Philip could have the advantages which she craved for him.

At first he appeared somewhat reluctant to do this, for he had been interviewed and asked if he would accept a nomination for governor of the State; but he had become very fond of his stepson, for whom he also desired the best privileges the country afforded, and he finally yielded the point, and a few months later found the family located upon a beautiful estate in Brookline, Massachusetts, where—glowing accounts of their wealth and prestige having preceded them—they were warmly received among the élite of that aristocratic town, and also of cultured Boston.

Mrs. Temple’s first husband had been a classmate and close friend of Mr. Heatherford, of New York, and the families had always been in the habit of exchanging frequent visits previous to Mr. Wentworth’s death, and Mrs. Wentworth’s going West. But the intimacy, thus for a time interrupted, was resumed when they returned East, and located in Brookline, and then Philip and Mollie Heatherford had renewed the friendship of their early childhood, when they had played “keep house” together in a picturesque tent which Mr. Heatherford had caused to be erected beneath the shadows of two magnificent elms, that grew upon the lawn of his fine estate on the banks of the Hudson, and where they—the one thoughtlessly, the other with something of avarice and intrigue manifesting itself even then—agreed that when they should grow up they would “marry each other and really keep house together.”

Two years after the Temples located in Brookline, and when Philip was fourteen years of age, Minnie Temple came like a sunbeam into their home, and from the hour of her birth, the entire household, the servants not excepted, worshiped at her shrine.

Philip Wentworth had always been a selfish, exacting boy, but now the one redeeming trait of his nature showed itself in the tender love which he manifested for his little sister.

She was Mr. Temple’s idol, and he was in the habit of spending more hours in the nursery than in any other portion of the house. It was an oft-repeated joke of his wife’s to tell him that it was useless extravagance to keep a nurse, since he was more devoted and reliable, and achieved better results than any incumbent of the position they had ever had.

Before going in town to his business in the morning he would invariably visit the nursery to take a reluctant farewell of his darling, while his first act upon his return was to personally ascertain how she was and how she had fared during his absence.

He was extremely fond of Phil, also; was always kind to him, and lavish in everything where money was necessary, even though the young man had inherited a handsome fortune from his own father, but the sweet little girl was part and parcel of his very existence.

He had seemed like one suddenly stricken with mortal illness when he had first learned of the terrible fate that had menaced her, the day she had fallen over the cliff, at the mountains. For many hours he had seemed stripped of all strength, and his face was of the hue of death, while for days afterward he would not allow her out of his sight—scarcely out of his arms.

“What should I have done!—I could not live without her,” he had said, with pale lips and tones that quavered, like those of an old man with the intensity of his emotions.

“Will, I shall certainly be jealous of my own child if you go on like this,” his wife had said in playful reproof, but secretly startled to see him so completely unnerved.

“But, dear,” he had smilingly returned, and making an effort at self-control, “life would be a blank to me without either of you.”

But, even as he said it, he had hugged his child convulsively to his breast, and the almost involuntary act was more significant than words.

But as time passed the horror of that experience wore off, life resumed its rosy hue, and seemed to promise only harmonious conditions for the future, with his wealth and position assured as he firmly believed, and thus he flourished, spent his money with lavish hand, lived only in the present, and—worshiped his idols.

They had been in Saratoga only a short time when business of an urgent nature demanded Mr. Temple’s presence in New York City. He was quite disturbed by the call, and tried to persuade his wife to take Minnie and her nurse and accompany him, even though he was going to be gone only a couple of days at the longest.

Mrs. Temple regarded him with astonishment at the request.

“Positively, Will, I cannot,” she objected. “You know the ball at Congress Hall—the finest affair of the season, I am told it will be—is to come off Thursday night, and if I should go with you and try to get back for that I should be fagged out; besides, you know, there is some change which must be made in my costume before I can wear it, and the dressmaker is coming to-morrow morning.”

“True, I did not think of the ball when I spoke,” Mr. Temple admitted, but with a look of disappointment sweeping over his face.

He could not for a moment think of having her give up the ball, and he was equally anxious to attend it, for he had insisted upon having her order a magnificent costume, and had also had some jewels reset for her to wear upon the occasion. After all this lavish preparation, he knew it would be foolish to miss the affair, and simply to gratify a mere whim of his own.

Consequently he was obliged to go alone, although he made his arrangements for his trip with an unaccountable sense of reluctance and uneasiness.

He made the trip to New York in safety, transacted his business in a most satisfactory manner, and set out upon his return highly elated—several hours earlier than he had anticipated, his traveling-bag stuffed with toys and goodies for Minnie, some dainty and expensive trifles for his wife, and a set of diamond studs and sleeve-buttons which Phil had long coveted, and which he knew would be most acceptable, in view of the coming ball.

As soon as the train started he settled himself comfortably in his compartment, donned his traveling-cap, and was soon absorbed in his newspaper.

He read for an hour or more, and then started for the smoking-car. As he stepped inside of it and was in the act of closing the door behind him, he observed a man in the second seat on the left half-start to his feet and regard him with scowling intentness.

For a moment it seemed to William Temple that a hundred-pound sledge-hammer had crushed down upon his heart and brain. His strength suddenly forsook him, and it seemed as if he could not move another inch if his life depended upon it, while a blur came before his eyes.

But it was only for an instant. The next, his glance shot ahead, as if he was intent only upon finding a seat for himself, and he moved on, to all appearance, utterly oblivious of the fact that he had attracted special attention, or had himself observed any one whom he had ever known.

But he had not taken three steps when a brawny hand gripped his arm. He drew himself haughtily erect at the familiar act, and, turning, faced, with a stare of well-assumed surprise, the man who had presumed thus to detain him.

“Well, sir; what is it? What can I do for you?” he coldly inquired, but with an air of high-bred courtesy which had become habitual with him since he had known “better days.”

“Ha! ha!” ejaculated the individual whom he had addressed, and with an air of scornful amusement, “you do the high-and-mighty very well, but do you imagine for a moment that I don’t know you, Bill——”

But a hand was laid over his mouth before he could pronounce the name he was about to voice, and it was instantly smothered in indistinct muttering that made it unintelligible.

CHAPTER XV.
A LIFELONG ENEMY.

“Hush! for God’s sake, don’t air your knowledge before all the world.”

William Temple fairly hissed these words as he stooped and brought his lips on a level with the ear of his companion, while his face was absolutely colorless.

“Humph!” observed the other, as he roughly put away the hand from his mouth, “then it seems that I have at last jogged your memory sufficiently to make you willing to acknowledge a previous acquaintance.”

“I should have supposed that you would not be very anxious to renew an acquaintance with one whom you once bitterly repudiated,” Mr. Temple retorted acrimoniously, while a spot of angry red settled upon either cheek.

“Humph! it is one thing to repudiate—it is another to be ignored,” was the grim response. “Where have you been all these years? What are you doing now? Come, sit down here and give an account of yourself,” and the man moved along, making room for him in the seat he was occupying, for he had no companion.

“Really, sir, I am not aware that I am accountable to you for my movements, either in the past or present,” haughtily returned Mr. Temple, and regarding the face before him with a malignant look, while he mentally cursed himself in no measured terms for having come into the smoker.

“No—possibly you are not accountable to me,” was the sarcastic rejoinder; “at the same time, you might find it to your interest not to carry too high a head with me.”

William Temple shot a swift, searching glance into the steely eyes regarding him, and grew white again with mingled anger and fear. The other, observing it, smiled knowingly.

“Sit down! Sit down!” he said authoritatively, and patting the cushion with his strong, brawny hand; and, as if powerless to disobey, the haughty banker sank down beside him.

“Light a cigar if you want to smoke,” the man continued, as he glanced at the costly case in his companion’s hand, “it may serve to quiet your nerves after the start they’ve had. I have my pipe here.”

“Thank you; but I will smoke later,” said the banker, as he slipped his case into a pocket, while he waited with a set and rigid face for what might follow.

His companion smiled again, and coolly looked him over, from the silk traveling-cap upon his head to the fine, highly polished shoes upon his feet.

“Ahem! you look as if the world had used you pretty well,” he remarked laconically, at length.

“Yes, I have made some money during the last few years,” was the brief but rather complacent reply, while a gleam of evil triumph leaped into his eyes as he now observed, for the first time, the rather shabby duster that lay over the back of the seat in front of him, and the well-worn grip underneath it.

“Where did you make your money?”

“Some of it in Colorado—some in California.”

“Humph! Been quite a traveler, haven’t you? Been in the mining business, I suppose.”

“Yes; part of the time.”

“And the rest?”

“Taking my ease.”

“Really! You must have struck it rich?”

“Rather.”

“What have you on the docket at the present time?”

“I’ve just come from New York. I’m going to——”

“Saratoga, perhaps, for the races,” supplemented the stranger, as Mr. Temple suddenly cut himself short, and he caught the startled flash in his eyes.

“To Albany,” Mr. Temple added, as he began to revolve a certain plan in his mind, in case he found the man by his side was going beyond there.

“Well, you at least haven’t forgotten how to keep your own counsel, Bill,” his companion remarked, with a note of irritation in his tone. Then he added with a malicious leer: “Any interest to hear about the old folks and——”

“No!” emphatically interposed Mr. Temple, with an impatient frown.

“All dead—every one.”

“I know it.”

“Oh, you do! Who’s been keeping you posted?”

“I’ve read the papers.”

“Then you know, perhaps, how the property was left; but you couldn’t have expected anything else, taking all things into consideration,” and the stranger searched the banker’s face with keen, avaricious eyes.

“Oh, you need not be disturbed. I shall never put in any claim. You are welcome to every penny of it, as far as I am concerned,” responded Mr. Temple, with galling contempt.

“Well, now, prosperity seems to have made you surprisingly generous; but your magnanimity is all lost, for everything was made so tight that you couldn’t get a penny if you should try,” snapped the man, but his face had cleared at the other’s assurance, nevertheless. “Pity,” he continued tauntingly, “you couldn’t have been a little more square in the old days about some other matters.”

Mr. Temple turned upon him with a fierce though low-toned imprecation.

“You’d better let sleeping dogs lie,” he continued between his tightly closed teeth, and his eyes glowed with a savage light. His companion appeared to rather enjoy the effect which his words had produced, for he chuckled audibly.

“Well, Bill, wherever you may have been and whatever you may have been up to all these years, one thing is sure—you haven’t lost your hot temper. But where are you living now? Are you married, and have you a family?”

“Those are matters which do not concern you in the least,” was the cold reply. “Our paths diverged years ago, and I hoped at that time that they would never cross again. Let me advise you to go your own way, and I will go mine; mind your own affairs, and don’t presume to pry into mine—if you do, I swear I will spare nothing to crush you. I am rich and powerful, and I can do it. I will, too, I tell you, if you meddle with me.”

He had risen from his seat while speaking, and, as he concluded, he turned abruptly and swung himself out of the car without even a backward look.

He carried himself proudly erect until he was out of the sight of his enemy; then his haughty head dropped, his step faltered, and he groped his way back to his section like one who had suddenly been stricken partially blind, and with an overwhelming sense of weakness.

“Heavens!” he breathed, as he sank into his seat and wiped the moisture from his white face, “to think, of all the people in the world, I should have happened to run across him. Where on earth can he be going? Not to Saratoga, I most devoutly hope. Ha!” with a violent start, “he used to be tremendously fond of horses, and perhaps he is bound to Saratoga for the races. I don’t know of anything else that would be likely to take him so far from home. Oh! if I had not been in such a hurry to get back! If I had only waited for the next train!” he concluded, with a despairing sigh.

While he was absorbed in these painful thoughts the train stopped at a station. At first he paid no attention to the circumstances, but after a minute he glanced from the window, and saw his enemy walking the platform outside.

“Ah-a! he is watching for me—watching to see where I get off,” he muttered angrily. “But”—with sudden animation as some novel thought seemed to strike him—“I’ll lead him a dance that he will not soon forget. The next station is Albany. I will get off there. He will doubtless follow me to ascertain what my next move will be; but, by a little maneuvering, I can easily outwit him, and then catch the next express for Saratoga, which will leave Albany in about two hours.”

Accordingly, as the train drew near Albany, he began to gather up his belongings, and as the train pulled into Albany station he was standing on the steps ready to alight.

At the same moment his enemy hove in sight. Without appearing to pay the slightest attention to him, Mr. Temple deliberately walked inside the station. He was closely followed, and aware of the fact. Passing through and out upon the other side, he signaled a carriage.

“I wish to go to 257 —— Street,” he informed the cabman, who instantly responded to his call.

“Yes, sir; take you there in less than twenty minutes, sir,” and the next moment he was rolling along toward the street he had named.

Arriving at 257 —— Street, which proved to be the office of a prominent Albany lawyer, with whom Mr. Temple had some acquaintance, he ordered the cabman to wait, and, entering the building, inquired for the gentleman.

He was told he was out, and might not be in for some time. Mr. Temple said he would wait, and, seating himself, took up a newspaper to pass the time away.

More than an hour elapsed before the lawyer came, when his visitor informed him that, as he was passing through the city and had a little time to spare, he thought he would improve it by making him a friendly call.

They chatted socially for half an hour or so, when Mr. Temple bade him good day and returned to the station.

Five minutes later he met his pursuer face to face on the platform. The Saratoga train was due to start in about ten minutes. Fifteen minutes after that a train was scheduled to return to New York.

Presently Mr. Temple repaired to the ticket-office. He was immediately followed thither by the one who was shadowing him.

“A ticket for New York, please,” he said to the agent.

A minute later the bit of pasteboard and the change were in his hands, when he turned abruptly to find a blank look of disappointment had overspread the face of the man at his elbow.

“Well, is your—curiosity satisfied at last?” he demanded, with a sneer. “I told you I was coming to Albany. I have transacted my business here, and now I have bought my ticket back to New York. Come on, if you want to keep this thing up, and I’ll give you a good time at that kind of racket.”

The stranger flushed crimson, and his eyes blazed with anger at the taunting tone of his enemy.

“Do you live in New York?” he demanded.

“That is a matter which I will leave you to ascertain for yourself, Mr. Paul Pry,” said Mr. Temple, with a contemptuous laugh, as he turned his back on the man with an insolent air.

The stranger darted to his side.

“You and I will have a long account to settle one of these days,” he said menacingly, and then, putting his lips close to his ears, he whispered something that instantly blanched Mr. Temple’s face.

“I don’t believe it,” he said, with stiffening lips and a look of horror in his eyes.

“It is the truth—I swear it—I can prove it,” was the fierce retort, and then, without waiting for a reply, he strode for the Saratoga train that was waiting and almost ready to start.

“I thought so,” muttered Mr. Temple, as he watched him board it. “He is going to Saratoga for the races, and the very devil will be to pay if he should see me there with Nell and Minnie. What am I going to do to avoid such a catastrophe?”

At first he thought he would not rejoin his family at all, so great was his dread of again encountering the man from whom he had just parted.

He was tempted to telegraph his wife that he was unavoidably detained; that unforeseen business would not permit him to return to Saratoga, and it would be necessary for them all to go home at once; that she must come on immediately after the ball.

Then he feared that his telegram might alarm her, and cause her to worry and fear something had gone wrong with him; this would spoil the ball for her; he would miss seeing her in her new gown and jewels—an event which he had looked forward to with almost as much interest as she herself; while his heart yearned mightily for his child, and the thought of not being able to see her for several days longer was unbearable.

While he was standing there disconsolate and revolving these things in his mind, and feeling that he could not endure to see the train move on its way, his restless glance settled upon a placard that had been placed upon the wall near the ticket-office.

With a start and a thrill of exultation he read the board, which had the following notice upon it:

“A special car will leave Albany for Saratoga at 6:30 P. M.”

He went immediately to the ticket-office and inquired more particularly regarding the matter. The agent informed him that “the extra” had been put on for the superintendent and some other high officials of the road, who were going to Saratoga to attend a ball that was to be given at Congress Hall that evening; that the notice had been posted so that others, if they wished, might avail themselves of the arrangement.

Mr. Temple grasped at the chance like the drowning man at the proverbial straw, and, finding that his ticket would be good for the special, at once felt as if a mountain had been removed from his heart.

Fearing, however, that his wife might be anxious over his non-appearance on the regular train, he sought the telegraph-office, and sent her the following message:

“Am unavoidably detained here. Will leave on special two hours later. Have maids pack for Boston—must return to-morrow.

“W. F. T.”

CHAPTER XVI.
CLIFFORD VISITS AN OLD FRIEND.

It was quite late in the evening when Mr. Temple arrived in Saratoga and rejoined his wife. She was already arrayed for the ball, and was certainly a magnificent-looking woman.

Her costume was composed of white satin, combined with garnet velvet and rare point-lace. A tiara of diamonds flashed its dazzling gleams above the coils of her rich brown hair. A necklace of the same gems encircled her white neck, while other ornaments of unique designs and great value adorned her corsage.

“Well, Nell, you are a stunner!” was her husband’s admiring comment, after exchanging greetings with her. “You usually do ‘take the cake’—excuse the slang—but to-night you really outshine everything in the past.”

“Thank you, Will, I’m glad you are pleased; but, dear, don’t stop to compliment me—dress as quickly as you can or we shall be late for the opening march,” Mrs. Temple responded, with an appreciative smile, but with a note of impatience in her tones.

“I wish you would let me off, Nell—I really do,” said Mr. Temple appealingly. “I am tired and dusty after my long ride, and haven’t an atom of enthusiasm for the affair. Let Phil act as your escort, and I will have a bath, a quiet smoke, then go to bed, for we must get away as early as possible to-morrow.”

His wife turned and regarded him curiously, observing for the first time the worried expression in his eyes.

“What detained you so to-night?” she inquired; “and why this hurried flitting?—why must we return to Boston to-morrow?”

“Oh, business, of course,” said her husband, as he turned away from her searching gaze, ostensibly to unstrap his grip, but in reality to conceal the pallor which he felt was creeping into his face; “an affair that has been hanging fire for some time, and has now, unfortunately for our outing here, reached a climax.”

“Can’t you go and settle it, and then return for us? Will it take long?” queried his wife thoughtfully.

“So long, dear, that I could not think of being separated from either you or Minnie,” returned Mr. Temple, as he came again to her side and took her tenderly into his arms. “Of course,” he continued regretfully, “I am awfully sorry to take you away while you are enjoying yourself so much, but really it seems unavoidable as things stand.”

“Oh, never mind, Will,” she responded cheerfully, and meeting his lips with an answering caress; “my enjoyment here would be spoiled without you, and the trunks are already half-packed. I set the girls about it as soon as I received your telegram; and, of course, I know it must also be a disappointment to you to miss the races.”

“Nell, you are a jewel,” said the man appreciatively, and greatly relieved by the readiness with which she yielded to his plans; “and now are you going to let me off for this evening?”

“Let you off, indeed!” she retorted, with pretended indignation. “Why, Will, I never heard of anything so absurd. Here you have spent no end of money—to say nothing of my own efforts—to get me up in this superb style, and now you do not care to come with me to see how I will shine among other brilliant social stars at this most magnificent affair of the season. Phil is well enough and a most attentive escort, but I shall not appear at Congress Hall to-night without my husband. Come, Will,” she added, laying her white arms around his neck with a coaxing air, “I know you are tired, but you really must come—at least, to take me in and dance once or twice with me; then, if you want to come back and go to bed I shall not mind so much.”

The man sighed, but made no further objection. But he was oppressed with a terrible fear that he might run against his enemy if he should leave his hotel, and he would rather lose half his fortune than that he should ever set eyes on his beautiful wife or learn anything in connection with his domestic affairs, and he inwardly cursed the luck that had caused their paths to cross that day.

He knew that, to a certain extent, he was in this man’s power—that he could ruin his whole future if he chose, and he had not the slightest doubt that he would choose if the opportunity offered; hence his eager desire to get his family away from Saratoga before he could gain any information regarding them.

But, of course, all this involved secrets of the past which he could not explain to his wife, and he was consequently obliged to resign himself to the inevitable and yield the point under discussion.

Accordingly, less than an hour later the wealthy banker and his resplendent wife made their appearance at Congress Hall, where they were by no means the least conspicuous among the brilliant company that thronged its spacious ballroom.

But a heavier heart could not have been found beating in the breast of any human being than that of William Temple, in spite of his millions, and the seemingly enviable position which he occupied in the world.

He found himself anxiously watching every face, in search of the one he so much dreaded, and yet he well knew that the man was not likely to frequent fashionable assemblages like the present. He would be far more likely to be found in the smoking-room at a third-rate hotel, discussing the pros and cons of the various noted horses that were booked for the forthcoming races.

Yet one could never tell what might happen, for curiosity, pure and simple, might prompt him to look in upon that brilliant scene, and the bare possibility of being seen by him with his wife upon his arm gave him a chill that actually set his teeth chattering; for in such a case he knew it would be a very easy matter for him to make inquiries, learn the name he was now living under, where he was stopping, and the place of his residence.

But he managed to conceal his uneasiness from his wife and Phil, and was, as usual, punctiliously observant of all the demands of etiquette until it was proper for Mrs. Temple to release him and accept the attentions of others.

Then he heaved a long sigh of relief, and drifted into an obscure corner of the ballroom, whence he only emerged whenever it became absolutely necessary for him to do so.

Shortly after supper, however, Mrs. Temple, who realized that her husband was not himself, though she attributed his condition wholly to excessive weariness, considerately signified her readiness to retire, and they returned to their hotel.

The next morning found all, save Phil, on their way to Boston, and that same evening back in their own palatial home in Brookline.

But it was some weeks before William Temple could breathe with his accustomed freedom, and he still found himself watching faces in the street with a vague fear in his heart that the one which he dreaded most of any in the world would suddenly confront him with the malicious leer which it had worn when the man had whispered those few blighting words in his ear as they stood together in the station at Albany.

This nervousness wore away after a time, however, and he gradually resumed his usual pursuits with his accustomed vigor and enthusiasm.

Nothing of special interest occurred in connection with the various characters of our story during the three succeeding years, unless we mention the fact that Clifford never abated one iota of his zeal during this time, and won a scholarship every year, acquitting himself in such a manly fashion in every department, and bearing himself so genially toward every one, that he thereby gained the admiration and friendship of classmates and professors alike.

Each summer vacation found him at the same mountain-house, where he earned a snug little sum, which was a great help to him in pursuing his college course.

The Christmas holidays and other recesses were spent with his friend, Professor Harding, and his family, who had removed to Springfield, Massachusetts, where the professor had secured the position of superintendent of schools.

Once every year Clifford had paid a flying visit to Cedar Hill, and called upon his old friend, Maria Kimberly, who was still housekeeper for Squire Talford. He was in no wise disappointed upon these occasions because he did not meet the squire, who, if he happened to be in the house, never showed himself; but Maria invariably greeted him with a beaming face and eyes full of happy tears.

“What a gentleman you have grown, to be sure!” she remarked admiringly during one of those calls after their greetings were over.

“Thank you, Maria,” Clifford retorted, with a gleam of mischief in his handsome brown eyes, “but, really, I am in some doubt whether to accept that as a compliment or not, for I always tried to be a gentleman.”

“Oh, get out! You know I didn’t mean that, Clifford,” the woman returned, and flushed. “Of course, you were always a gentleman. With such a mother as you had you couldn’t have been anything else. I only meant that you’ve got a spruce look about you that you didn’t have when you lived here—how could you, when you wasn’t allowed a decent thing to wear!”

“I understand,” said Clifford, reassuringly; “but”—willing to do the squire justice—“my freedom suit was a pretty good one.”

“Yes—it was,” Maria laconically observed, with an audible chuckle, while her square shoulders shook with suppressed mirth.

The squire had never quite gotten over the mistake (?) about Clifford’s freedom suit, and never saw Tom, the milk-driver, wearing the shoddy clothes that had been made for himself without becoming secretly enraged and giving expression to muttered remarks that were more emphatic than elegant.

At the time of this last call of Clifford’s, which occurred during a short recess of his senior year, the man had gone to New Haven on business, and Maria kept him talking so busily that she did not realize how rapidly the time was passing until a glance at the clock made her start and suddenly cut herself short.

“My!” she exclaimed, “here it is most five o’clock, and you must have some supper before you go.”

She was bound that he should partake of her hospitality, and yet she did not want the two to meet, for she was sure the squire would make the young man uncomfortable.

Clifford urged her not to trouble herself, saying he would get his supper in New Haven before returning to Springfield.

“Well, I guess not!” she returned, with considerable spirit. “If Maria Kimberly can’t give her friends a bite now and then when they take the pains to come to see her, she’ll clear out and let somebody else keep house here.”

Clifford saw that she would be hurt if he refused, therefore he allowed her to have her way. She tied a spotless apron around her ample waist and flew about the kitchen, mixing some of her delicious, old-time biscuit, but keeping up a stream of conversation all the while, and in less than half an hour had a dainty supper, of everything that she knew Clifford liked best, laid out in the most tempting manner before her guest.

“I have never enjoyed a meal like this since I went away from the shadow of your hospitable wing, Maria,” he told her, as he finished his second cup of tea, “and I haven’t forgotten that you have promised to come to live with me when I am able to set up an establishment of my own.”

The woman shot him a delightful look in return for his praise and his reference to that “promise,” though she said, with an independent toss of her head:

“I can assure you you wouldn’t have been allowed to forget it, and I’m comin’ just as sure as my name is Maria Kimberly.”

“What!” cried Clifford, in mock consternation, but with a merry twinkle in his eyes, “is there any danger of your changing it?”

“Get along, you rogue! You know there isn’t,” she retorted, with a giggle, and growing crimson at the imputation; “but I don’t care how soon you get somebody to change her name for yours and set up that establishment.”

“You don’t mean that you are ready to desert the squire, do you?” the young man inquired.

“Well, the squire don’t grow amiable as he grows older—he’s been crosser’n usual the last two years, and he hain’t never found a boy to suit him since you went away,” said Maria confidentially.

Clifford did not care to discuss the man’s disposition with her, and he adroitly turned the subject by inquiring:

“Maria, how would you like to come to Cambridge when I take my degree next June?”

“Do you mean it?” she demanded eagerly.

“I should not invite you if I did not mean it,” he gravely replied.

“Of course you wouldn’t—you never was a hypocrite, I’ll say that for you, and—and I’d just love to come,” the woman observed, with tears in her eyes. “I declare! I should just be too proud for anything!”

“Well, then, I will see that you have your invitation in good season,” said Clifford, deeply touched by her appreciation of the small attention.

Maria thanked him, and then, rising, he said he must go. He left a courteous message for Squire Talford; then, bidding her good-by, went away, but leaving a ray of sunshine in the lonely woman’s heart which warmed and cheered her for many a long month.

The squire merely grunted when, upon his return, she informed him of Clifford’s visit, but she could see that he was deeply interested in her account of him—what he had said, and how he had looked.

The remaining months of the year sped very swiftly for Clifford, many days seeming all too short, for he was working very diligently and perseveringly.

But the examinations were over at last, and he found that he had won the second honor in his class.

It was a proud moment for him when he was informed that the salutatory oration would be expected from him, while many of his classmates rejoiced with him.

“He has earned it, if anybody ever earned anything,” his friend Rogers observed when the honors were awarded; “he is a splendid fellow, and I am downright glad for him.”

Philip Wentworth just managed to pull through, and probably would have been perfectly satisfied with the knowledge that he would receive his degree had not all his old hatred been aroused and his jealousy stirred upon learning of Clifford’s achievement, and the interest which the whole class was manifesting in him.

CHAPTER XVII.
THE SQUIRE RECEIVES A SHOCK.

Maria Kimberly was made very proud and happy one morning upon Squire Talford’s return from the post-office by the reception of the long-promised invitation to attend the commencement exercises at Harvard.

With a beaming face she read it through several times, handling it with great care lest she should mar the satin-smooth paper by a single wrinkle or blemish.

Then with an air of pride, as if some great personal honor had been conferred upon her—as, indeed, she felt there had been—she carried it to the squire, who was in his customary seat upon the veranda reading his morning paper.

“There!” she exclaimed triumphantly, “I always knew that boy’d come out at the top of the heap!”

“What boy?” inquired the man, without a suspicion that she was referring to Clifford, while he held out his hand for the heavy cream-tinted sheet which she was regarding so fondly.

“Read and see for yourself,” said Maria, with a satisfied smile, as she left it with him and went back to her work in the kitchen, while she began to con over in her mind the necessary preparations she would have to make for the important event.

“If I’m goin’, I’m goin’ in shipshape,” she asserted, with an air of decision. “For one thing, I’ll have that new black silk that I’ve be’n savin’ up for, for the last five years, and I’ll just ask Alice Eldridge to tell me how to have it made, and what I need to go with it.”

Alice Eldridge, by the way, was the minister’s daughter, a pretty, refined girl, and noted in Cedar Hill for her excellent taste.

While Maria was planning for this most important event, Squire Talford, having carefully read the communication which she had handed to him, sat with bowed head and clouded brow, absorbed in thought, while it was evident that his reflections were not of a very pleasing nature.

“Humph!” he finally ejaculated, “that proud-spirited youngster has proved himself smart, and no mistake! So he has won the salutatory! I never believed he’d get through—and he has worked his own way mostly! I confess I’m a trifle curious to know how he’ll acquit himself as an orator. I’ve half a mind to drop down to Cambridge on the sly and see what he can do; he’d never be able to pick me out in the crowd.”

He was somewhat taken aback, however, when, upon handing back the invitation and inquiring, with a sarcastic inflection, if she intended to “honor the occasion with her presence,” Maria spiritedly informed him:

“Of course I’m goin’. You don’t suppose I’d stay away, much as I think of that boy, and ’specially when he hasn’t either kith or kin to show a bit of interest in him on the proudest day of his life. And, squire”—with a little settling of her determined chin—“I’m goin’ to New Haven to do some shoppin’, and I’d like to be paid up to date, if you please.”

“Very well,” said the man shortly, and with a frown, for it always hurt him sorely to pay out any of his money unless it was for his own needs or gratification.

And Maria did go to New Haven the following week, carrying a well-filled purse with her, and accompanied by Alice Eldridge, who was to assist in the selection of the gown and other fixings that were to do honor to the “proudest day of Clifford’s life.”

And the result of this expedition was most gratifying, for, when the kind-hearted and happy woman presented her at Cambridge on the morning of Commencement Day, and which was almost as great an event to her as to Clifford, she astonished the young man by a most genteel and quietly fashionable appearance.

Her really nice black silk was made in the prevailing style, fitted her nicely, and, with some “real lace” ruffles at the neck and wrists, was very becoming.

Her black lace bonnet, with its nice ties and a few modest sprays of mignonette, had been made by a New Haven milliner, who evidently knew her business and studied effects, while a pretty handkerchief of linen lawn, also bordered with “real lace,” and a pair of well-fitting, pearl-gray kid gloves—all selected under the careful supervision of Miss Eldridge—completed a tout ensemble that was very gratifying.

“Why, Maria, how very, very nice you look!” Clifford exclaimed, with beaming eyes, as he warmly grasped her hand, after assisting her to alight from the carriage which he had sent to her lodging-house to convey her to the college.

“I’m glad you like it,” she quietly returned, but bestowing a shy glance of satisfaction upon the lustrous folds of her gown as she spoke.

“Like it! why, I am proud of you!” Clifford responded, with a sincerity that sent a warm thrill through the woman’s heart and a bright spot of color to either cheek.

Mrs. Kimberly, being conscious, in a measure, of shortcomings in her use of the English language, preserved a discreet silence for the most part, except when she was alone with Clifford, and thus did not once offend his sensitive ears in the presence of his friends.

He found her a good seat where she could both hear and see well, and was then obliged to leave her by herself until the exercises should be over.

A few moments later a tall, spare, gray-haired man might have been seen slipping into the auditorium, where he sought an obscure corner, and appeared as if he was desirous of escaping observation. He was Squire Talford.

Maria had left New Haven on the two-forty-five train for Boston, the day previous, and he had followed her on the five o’clock express.

It was his intention to steal in just in season to hear Clifford’s oration, then out again as soon as it was delivered, so that no one might know of his surreptitious trip. He missed his calculations, although he was not aware of the fact, for Clifford’s keen eyes had espied him, almost immediately after he took his own seat upon the platform, and instantly he knew that the man, actuated by curiosity, had come to ascertain how he would acquit himself in the trying ordeal before him.

It was really the best thing that could have happened for Clifford, for it at once inspired him with a sense of absolute self-possession and the determination to do himself honor.

“He has come to criticize me,” was his mental comment, “and now I will prove what I once told him—that I would some time win honor and respect for the name I bear.”

A great calm settled over him, although until that moment he had been conscious of a feeling of nervousness in view of facing that great audience, and when he at length arose and went forward, there was not a quiver of even a muscle—he lost all thought of fear in the determination to prove to the man who had once expressed the utmost contempt for him, that he had conquered every obstacle, and attained the goal he had sought.

And even this motive was soon swallowed up in his all-absorbing theme, which he handled with remarkable skill and originality. His production not only showed careful research and a thorough knowledge of his subject, but sound logic, clear and brilliant reasoning, and the power to gain and hold the attention of his audience by his graceful diction, and a fluency that was absolutely irresistible.

His presence also was a great point in his favor, for he certainly was a fine appearing young man. He had grown some inches during the last four years; his figure had developed, and he was now strong and stalwart; broad-shouldered and straight as an arrow, while one could not look into his frank, honest, intelligent face without at once becoming conscious that the character of the young orator was as manly, clean, and attractive as his person.

When the exercises were over nothing was to be seen of the squire, and Clifford made no attempt to find him. He judged that the man did not care to meet him, or he would not have sought so obscure a place in the auditorium. He felt sure that he had been impelled to come to Harvard only by motives of curiosity and criticism, therefore he immediately sought Maria, as soon as he was at liberty, and devoted himself exclusively to her entertainment.

He conducted her over the beautiful grounds, and through some of the dormitories, to let her see how college students lived, and finally took her to the University Museum to see the wonderful “glass flowers” and the valuable geological and zoological collections.

There was not time to show her all that he would have liked her to see, for she insisted that she must return on a certain train, for the next day was “churning day, and the cream must not be neglected.”

Clifford accompanied her to the station, and saw her comfortably settled in a parlor-car—for Maria, who had determined to do nothing by halves on this great occasion, already had the ticket for her seat—then sat and chatted with her for the little time that remained before the train would start.

“What are you goin’ to do now you’re through college?” Maria inquired, after she had thanked him for the pleasure he had given her, and told him how proud she was of the distinction he had won.

“Oh, I have not made up my mind yet what I shall settle down to for a permanent business,” Clifford thoughtfully responded. “You know I have my own way to make in the world, the same as I have had to do in order to get through my course; and, as yet, there has seemed to be no promising opening for me, although I have had my eye out for some time. I have done pretty well, however, during the last three summers, with Mr. Hamilton at his mountain hotel.”

“Yes, I know; but—I hope you ain’t goin’ to settle down to keep a hotel after spendin’ four long years gettin’ your education, and comin’ out at the top of the heap,” said Maria, with visible anxiety.

Clifford laughed at the characteristic speech.

“I assure you, Maria, there are some well-educated men who have made a great success at keeping hotel,” he said. “But I do not think that I should be quite satisfied with that kind of a life. At the same time, I am going back to Mr. Hamilton for this summer also, since nothing better has offered. He is contemplating opening a fine new house in Washington in the fall, and I have agreed to go with him and act as clerk until I can find something more to my mind. I must do something, you know, to keep even with the world until the right thing offers.”

“Well,” said Maria gravely, after a minute of thoughtful silence, “I’ve saved up some money, and if ever you need a few hundred to give you a lift, you’re more’n welcome to them.”

Clifford was deeply touched by this evidence of her regard for him. He flushed, and a suspicious moisture gathered in his eyes as he returned a trifle huskily:

“You were always good to me, Maria, during my boyhood, and I have always felt more grateful to you than I could ever express, and now this kind offer is in keeping with all your previous kindness. But, my friend, I am not in need of any financial help just at present.”

“Well, but if you ever should—I haven’t a soul in the world to care for, or who feels any special interest in me—if ever you do need it you’ll take it, won’t you, Clifford?” said the woman eagerly.

“Yes, Maria,” he answered gently, and seeing she would be deeply wounded if he refused, “if I ever find myself in a strait where it becomes necessary for me to borrow, I will come to you for help, and, believe me, I shall never forget your goodness in offering it. But there is the bell, and I must go, or I shall soon find myself on the way to New Haven with you,” he smilingly concluded, as he arose to leave.

“I’m sure ’twouldn’t be the worst cross I’ve ever had to bear if you did,” said the woman, trying to speak lightly, but with an unmistakable quaver in her tones.

“I can’t inflict it upon you this time,” the young man returned in the same strain, as he extended his hand to her in farewell, and, after promising that he would write her from time to time regarding his movements, he hurried from the train.

It was nearly midnight when Maria Kimberly reached home, where she found the squire still up and quietly reading his evening paper by the student-lamp in the dining-room.

He had arrived from his stolen trip only about an hour previous. He merely glanced up as Maria came in and expressed her surprise at finding him up so late; but he asked no questions regarding her journey, and she was determined to volunteer no information.

She had not a suspicion that he, also, had attended the commencement at Harvard, for Clifford, surmising that she knew nothing of his presence, and feeling sure that the man did not wish it known, had kept his own counsel.

But Squire Talford, although he imagined that he had been so shrewd in his movements that neither Clifford nor his housekeeper would ever learn where he had been that day, had, nevertheless, had an unexpected experience which had given him quite a shaking up in a way.

As he was hurrying away from the college grounds to catch an electric-car to take him to the railway-station, he suddenly came upon a group of people standing upon the sidewalk beside an elegant carriage to which a magnificent pair of black horses in silver-mounted harness were attached, and attended by a driver and coachman in handsome livery.

The group comprised a middle-aged gentleman of distinguished appearance, a beautiful woman richly clad, a lovely child of eight or nine years, and a young man of about twenty-two or twenty-three.

“Oh, papa, please take me to see the birds,” the squire heard the child say in a pleading tone. “You know, you promised me that you would.”

“Yes, Minnie, darling, I did; but mama says there will not be time to-day. You know we are expecting guests, and she must get home to receive them,” the gentleman replied, while he fondly patted the small hand that rested upon his arm.

“But I want to see them so much,” said the child, with quivering lips.

“And you shall, dear. I will come again with you to-morrow morning, and that is the very best that I can do,” her father returned.

“Ah! pardon me,” he added politely, as he found he was standing in the way of some one who wished to pass. “Ha——!”

The startled exclamation burst from him, and was echoed by Squire Talford as the two men found themselves face to face and recognized each other.

They stood for a full minute and gazed, as if fascinated, into each other’s eyes, the squire’s face growing gray and rigid as he looked, his lips twitching convulsively from some violent, inward emotion.

“Pardon me,” he finally observed, and pulling himself together with a visible effort. Then, with a sweeping glance at the other faces of the group, he lifted his hat and walked briskly away down the street.

CHAPTER XVIII.
MOLLIE HEATHERFORD RETURNS.

“Why, Will! who was that man?” inquired Mrs. Temple in a tone of surprise, as she turned to observe the retreating form of Squire Talford after the encounter described in the last chapter.

“I cannot tell you, dear,” replied her husband, in the quietest and calmest of tones.

“But how strangely he appeared! He acted as if he knew you!” persisted the lady, and still gazing after the man.

“Yes, he did,” her husband admitted, with apparently the utmost composure; “he evidently mistook me for some one else. Now, shall we go?” he concluded, turning toward the carriage, but gnawing his under lip nervously, for it had required all the force of his will to control himself during the recent encounter with one whom, in his youth, he had deeply wronged, and whom, as a natural consequence, he had most cordially hated ever since. He assisted his wife into the carriage with the same loverlike attention which he had always shown her, then lightly swung his little daughter in after her.

“You are not coming with us, you said, Phil,” he observed, as with one foot on the step he turned to address the young man.

“No, I cannot. I have an engagement which will detain me for a couple of hours; but I will try to get home in time for dinner,” Philip replied.

“Yes, do, Phil,” said his mother earnestly, “it would seem very remiss if you should be absent on the first evening of the Heatherfords’ visit; it almost seems as if you ought to come with us and be there to welcome them.”

“But I really cannot,” Philip responded, with a slight frown; “they have chosen an unfortunate day for their arrival, and I am sure they will excuse it if I am not there to greet them. You can explain, and I will certainly be in season for dinner.”

Mrs. Temple appeared to be satisfied with this assurance, and the carriage drove away, while Philip slowly wended his way back into the college grounds, and with a very thoughtful air. He had never for a moment wavered in his determination to marry Mollie Heatherford and her “magnificent fortune”; but, through his selfish love of pleasure and his constant pursuit of amusement, he now found himself disagreeably hampered in some ways, which might, if they should become known, interfere with his interests and plans in connection with Miss Heatherford. He had kept up a correspondence with her during her absence abroad, although Mollie’s letters had been tantalizingly irregular, and far from being of as tender a nature as he desired; nevertheless, he had, from time to time, referred to their old-time betrothal with an assurance which indicated that he, at least, regarded it as binding and definite.

At the same time he had not scrupled to keep up a desperate flirtation with several other pretty girls, to say nothing about his entanglement with Gertrude Athol, to whom he was still practically pledged. Indeed, Miss Athol was at that moment awaiting him to attend her to a spread that was to be given by one of his classmates in Beck Hall.

She had come on from Buffalo to spend a week with some friends in Cambridge, and attend the commencement exercises in which she was, of course, more than usually interested this year, because of Phil’s participation in them.

Now that the time was approaching when he knew that Gertrude would expect him to redeem his pledge to her, ask her hand of her father, and declare his intentions to the world, Phil began to experience not a little uneasiness regarding his precarious situation and how he was going to escape from it. Therefore, he was in no enviable frame of mind as he re-entered the college grounds, after his mother’s departure, to seek Gertrude by appointment. He found her with a group of young people, all of whom were invited to the “spread,” and she bestowed a bright smile of welcome upon him as he came to her side.

She was even lovelier than when we saw her at the mountains three years previous. She seemed taller, her form had developed to more perfect proportions, and her expressive face bespoke growth of character, earnestness, and purity of purpose.

She was clad all in white, even to her hat, which was trimmed with graceful, nodding ostrich-plumes. It was an exceedingly dainty costume, stylish as well, and, with her queenly bearing, her sweet, pure face, her clear brown eyes, and wealth of golden hair, she did not fail to attract attention wherever she went, and Philip was really proud of her, and also fond of her, in a way.

The party turned their steps in the direction of Beck Hall as soon as he joined it, while Gertrude looked as if she needed nothing more to complete her happiness.

“Everything has passed off lovely,” she whispered, as they followed their friends, then added shyly, “but, of course, you know in whom my chief interest centered.”

“And did I acquit myself to your satisfaction?” queried Philip, with a smiling and admiring glance, which plainly indicated where his present interest centered.

“That goes without saying,” Gertrude replied, though she flushed slightly.

Then she seemed as if about to add something, but suddenly checked herself, while a look of thoughtfulness settled over her countenance, and her companion observed that she scanned every face they met, as if in search of some one.

An hour and a half later, when the party broke up and they were on their way out of the building, they encountered in one of the halls some students who were just coming in. Clifford was among them.

Gertrude espied him instantly, and her eyes lighted with pleasure, for she had been hoping to meet him, and his was the face she had been watching for. She turned away from her companion and went directly to him, her white-gloved hand cordially outstretched to greet him.

“Mr. Faxon,” she began, in her bright, vivacious way, “I am so glad of this opportunity. I hoped I should meet you to-day, and I want to congratulate you—your oration was positively grand.”

Clifford smiled as he doffed his hat and took the proffered hand.

“It certainly is a great pleasure to me to meet you again, Miss Athol,” he heartily responded, then added modestly, “and thank you for your commendation, but I fear you dignify my effort beyond its worth.”

“Indeed I do not, and, I assure you, I am only one out of many who have voiced the same opinion,” Gertrude earnestly replied. Then, as she saw he was averse to being made conspicuous, she inquired: “Are you glad to get through with your course?”

“Yes, glad on some accounts, although I have thoroughly enjoyed my four years’ work. One always is glad to attain a goal he has been seeking, you know. But now I have to begin the real battle of life.”

“And you will win the victory, I am sure, just as you have won in everything else you have ever attempted,” said the beautiful girl, with shining eyes. “I wish you all success, and the next time we meet I shall expect to find you far on the road to fame.”

“Thanks,” said Clifford, flushing at her words. Then, with a mischievous gleam in his eyes, he questioned: “But are you contemplating leaving the country for an indefinite sojourn?”

“No, indeed; why?”

“Why, you know it takes many years to win fame, and it would be a matter of sincere regret to me if I thought our paths would not cross meantime.”

Gertrude laughed musically.

“It certainly will not take a great while for you, if you go on as you have begun, and are governed by the same principle and earnestness of purpose as when I last saw you,” she observed, with a look which told him that she still remembered their conversation on the piazza of the hotel in the mountains. “At all events, I hope it will not be years before we meet again. But au revoir, I must run away now, for my friends are waiting for me,” and with a charming smile and bow she was gone.

Philip Wentworth had withdrawn a short distance when Gertrude greeted his rival, whom he never recognized if he could avoid doing so, and his face was sullen and overcast when she rejoined him.

“Are you annoyed over having to wait for me?” she inquired, keenly sensitive to the change in his manner.

“I should not be annoyed to wait your pleasure any length of time under ordinary circumstances,” said Philip, with studied coldness.

Gertrude swept his face with a searching look.

“Under ordinary circumstances,” she repeated. “I think I do not quite understand you.”

“Well, then, to be plain, it rather tries my temper to have you waste your time and breath on that upstart,” he replied, with some irritation.

The girl turned upon him sharply.

“Do you still cherish that old-time animosity against him?” she gravely inquired.

“Well, I certainly do not love him,” was the moody response.

Gertrude drew herself up proudly, and her eyes flashed.

“I am ashamed of you, Phil—I really am, for nursing such a spirit all these years. I cannot understand it when you owe him so much. But if Mr. Faxon is an ‘upstart,’ I only wish that the world was full of just such people.”

“Which, I might infer, would shove me out entirely. Thanks, awfully,” sneered her companion.

“You are entirely welcome,” the girl shot back spiritedly; “that is, if you are so narrow-minded as to take offense at my courtesy toward Mr. Faxon. I have known him to be a fine young man; he bids fair to make his mark in the world, and his oration to-day was positively grand.”

“So I heard you observe to him,” Philip sarcastically rejoined.

There was a moment of awkward silence, and then Gertrude’s natural sweetness conquered her momentary anger. She turned to her lover with a frank and sunny smile.

“Don’t let us quarrel, Phil, and you haven’t the slightest cause to be jealous of Mr. Faxon, for, although I respect him very highly, I do not love him, and I do love somebody else. But, dear, you must not think that because I have promised to be your wife I have pledged away my individuality or my independence. I have my opinions, I have a right to express them, and I shall expect that they will receive just the same deference that I shall pay to yours. Is not that fair and right, Phil?”

But the young man looked straight ahead and preserved a sulky silence. Gertrude studied his face for a moment; then she resumed with heightened color, but with a little prouder poise of her pretty head:

“It has been conceded by every one whom I have heard speak of it, that Mr. Faxon’s oration was the finest effort of the day. Why should not you, as well as others of your class, candidly admit it, and give him the honor due him? But we will not talk about it any more, if the matter disturbs you. There are Guy and Emelie beckoning us, and wondering, no doubt, why we are loitering. Now, Phil”—bending forward and looking archly into his eyes—“smile on me just once, clouds are not in order to-day.”

She looked so sweet and sunny, she was so bewitchingly pretty that no one could have resisted her, and Philip’s face relaxed in spite of himself. They rejoined their friends, and Gertrude was her own charming self once more, and appeared to have forgotten all about her tiff with her lover.

Philip, however, secretly nursed his wrath and resolved that, when the right time came to serve his purpose, the “quarrel” should be renewed.

Gertrude was beautiful and always faultlessly clad, and he was proud of her; she was delightful company, and he never failed to enjoy himself wherever he went with her, while she visited among people in Cambridge whose acquaintance and good opinion he was desirous of preserving; consequently, he did not feel quite ready to break with her—at least, not until he was sure of capturing Mollie Heatherford and her fortune.

When he reached home that evening he found that the Heatherfords had arrived—at least, Mollie and her father; Mrs. Heatherford had died abroad more than a year previous.

There were several other guests invited to dinner, and the company were all in the drawing-room when he entered.

He drew a long, deep breath when he espied Mollie standing beside his mother, who was introducing her to some of her friends, for she was lovely beyond description. She was still in half-mourning for her mother, and wore a black gown of some thin, gauzy material, the lining to the corsage cut low, and none in the sleeves, thus revealing the outlines of her beautiful arms and neck.

It was elaborately trimmed with white, and the contrast of this effective costume with her flawless complexion and wealth of golden hair was marked. She was now in her nineteenth year, tall and slim, yet perfectly formed, with a proud poise to her small head that gave her a regal air. Her face was delicate and clear-cut as a cameo, with dainty color in her cheeks that ebbed and flowed with every varying emotion, while her blue eyes were just as bright and mischievous, grave or gay, as she was moved, as in the old days when she had played with her boy-lover beneath the elms on the bank of the Hudson.

Philip Wentworth had flirted with many beautiful girls during the last four years, but he now declared to himself that he had never seen any one as lovely as Mollie, or “Miss Marie Heatherford,” as she was known to the world, only a favored few being allowed to address her by the pet-name that had been bestowed upon her during her childhood.

Her every movement gave evidence of the refinement which foreign travel and culture bestows. Philip’s heart leaped as he stood and watched her, himself, for the moment, unseen.

“Mollie is the girl for me!” he mentally exclaimed. “She is perfectly stunning. Any man might be proud to call her wife for herself alone, but, taken with her prospective fortune—ah!”

He made his way toward the group where she stood at the other end of the room.

“Ah! here comes Phil at last,” said Mrs. Temple, with a note of pride in her tones, as he presented himself before them. “I am sure I do not need to introduce two old playfellows.”

The fair girl turned with a smile of pleasure on her lips and put out her hand to greet him, while a lovely blush deepened the color in her cheeks.

As Phil clasped the slim hand and bent upon her a look of undisguised admiration while he murmured the joy he experienced at her home-coming, her beautiful blue eyes were searching his face with a grave and steady gaze.

What did she find there to make the blush fade slowly out of her cheeks—to cause her to release the hand he had taken, after the briefest possible clasp, and the shadow of disappointment to creep into the earnest azure eyes?

“This is a long looked-for moment, Mollie, and I hope that you are glad to be with us again,” Phil observed, throwing a note of tenderness into his words that spoke volumes.

“Yes, thank you. I am glad to be at home once more,” Mollie returned in calm, even tones. “I did not quite realize how delightful it would be until we sailed into New York harbor and I began to see so much that was familiar all around us. Truly, I believe there is no place like America to an American. And so you have finished your college course to-day,” she continued, drawing herself up a little haughtily at his persistent stare of admiration. “No doubt you are very proud of your degree, and now your friends will expect great things of you in the future.”

CHAPTER XIX.
THE HEATHERFORD FORTUNE GONE.

“What do you mean by ‘great things’?” Philip smilingly questioned.

“Oh, that in return for the advantages you have enjoyed you will choose some business or profession and turn your knowledge to good account.”

“Do you think it the duty of every man to devote himself to some business or profession?”

“Yes, I do,” returned Miss Heatherford, with emphasis.

“Even if he possesses an independent fortune?”

“Yes,” she persisted, “I feel that, no matter how rich a man may be, he should have some definite object in life.”

“How about a woman?” queried Philip, with a mischievous glance into her thoughtful blue eyes.

“Oh, I intended to make no distinction. I should have said everybody,” the girl replied.

“Have you marked out your future career, Mollie?” inquired the young man in the same spirit as before. “I suppose you have been pursuing your studies during your absence.”

“Well, I have been doing some honest work in that line during the last four years,” she gravely returned; “but, as to my future, I have not quite made up my mind what I am best fitted for. I want to do something. I could teach elocution and rhetoric, both of which, you know, I have always enjoyed very much, and perhaps some other thing,” she added modestly.

“Such as what?” queried Phil, who was curious to learn in what she excelled.

“Oh, please do not make me particularize regarding my acquirements,” Mollie replied, the color coming again to her cheeks, “and, besides, you have not yet told me what you are going to do—are you going to study a profession?”

He wanted to tell her that the most definite object he had in view just then was to try to win the hand and heart which he had so long coveted, but he hardly dared venture that far so soon after her return.

There was a certain air about her that seemed to warn him against being too familiar or precipitate, or of assuming too much upon the ground of their early friendship; and, although all his old love revived and his pulse thrilled under the influence of her beauty and the tones of her magic voice, he resolved to approach her very carefully and delicately.

“Well, as you have already said regarding yourself, I have not yet decided upon anything,” he observed.

“But surely you have a decided penchant for some particular business or profession!” she remarked, while she regarded him earnestly and with some surprise.

“No, I cannot say that I have,” he answered, with a doubtful shake of his head, yet feeling strangely embarrassed and uncomfortable under the searching look in her dark-blue eyes. “But there is time enough yet for that,” he added, to change the topic, and making an effort to throw off the sensation. “Now, suppose you tell me something about your impressions of European life and travel.”

But dinner was announced just at that moment, and their conversation was interrupted.

Mrs. Temple had arranged to have Philip escort Mollie to the dining-room, and he exerted himself to be attentive and agreeable to her.

But one of the professors at Harvard, to whom Mollie had been introduced, was seated on her left, and, having previously discovered that she was an unusually intelligent girl, adroitly drew her into conversation, which finally drifted into an animated discussion upon the geological formation of different countries.

Several times Mollie appealed to Phil, hoping thus to draw him into the debate, for she did not wish to appear to neglect him, neither could she ignore the professor without being rude. But Phil did not appear to advantage in the opinions he offered or the remarks he made, and was entirely distanced in the race. He was greatly relieved when dinner was over and he succeeded in whisking Mollie away to the drawing-room, where he proceeded to monopolize her, for a while, at least.

The remainder of the evening was passed most enjoyably, there being several musical people present, and who contributed a delightful program; while Mollie, who was noted for her powers of elocution, gave two or three spirited selections, which were rendered with such artistic effect that she won much applause.

Philip had observed, while he was exchanging greetings with Mr. Heatherford, that the man appeared greatly worn and aged; but he had attributed this depression and change to the loss of his wife. He also noticed, from time to time during the evening, that he avoided the company and seemed to want to get away into a corner by himself, where he would fall into a fit of abstraction from which he was only aroused when Mollie went to him and after chatting with him a few minutes would draw him out among people again.

She was tenderly watchful of him, Phil could see, even while she appeared to be the most brilliant and entertaining, while occasionally an anxious expression would sweep over her face and a gentle sigh escape her as her glance rested upon his face.

The young man wondered what it all could mean, but did not give the matter much thought, and it probably would never have entered his mind afterward if he had not overheard Mr. Temple tell his mother after lunch the next day, while Mollie and her father were out making a call, that Mr. Heatherford had confided to him the fact that he had been continually losing money at a disastrous rate during the last two years, until the bulk of his fortune had melted away. He did not add, however, that he had conducted some of these losing negotiations.

“Heavens!” exclaimed Mrs. Temple, aghast, “how did he ever lose it?”

“I expect he has spread himself too much—got tied up in too many enterprises, and when the pinch came he was unable to turn himself,” her husband explained. “A railroad in which he was largely represented has collapsed; a bank of which he was a director and a heavy shareholder has failed; a Western syndicate of immense proportions has gone to pieces—he says there was fraud at the bottom of it—while a rascally agent, in whom he had implicit confidence and to whom he gave power of attorney during his absence, has played him false and skipped to parts unknown with a large amount of money.”

“Well, surely, that is a series of misfortunes,” Mrs. Temple observed; “but, in spite of all, I should suppose he must have a competence left—he was accounted a very rich man before he went away.”

“Yes, but he has been sending good money after bad all the time until, he tells me, he is reduced to a very few thousands.”

“Whew!” ejaculated Phil, under his breath, as, concealed behind a pair of heavy curtains of a bay window, he listened to the above chapter of accidents. “So Miss Mollie’s ‘magnificent inheritance’ has dwindled to almost nothing! What a shame, for she is very beautiful; but a man doesn’t want a penniless wife, especially when his own bank-account will not more than meet his own needs.”

“I am amazed—it is absolutely shocking!” sighed Mrs. Temple, “and it will be a great detriment to Mollie, too; she is a beautiful girl, she has been tenderly and delicately reared, and ought to make a brilliant match.”

“I thought it wise to tell you something of this,” Mr. Temple observed, while he covertly watched his wife’s face. “I imagined that perhaps you might not be quite so eager to have Phil make advances in that direction now.”

“I am sure I could not desire a more lovely wife for Phil,” the lady thoughtfully responded; “but, really, his fortune is hardly sufficient to warrant his marrying a poor girl. I am truly sorry for the Heatherfords; but if I had known of this I should not have thought it wise to invite them here at this time. Since they are here, however, we must make the best of it, but I shall not be sorry when their visit is over.”

“It is rather an awkward position, especially as there has always been a tacit understanding that Phil and Mollie would marry when they attained a suitable age,” Mr. Temple remarked.

“Oh, that must now be regarded only as children’s play—which it really was, after all,” Mrs. Temple hastily interposed, but flushing as she remembered how eager she had always been to help on the “children’s play.” “Of course, I should have been willing to have had such a marriage consummated if things had remained as they were. Perhaps—do you think there is any possibility that Mr. Heatherford will ever retrieve his fortune?”

“I should say that is very doubtful,” said the man, suddenly averting his eyes beneath his wife’s earnest look. “Having told you so much, I may as well tell you that a very short time will settle his fate, either one way or the other, for he has risked all he has upon one throw.”

“Heavens! Will, you don’t mean it is as bad as that with them!” gasped Mrs. Temple, in dismay.

“Yes, Heatherford told me all about his affairs this morning, while we were out driving, and if he loses in this last venture he will be absolutely penniless.”

“That seems dreadful. Is he speculating in stocks?”

“I—I really feel that I should not say what he is doing,” returned Mr. Temple, with some embarrassment. “All this has been strictly confidential, you understand.”

“Does Mollie know of her father’s misfortunes?”

“Yes, and her father says that she has been the greatest comfort to him throughout all his trouble—especially when Mrs. Heatherford sickened and died; and now she tells him that, if worse comes to worst, she can teach and take care of them both. He says she is an exceptionally bright scholar—that in the school at Heidelberg, where she graduated, she was offered a fine salary to remain and teach elocution and rhetoric; she also speaks four languages fluently.”

“Yes, any one can see that she is very smart and talented,” said Mrs. Temple, reflectively; then added: “Did you observe her talking with Professor Hubbard at dinner last evening?”

“Indeed, I did, and wondered not a little,” returned Mr. Temple, laughing, “for the professor does not often condescend to converse with young people—he shuns them, especially girls.”

“Well, he certainly exerted himself to be agreeable to Mollie and draw her out. He found his match, too, or I am much mistaken,” said Mrs. Temple, in a tone of amusement. “Oh, dear!” she continued, with a sigh, “I am terribly disappointed, for I have always been fond of the girl, and she is just the one I would have chosen for Phil; but it will never do for him to marry a poor girl. I must tell him of the change in the Heatherfords’ circumstances, and caution him to govern himself accordingly.”

This she did later in the day, and was gratified and intensely relieved to see how coolly he accepted the situation, for, knowing that he had been really fond of Mollie in the old days, and also that they had corresponded during the last four years, she feared that he might have committed himself, and might now find it difficult to extricate himself from an entanglement, if, indeed, he did not really love the girl too well to be willing to give her up. But Philip listened without comment through the story, and, upon its conclusion, simply remarked, with a wise nod:

“I understand the situation, mother, and you may safely trust me. Mollie is lovely, as everybody must admit, but, with my expensive tastes, I am fully conscious that it would never do for me to marry a poor girl.”

He spoke with the utmost assurance; nevertheless, before a week had passed, he found himself becoming more and more enthralled by Mollie Heatherford’s witching loveliness, both of person and mind.

Of course, as she was a guest of the family, it became his duty to act as her escort and take her about to see the various improvements that had been made in the city during her absence, although he was obliged to intersperse these duties with frequent visits to Gertrude Athol, who was still with her friends in Cambridge, and thus he was kept very busy during these days dancing attendance upon two divinities.

But he was not so eager now as he had thought he might be to resume his “quarrel” with Gertrude; for, although Mr. Athol was by no means as wealthy a man as Mr. Heatherford was once supposed to be, he possessed a tempting share of this world’s goods, and Philip reasoned that, if he could not find a more alluring bait, he might eventually think best to keep his pledge to his fair daughter.

He fondly imagined that he could control his affections and be governed by his judgment and by policy—in fact, play “fast and loose” with both girls, and enjoy the present to the utmost without experiencing any disastrous effects when he came to make a final decision. But he very soon grew to realize that Cupid is a god who cannot be tampered with with impunity, and that he was fast learning to love Mollie Heatherford with a strength and fervency which would either demand utter self-renunciation on his part, or ruin his life for all time.

On her part, Mollie frankly accepted his attentions, and appeared to enjoy his society, and yet Philip was vaguely conscious at times that she was adroitly sounding him and studying his character. She, like Gertrude, was an independent thinker, and never hesitated to express her opinions, and she frequently led him into spirited discussions upon topics where he often found himself beyond his depth, and was thus made conscious that in what pertained to character, honesty, and morality he fell far short of the ideals that she cherished.

One afternoon he invited her to go with him to Riverside, a beautiful spot a few miles out of Boston, where the silvery Charles winds its alluring way among green meadows and picturesque hills and woodlands, and which has long been a noted and favorite resort for parties who delight in boating.

Philip was the owner of a fine canoe, and, being an expert in the management of such craft, the young couple spent several hours skimming over the smoothly flowing river, dipping in and out of shady, romantic nooks and gathering the fragrant golden-hearted lilies that grew in abundance all along the banks of the stream.

It seemed to Phil as he sat opposite his lovely vis-a-vis, who—in her white flannel outing-suit, her jaunty sailor-hat, and shaded by a white sun-umbrella lined with pale green—seemed like a fair, pure lily herself, that the world and wealth were well lost for such a wife as he knew she would make, and he found himself hungering and thirsting for the priceless and ennobling love which he knew it was in her power to bestow upon the man whom she would choose to be her life-companion.

They had been conversing upon various subjects, some grave, some gay, when suddenly Philip started slightly as his glance fell upon one of Mollie’s slim, perfect hands, which was resting upon the edge of the boat.

“Mollie,” he observed, resting upon his oars and leaning toward her, “do you remember the day you left for home after your last visit with us, just previous to going abroad?”

“Of course I remember it,” she returned, a delicate flush suffusing her face as she recalled some things that he had said to her on that day; “it was only four years ago, you know,” she added, smiling and quickly recovering her self-possession.

“And do you also remember that your humble servant asked you to give him a certain ring which you were wearing that day?”

“Oh, the cameo? Yes,” and now the color deepened, while her eyes wavered and fell beneath his gaze, for she feared he was about to ask her a question which she knew she was not yet ready to answer.

“Why did you refuse to give it to me, Mollie?” queried the young man, in a low, eager tone.

There was a moment of absolute silence; then Mollie said in a voice that was not quite steady:

“Because—I did not think it best.”

Philip laughed.

“Perhaps the form of my request may have been the cause of your refusal,” he said; “if I had worded it differently, would you have given it to me?”

“Possibly—I cannot tell,” she gravely returned, with a far-away look in her eyes.

“If I should beg for it now, as a gift of friendship, would you bestow it?” he persisted, determined to find out how Clifford Faxon had come by it.

“No, I could not.”

“Why?”

“Because I have already given it away,” Mollie replied, a little smile flitting over her red lips as she recalled that scene at the railway-station in New Haven.

CHAPTER XX.
MOLLIE MAKES A DISCOVERY.

Phil studied the fair face opposite him closely for a moment, a gleam of jealous fire burning in his eyes.

“‘Given it away!’” he repeated, throwing a note of reproach into his tones. Then, a harsh laugh breaking from his lips, he added: “Really, Mollie, in view of the past, I am very much inclined to be jealous.”

“Are you?” she questioned, with seeming nonchalance.

“Don’t you think it was rather hard on me—that you might be accused of partiality?” Phil inquired.

“I do not think that term at all applicable to the case,” Mollie quietly replied.

“Well, not knowing to what ‘case’ you refer, of course I am not capable of judging either for or against,” Philip observed in a somewhat injured tone.

Mollie laughed outright, and her eyes danced with mischief.

“Mr. Curiosity,” she retorted saucily, “if you want to know why I gave away the ring and to whom, why do you not ask?”

“You might regard me as unduly inquisitive,” said the young man demurely.

“So you are,” she flashed back at him. “I am sure you are just dying to know, and, as there is really no reason why you should not, I will tell you.”

She then proceeded to relate all that had occurred during her journey to New York on that sultry July afternoon four years ago, describing the terrible storm, her loneliness and fear, the sudden shock and stopping of the train, the falling of the maple-tree across the track, and Clifford Faxon’s heroic efforts to remove the dangerous obstruction, thus preventing a shocking accident.

As she talked she seemed to live over again the whole of that thrilling experience. She shrank visibly as she described the vivid flashes of lightning and the deafening crashes that seemed to be almost simultaneous. She caught her breath sharply as she told of those piercing whistles, which bespoke imminent danger to every quaking heart, and of the shrieks and cries, the white faces and trembling forms of men, women, and children as they expected every instant to be hurled into eternity.

Then came her description of the youthful hero as he appeared working for dear life, without a thought of self, while the conflict of elements and the deluge swept over and raged around him.

She waxed eloquent as she spoke of his poverty, how he had been clad in the coarsest and meanest of garments, with old and clumsy shoes on his feet, without hat, coat, or vest, or anything to commend him to the fastidious eye, except his frank, noble face, his honest, fearless eyes and his manly bearing.

“One did not mind his lack of suitable clothing,” she went on earnestly, “as one looked into his countenance and read there the truth and integrity of his character, and he had the finest eyes I ever saw. I am sure, though, that he had had a hard life, for he said he had been bound out to a man on a farm when he was thirteen years old for four years, but that his time was almost up, and then he was going to try to get a college education. Some gentlemen on the train took up a collection to give him a start. There was quite a generous sum raised—I don’t know just how much, but almost everybody was glad to do something to manifest their gratitude, and when we reached New Haven the money was presented to him, and he was then sent home in a hack.”

“Really! Then the young rustic rode in state for once in his life,” Phil here interposed, with an ill-concealed sneer, and Mollie wondered at the malice in his tone and what could have made his face grow so startlingly pale.

“Yes, and why shouldn’t he?” she demanded spiritedly, for his words and manner grated upon her. “Just think what he had done—prevented a terrible accident, saved thousands of dollars’ worth of property and the lives, doubtless, of many people; and, besides, he was completely exhausted by his efforts, and it would have been a shame to have allowed him to get back to his home in the country as best he could. Why, if a fortune had been raised for him there on the spot, it would not have been an adequate return. He was a hero, he had done a deed to be proud of, and for which he should be honored all his life; and he was so modest about it, too—as if he had only been chopping wood to make a fire! Why, Phil, I’d rather do a deed like that than have all the wealth and social honors of the world heaped upon me!” Mollie concluded, with gleaming eyes and glowing cheeks.

“Well, but about the ring; was it to this—‘hero’ that you gave it?” questioned Philip, in a peculiar tone.

“Oh!” Mollie exclaimed, a silvery laugh rippling over her lips. “I had become so interested in telling the story that I had forgotten all about the ring. Yes. I was so grateful that I wanted to make it manifest personally, and I went to him, when we arrived in New Haven, thanked him, and asked him to accept the cameo as a memento of my gratitude.”

“Did you learn the name of this most wonderful of heroes?” queried Philip sarcastically.

Mollie sat suddenly erect, stung to the quick and flushing indignantly at the satirical fling.

“Why do you speak so slightingly about him, Philip?” she cried; “don’t you love to hear about brave deeds? Aren’t you glad to know that there are such noble and heroic souls in the world?”

“Oh, yes, of course. Did I speak slightingly? You must pardon me, but, truly, Mollie, I was somewhat amused, in view of your enthusiasm over this valorous backwoodsman,” Philip replied, with a laugh that had something of mockery in it.

“I think I have reason to be enthusiastic,” the fair girl coldly responded. “Yes,” she added, “I did learn the young man’s name—Clifford Faxon, he gave it, and I wish——”

“Well, what do you wish?” her companion demanded, and finding it difficult to control himself as she had pronounced the name he so hated, notwithstanding he had been prepared to hear it.

“I wish that I might meet him again. I would like to know if he attempted to go through college, and, if so, what success he is having,” said Mollie, with an earnest look on her face. “I am sure he will ultimately succeed in whatever he undertakes, for there was strength of purpose written on every line of his handsome face.”

Philip Wentworth gnawed his lip until the blood started, and a cruel, steellike glitter flashed into his eyes at this. He was furious, in view of the girl’s interest in the young man whom he had hated for years. It galled him almost beyond endurance to hear Clifford Faxon’s praises sounded by every one who knew him, but Mollie’s encomiums drove him almost to the verge of madness, and he was determined that she should never learn that Faxon had been a classmate of his—she should never meet her hero again if he could help it.

To be sure, he had said that he could never marry a poor girl; but there was a bare possibility that Mr. Heatherford might retrieve his fallen fortunes, and, in such an event, he would be only too eager to make Mollie his wife. He was beginning to feel that life would be very blank to him without her. Her beauty, her brilliant accomplishments, her amiable, yet spirited disposition, her high standard of life and its pursuits all made him realize that she was a woman to be worshiped, and that she had won a place in his heart which could never be given to another.

These feelings were intensified and his fiercest jealousy aroused by her openly acknowledged admiration for Clifford Faxon. He had been stung by Gertrude Athol’s praise of and friendliness for him; but that had been as nothing when compared with his present feelings upon hearing his name so reverently spoken by Mollie, and with that indescribable look on her fair face. He was, however, obliged to conceal his ire from her, and presently turning his canoe and changing the topic at the same time, they drifted slowly down the stream with the current toward the landing, and ere long were on the train back to town.

Another week slipped swiftly by, and as Miss Athol had returned to Buffalo, Phil had more time to devote to Mollie, of whom he became more and more enamored with every passing day; and as she always drew out all that was best in him, she little dreamed what grave defects there were in his character, and appeared to enjoy his society and gratefully appreciated his efforts to make her visit pleasant.

Mrs. Temple watched the couple with ever-increasing anxiety, and wished from her heart that something would occur to cut the Heatherfords’ visit short before irreparable mischief resulted. One morning she sought her son, and gravely cautioned him.

“Phil, you really must not do anything rash,” she said. “Mollie is the nicest girl in the world, I am willing to admit, but you can’t be saddled with a poor wife. Your income, though fair, will not admit of it, with your tastes, and Mollie’s are expensive, too. If this last venture of Mr. Heatherford’s should fall through, he will be utterly ruined and the girl a beggar; so take care!”

“I suppose that is good advice from a worldly point of view,” the young man responded, “but she is, as you have said, the very nicest girl in the world, and it is a deuced shame that the old man has lost his money; confound it!”

Mrs. Temple looked startled at this outburst, and well she might, for she could plainly read in Phil’s pale, pain-drawn face the story of his life, and knew that he had given his whole heart into Mollie Heatherford’s keeping.

“Phil!” she cried regretfully. “I am sorry I ever asked them here. I never would have had them come if I had known, and I shall be glad when they go. But you must not make a fatal mistake. Suppose you make some excuses to go away; take a trip to the Adirondacks, or go West for a while?”

Phil gave vent to a hollow laugh.

“Suppose, on the other hand, that, mothlike, I prefer to flutter around the candle and get singed?” he recklessly returned, as he saw that his mother had read his secret. “Or suppose that I should be inclined to turn over a new leaf, settle down to some business, and be willing to work for the girl I love?”

“Phil!” gasped Mrs. Temple again, and growing pale herself at his strange mood. “Are you really so far gone as that? I believe I shall insist upon your going away, for I never will consent to let you marry a beggar, though I’ll own I’m very fond of Mollie myself, and should be proud of her as a daughter if she only had money enough to sustain the style she has always been accustomed to. Where is your pride, Philip Wentworth, that you are willing to spoil your whole life?”

If she could but have known it, she was missing the grandest, most precious opportunity of her life, for the scales that held her son’s future in the balance were on the point of tipping toward a better and nobler manhood, and had she wisely and tenderly dropped a few words of sympathy and encouragement into the love-laden heart laid bare before her, she might have wrought a marvelous change, and saved both herself and him much suffering and remorse.

But those last, arrogant words did their work. The young man sprang to his feet and shook himself as if just awakening from a dream.

“Never you fear, mother,” he said, with a careless toss of his head, “the Wentworth name shall never suffer in that way through any fault of mine. I reckon I can look out for myself; but I’m not going away—the Heatherfords would think it very strange, and I have a curiosity to see how the old gentleman’s venture turns out—if he should make a corner, why, I should be on hand to improve my opportunity.”

Mrs. Temple was not quite satisfied that he could “look out for himself” in the way she desired; but she felt that she had said enough for the present, and so allowed the matter to drop.

A day or two later there came a drenching rain, when, of course, there could be no excursion or sightseeing, and everybody was shut within doors; at least, after luncheon no one ventured out.

Mr. Temple and Mr. Heatherford were playing billiards up-stairs, and Mrs. Temple was in her own room reading to Minnie, who had been indisposed for a day or two.

Mollie and Phil were alone in the library, where, for a time, they amused themselves by looking over a collection of views and photographs, among which were many of Phil’s classmates and college friends. While they were thus engaged one of the programs of the recent commencement exercises at Harvard was found among them. Mollie picked it up and began to look it over.

At first Phil did not notice what she had, for he was searching for the likeness of a friend of whom they had been talking, and which he wished her to see. He found it at last, and turned to her with the picture in his hand, when, as he caught sight of the program, his heart gave a great, startled bound, and he grew cold as ice.

He knew that if Mollie should look it carefully through she would find Clifford Faxon’s name there, learn that he had been a classmate of his, how he had distinguished himself, and, worse than all, how he—Phil—had wilfully concealed these facts from her.

What should he do? How get it away from her before the mischief was done?

“What have you there, Mollie?” he inquired, assuming an indifferent tone. “Oh, it is the commencement program,” he added. “Come, don’t get absorbed in that just now, there will be time enough by and by to look it over, and I want you, who are so clever at reading faces, to tell me what you think of this.”

He playfully laid hold of the booklet in her hands and attempted to withdraw it from her.

She tightened her grasp upon it, for almost at that instant she had caught sight of the name which he was so anxious to keep from her.

She started slightly as she comprehended the situation; then her beautiful eyes flashed up to her companion’s face, and he shrank back from the scorn in them as if from a blow.

Mollie was as pale as marble, but there was a haughty poise to her small head, and a sudden stiffening of her whole form that actually made him cringe before her.

“Why did you not tell me that Clifford Faxon was a classmate of yours?” she demanded in icy tones.

CHAPTER XXI.
PHILIP WENTWORTH PUT ON PROBATION.

Philip Wentworth had never felt meaner in all his life than at that moment, when he realized that his duplicity was exposed, and that the girl whose esteem, of all others, he cared most to preserve had found him out, if not exactly as a liar, as having been wilfully and contemptibly deceptive. He flushed crimson, and then grew as pale as Mollie herself, but he was dumb before her for the moment, and could find no voice to answer her imperative demand.

“Why did you keep it from me?” she questioned again. “What object could you have had in wishing to keep me in ignorance of that which you knew would give me great pleasure to learn? Why could you not be generous to your classmate, and give a hard-working, worthy young man the honor which belongs to him?

“So,” she continued, as he still sat mute before her, and dropping her eyes again upon the program, “Clifford Faxon has completed his college course and distinguished himself, as I knew he would. I was sure that there was power, determination, and perseverance above the average in his character. Oh, I wish I could have come to Boston a day earlier, attended commencement, and heard his oration.”

She sat lost in thought for a moment or two, a look of keen disappointment on her beautiful face. Then turning suddenly to her companion again, she briefly inquired:

“Where is Mr. Faxon now?”

“I don’t know; he left town the day after commencement,” Philip returned in a tone of constraint.

“Is his picture among these?” eagerly questioned Mollie, and touching the pile of photographs between them.

Philip started as if he had been stung, and his lips curled like an angry dog’s.

“Assuredly not,” he loftily responded.

“I am sorry; I should like to see him as he looks to-day, though I am sure he cannot have changed enough to prevent me from recognizing him if I should meet him anywhere,” Mollie observed, and her every word cut her listener like a lash. “But you have not told me, Phil, why you kept from me the fact that he was at Harvard with you. Have you a grudge against him? I wondered why you appeared so strangely the other day when I was telling you about him; wondered how you could listen so indifferently to the story of his wonderful heroism and speak so sneeringly of him; and then, when you knew all the time of whom I was talking, and how glad I would have been to learn more about him, to pretend ignorance and deceive me! I am inclined to be very angry with you.”

Her words, her tone, her looks, were simply maddening to him, and he turned to her with a gesture of passionate appeal.

“Mollie! Mollie! Don’t speak to me in that tone; don’t condemn me utterly; don’t annihilate me quite with your scornful eyes,” he pleaded in a voice that was almost shrill from mingled rage and wounded feeling. “I did not tell you that I knew Clifford Faxon—I withheld all information regarding him because I—I was jealous of him.”

“Jealous! Why, Phil!” exclaimed the startled girl, her look of scorn and indignation merged into one of undisguised amazement.

“Yes; furiously, madly jealous of him,” Philip hotly returned, every pulse in his body beating like trip-hammers, while he recklessly threw all discretion to the winds, “for, Mollie, I love you, and it drove me wild to have to listen to your enthusiastic praises of that low-born fellow; to be told that you had given him the ring which I had coveted—which I had begged of you, and you had refused to bestow upon me.

“Darling, have you not suspected this,” he went on, forgetting for the moment everything save the fact that he loved her with all the passion of his nature, and must win some response from her or go mad, “have you not seen that you are more to me than all the world? Do you not know that I have always loved you? Have you forgotten how, when we were children playing together under the elms on the banks of the Hudson, I vowed that I should always love you, and that when we grew up I should claim you?

“Forgive me for deceiving you about Faxon,” he went on, with assumed humility, for he realized that he must eat humble pie before she would pardon his duplicity; “of course I knew, when you were telling me about that railway accident, of whom you were speaking; but some perverse little devil held me silent, and now I am found out and punished for it. Dearest, tell me that you forgive me, and that you return my love; for, Mollie, from the moment we met, after your return, all the old-time affection revived with a hundredfold intensity, and—and I just cannot live without you.”

He had gradually drawn nearer her while speaking, and now, seizing her hands, drew them to his breast and held them there, while he searched the sweet, down-cast, but very grave, face before him.

She had flushed crimson when he began to pour forth his torrent of love; then the color had gradually receded, leaving her pale and with an expression of mingled pain and perplexity on her face.

For a moment they sat thus, and not a word was spoken. Then Mollie lifted her head and looked her lover full in the eye, her own seeming to search his very soul.

“Sweetheart, tell me you forgive me,” Phil whispered passionately, and unable to endure that penetrating look; “remember my love for you made me sin.”

Mollie smiled slightly, and the color began to creep toward her temples again, for what woman can listen unmoved to such a confession of love for her?—but she still studied his face, and appeared to be thinking deeply.

“You do forgive—you do love me, Mollie!” Phil burst forth eagerly, as he noted the smile and blush.

He stretched forth his arms, and would have gathered her into them, but she gently repulsed him and moved a little away from him.

“Yes, Phil, I forgive you as far as any wrong against me is concerned; at the same time, I must say that I think you have been very unfair to Mr. Faxon.”

Phil ground his heels into the carpet at this reference to Clifford, while he secretly wished that they had been planted upon his enemy’s handsome face.

“As for the other matter,” Mollie continued reflectively, “I—I cannot say just now whether I love you or not.”

“Mollie!”

“Nay, do not be so impatient, Phil,” she interposed with smiling reproof, her color deepening again; “but wait and let me be perfectly frank with you. When I returned I confess I looked forward very eagerly to meeting you; our earthly friendship and our correspondence have, of course, governed my thought of you during my absence, and I have often found myself wondering just how we would resume our—acquaintance. You have been very nice to me, Phil, during my visit. I find you”—flashing him an arch look—“very attractive personally, delightfully entertaining, and well versed in all those little attentions and observances of etiquette that usually make men attractive to women; but—I wish you had not spoken just yet, for I am not prepared to define my own feelings toward you. I want to know you—the real you, your inner self, a little better before I can be sure where I stand, or make you any promises. And, Phil, you must never attempt to deceive me again,” she interposed, a shadow falling over her face; “I—I cannot bear anything of the kind, and nothing would sooner establish an impassable barrier between us.”

“I will not, dear—I promise I will not,” Philip murmured, with well-assumed humility. “But, oh, Mollie! this uncertainty seems cruel and unendurable. How long must I wait before you will tell me what I want to know?”

“I cannot say, Phil,” Mollie kindly but thoughtfully replied. “I like you right well in many ways, though what has just occurred has been like a dash of cold water over me; but liking is not love, you know, and you will have to be patient until I know my own heart.”

He snatched one of her hands again and kissed it passionately. Her reticence and the uncertainty of his suit only served to make him so much the more determined to win a confession of love from her, even though he knew that he was liable to change his mind later and break her heart; though, to his credit be it said, there were times when better impulses moved him, and he vowed that he would marry her in spite of his mother—in spite of his own pride and love of worldly wealth, prestige, and ease.

“I will try to be patient,” he said, “but do not make the test too hard.”

He devoted himself to her more assiduously than ever after that, and was so guarded in his behavior and so congenial in every way during the few remaining days of Mollie’s visit that she began to tell herself that she did love him, and was sometimes tempted to speak a word of encouragement to him.

But something held her back—she never went beyond a certain limit, although she was as kind and sweet and charming as ever.

Mr. and Mrs. Temple also showed their guests all due courtesy and attention while they remained with them; but they experienced a feeling of intense relief when they announced the day of their departure, for both realized the danger of Phil’s infatuation. They were somewhat chagrined, however, when Mr. Heatherford informed them that they would remain in Boston for the present—until some matters of business were settled, he said, with a quick, anxious glance at Mr. Temple which caused that gentleman to change color a trifle—and would make their home at the Adams House.

As soon as they were gone, Mrs. Temple persuaded Phil, though evidently against his will, to accompany her and her husband to Newport for the month of August. She then tried to entice him to the Adirondacks for another four weeks, but this he refused to do, and returned immediately to Boston, where he at once began to dance attendance upon Mollie again, though he constantly fretted and fumed within himself because he appeared to make no progress in his suit.

He sometimes wondered why he allowed himself to be so absorbed in his pursuit of her, when there were plenty of girls with large expectations—Gertrude among others—who would have said “Yes” without presuming to impose probation upon him.

But Mollie’s rare beauty intoxicated him; her brilliancy and versatility dazzled him, while her persistent reticence, more than all else, made him her slave. She would not allow him to make love to her. Whenever he approached the forbidden topic she would invariably interrupt him with some irrelevant remark, or with a reproving smile and shake of her head.

“For Heaven’s sake, Mollie! how long is this to go on?” he burst forth one day, after a repulse like this, and for the moment losing all self-control.

“I cannot tell, Phil—until I know,” she gently returned. “Or,” she added, with a grave look into his clouded eyes, “if I weary you with this uncertainty, do not hesitate to tell me so, and we will part—friends.”

“Mollie! Mollie! How you torture me!” he cried at this. “Life to me would not be worth the living apart from you.” And he believed that he really meant it.

She sighed regretfully, and a shade of sadness stole over her face. She realized that she was trying him severely, but she was not “sure” even yet, and she would not be untrue to herself or wrong him by professing an affection which she did not feel, although there were times when she was almost on the point of yielding.

“I am very sure I have never met any young man whom I like as well as Phil,” she would sometimes admit, when discussing the subject with herself, “but I do not feel, as he says,’that I cannot live without him.’ In fact, I am sure I could be happier without him than without my father, and I know”—a queer little smile flitting over her lips—“that is not the right attitude for a girl to maintain toward the man she expects to marry. Besides, I cannot get at Phil—he eludes, he evades me, he does not reveal his real self to me.”

Mr. Heatherford and his daughter were most comfortably located in pleasant rooms in the Adams House, and they were very happy together, although there were times when Mollie was conscious that her father was weighted with a load of anxiety that was well-nigh crushing him.

But she did everything in her power to cheer and amuse him when he was with her, coaxing him into the country while the bright October days lasted as often as she could, and playing cribbage and other games when they were alone evenings.

During business hours, when he was absent, she employed the time in earnest and faithful study to perfect herself in certain branches which she surmised might be useful to her in the near future.

After Mr. and Mrs. Temple’s return from the Adirondacks, Mollie became conscious of a decided coolness in their manner toward herself and her father, although they were always courteous whenever they chanced to meet.

Mrs. Temple seldom called—she was “so busy with club engagements, receptions, etc.,” she gave as an excuse, and so, of course, Mollie scarcely ever went out to Brookline.

She thought it strange that Mrs. Temple never asked her to drive, or offered to introduce her to, or chaperon her in, society; but she tried to think that these omissions were caused by thoughtlessness rather than by intentional neglect.

Her father seldom mentioned Mr. Temple’s name during those days, but grew more and more grave and silent, losing both flesh and appetite, while she could hear him tossing restlessly at night, and then he would rise in the morning, pale, haggard, and with heavy eyes.

Of course, these things made Mollie anxious and miserable, and she could not account for them; but she did not like to question her father, knowing well enough that he would confide in her when the right time arrived, and she strove to be patient and cheerful whenever she was in his presence.

But there came a day when she understood it all, and the shock which came with the revelation was a rude and cruel one to the sweet and trusting girl.

She went out one morning to do some shopping—but, oh! how glad she was afterward that she had been unable to find what she wanted, and so had brought back unbroken the crisp bills which her father had given her—and on her return found her father sitting in a rigid attitude by a window and looking dazed and strange.

“Why, papa! it is unusual for you to come home at this hour!” she observed as she went to him and kissed him on the forehead, while she strove to conceal the nervous trembling which had seized her. “Are you ill, dear?” she concluded, and tenderly smoothed his hair, which had whitened rapidly of late.

He turned his white, haggard face to her, and tried to smile reassuringly; but it was an effort that nearly broke her heart.

“No, my darling, I am not ill; but I am—ruined; we are beggars!” he said in a voice that shook and quivered like that of a man ninety years old.

CHAPTER XXII.
MR. HEATHERFORD RUINED.

“Beggars! Ruined!” repeated Mollie, with a wondering intonation, as if she could not really comprehend the meaning of the words.

She had known that her father had lost a great deal of money; that he had been greatly distressed over business complications; but, notwithstanding, their every want had been supplied—every comfort and luxury had been theirs up to this time, and she had no more conception of the meaning of the word poverty, from a practical standpoint, than an unreasoning child.

“Yes, dear,” Mr. Heatherford responded to her exclamation; “my last venture has failed—collapsed—and I am, so to speak, ruined. Oh, my darling, I could bear it for myself, but to have your life blighted at the time when it should be the brightest—to have all your future prospects blasted—crushes me to the earth.”

Mollie lifted one white hand and laid it caressingly against her father’s cheek.

“Hush, dearie! Do not talk like that,” she said in a tone of gentle reproof; “you make me feel ashamed, to be regarded as such a tender exotic.” Then she inquired gravely: “What was this ‘last venture’ to which you refer?”

The man glanced curiously up at her; then, taking her hand from his cheek, he drew it around to his lips and kissed it.

“Never mind, Goldenrod, what it was; you would not understand it if I should tell you,” he said evasively.

“All the same, I want you to tell me, if you please, papa, and I will try to understand,” Mollie returned, with quiet decision, adding: “I have heard you speak of it to Mr. Temple, and I have a curiosity to know more about it.”

“Well, it was connected with—stocks,” Mr. Heatherford reluctantly admitted, and changing color slightly.

“Oh! was it ‘trading in futures,’ as I heard Phil express it one day, when you were all discussing stocks?” questioned Mollie.

Her companion bent a glance of surprise upon her.

“Well, yes; something of that kind,” he said, while a bitter smile curled his lips.

“Did—did you lose very much that way, papa?”

“Several thousands, although three years ago I should have regarded the amount as but a drop out of the bucket; but now, since it has taken almost my last dollar, it seems a great deal,” the unhappy man replied, with a sigh.

“Papa, excuse me,” and the girl flushed vividly as she spoke, “but isn’t ‘dealing in futures’ a—one way of gambling? Of course, I do not know much about such things, but I listened quite attentively one day when you were talking with Mr. Temple—I think he was explaining some method in which he was interested—and it seemed to me very much like a game of chance.”

“It is, my darling,” said Mr. Heatherford, with a flush of shame, “and I have always said that it is a disreputable business, and thousands of men are annually ruined by it, homes are made desolate, while half the cases of suicide in the world result from the despair which just such ruin as now stares me in the face entails.”

“Oh, papa!” sharply cried the fair girl, and growing deathly pale, while she searched his face with a look of horror in her eyes. The man drew her arm around his neck and held it there with a grip which seemed to her startled heart to indicate that he was clinging to her for salvation from the very despair of which he had spoken. But he did not appear to heed her cry and continued with the same hopeless note in his tone, and with something of scorn, also:

“I would never have believed, even a year ago, that I could ever sink to such a level; for I had only contempt for such measures and for men who have made their fortunes in that way; but when I found everything going against me and my resources fast dwindling to nothing, I grew wild to retrieve myself, chiefly for your sake, however. I could not endure the thought that you, who had always had every wish gratified—who had known nothing but luxury, and floated upon the topmost wave of prosperity—you who are so fitted to shine in society, should be reduced to poverty, and so, at Mr. Temple’s suggestion, I ventured my last dollar on one throw, and—have lost.”

“Papa, did Mr. Temple advise you to do this?” questioned Mollie, with a start of surprise.

“Yes, and that is not the worst of it, either,” the man bitterly returned. “However, that fact does not excuse me for having yielded to such advice.”

“What do you mean by saying, ‘that is not the worst of it?’” queried Mollie, who had caught the peculiar flash that leaped into his eyes as he said it.

“Don’t ask me, dear,” he returned, with a sudden compression of his lips. “I should not have said that—it escaped me unawares.”

“Never mind; tell me everything, papa,” the girl persisted, and determined to get to the bottom of the matter, “even if you have lost all your money, you haven’t lost me, and I am egotistical enough to fancy that I am more to you than fortune.”

“Indeed, you are, my darling; more than many fortunes!” Richard Heatherford cried as he snatched her to his breast and covered her face with kisses. “Oh, Goldenrod, my life would not be worth living without you!”

“And it will be worth living with me, papa—oh, papa!” Mollie murmured as she clung to him, her eyes fastened upon his face with a nameless fear in their blue depths that smote him to the soul.

“Mollie!” he gasped as her meaning flashed upon him, “surely you did not think I would be guilty of that! No, no, Buttercup—my one priceless treasure, as long as God wills, my life will be very precious to me for your sake. When I said that half the suicides in the world were caused by just such despair as mine, I had no thought of anything like that. Do not fear, love, I could never be such a coward.”

The beautiful girl stood up tall and straight, her face now shining with love and happiness.

“Then, since we are all in all to each other, why should we be discouraged—why grieve for what you have lost?” she cried in a voice that had a strange, exultant thrill in its sweetness. “Who cares for luxury, for society’s smile or frown, or to ride upon the topmost wave of prosperity? I do not, papa, truly, and, to be frank with you, I have long dreaded the time when you would expect me to take a prominent place in society. It all seems very hollow and unsatisfying to me, and, during the last four years, while I have been studying so hard, I have dreamed fond dreams of some time putting my knowledge to some practical use. Now, dearest, do not let us look back with a single regret—you are in the prime of life; I am young and strong. I have a good education and I know I can turn it to some account, so let us begin life together, find some cozy nook in which to make a simple home. I will apply at once for a position to teach—I have some fine vouchers from those Heidelberg professors, you know—and, after you have had time to pull yourself together a little, perhaps something in the way of business will commend itself to you.”

Mr. Heatherford had listened to his daughter with ever-increasing wonder, and when she concluded he regarded her with undisguised astonishment, mingled with admiration. It was a revelation and an inspiration to him to find the beautiful and delicately reared girl so thoroughly practical, so brave and unselfish, in view of what had seemed a most appalling situation, and he was also deeply moved.

“Mollie!” he tremulously exclaimed as he held out both hands to her, “what a dear little comforter you are! You are a veritable staff of pure and solid gold, and you have lifted a load from my heart that was well-nigh crushing me. I thought it would break your heart to give up our beautiful home in New York, our summer place in Newport, the horses and carriages, rich dresses, and the thousand and one pretty things which you have always been accustomed to. But you have proved yourself a noble-hearted heroine, and I am prouder of you than if you had been crowned a queen. Mollie, it seems incredible, but my heart has not been so light for many months. I am happy, in spite of all,” and the proud, long-tried man dropped his head upon his daughter’s shoulder, while a sob of infinite relief burst from his surcharged and grateful heart.

Mollie’s lovely eyes were swimming in tears, but she bravely blinked them away, while a clear and silvery laugh rippled over her red lips.

“Papa,” she said, while she softly smoothed the hair away from his temple, “do you remember that boy who saved the train from being wrecked near New Haven, four years ago, to whom you sent the check?”

“Yes, dear; but what makes you think of him at this time?” inquired Mr. Heatherford, and, looking up with sudden interest, for he had not thought of the incident for a long while.

Mollie flushed brightly as she replied:

“He does seem rather irrelevant to the subject, I know; but I remember that I thought he must have been the happiest fellow in the world to have been such a hero at that time. You know I have always been something of a worshiper of brave and noble deeds, and to be regarded as a ‘hero’ has been to set one on a pinnacle, in my estimation. And now you have called me a ‘heroine,’ and I am proud and happy, even though I have done nothing to deserve the praise except to speak a few comforting words to my own dear father.”

“A few comforting words!” repeated Mr. Heatherford, in unsteady tones. “My child, do you so underestimate what you have done? You have shown to-day that spirit of utter self-abnegation which alone animates all heroes, and you can never realize how much it means to me, for you have inspired me with new life and fresh courage. God bless you, my precious daughter!”

He kissed her tenderly, almost reverently, on the lips, and truly felt that God had indeed been good to him—even though he had been stripped of every dollar in the world—in leaving him this brave, pure, and loving girl to live for.

Both were too deeply moved for speech for a few moments; but Mollie finally disengaged herself from her father’s embrace, and, forcing him back into his chair, drew another for herself to his side.

“Now, papa, let us get down to the practical again,” she observed, with a smile, “for I want you to explain this business a little more fully to me. Will there be any debts?”

Mr. Heatherford’s eyes actually gleamed with amusement at the question, for he could scarcely believe that Mollie realized the import of the word.

“No, dear,” he returned; “I think not. Of course, I shall give up everything, and my real estate, though heavily mortgaged, together with what personal property I hold, will, I am sure, be sufficient to meet all my obligations.”

“That is lovely!” said Mollie, with animation, “for a lot of debts would have made our burdens so much heavier for the future; besides, no opprobrium will rest upon our name if you do not have to fail. You needn’t laugh, papa”—as she caught his smile—“for I really am not such an ignoramus as you might think. But I suppose it will be best for us to get away from this expensive hotel as soon as possible.”

“Yes, and we must go back to New York immediately, for it will be necessary to notify my creditors and make arrangements to settle with them.”

“All right, dearie; I can be ready to leave this very evening, if you wish,” said Mollie briskly, and her father wondered more and more as the reserve force of this tenderly nurtured girl was made manifest to him.

“I think we will wait until to-morrow night, and go by boat, for I have to see Mr. Temple again before I leave,” Mr. Heatherford replied, and his face hardened suddenly as he spoke the man’s name.

“Ah!” said Mollie, who was quickly observant of the change in him, “and that reminds me that you have not yet told me what you meant by ‘the worst,’ in connection with Mr. Temple.”

“Sweetheart, I should never have spoken as I did—that was an unfortunate slip,” her father replied, and feeling that, if Mollie was ever to assume closer relations with the Temple family, it were better that she did not know too much.

“But, having made the ‘slip,’ papa, and aroused my curiosity, it leaves me to imagine all sorts of dreadful things if I am kept in the dark,” she persisted, adding: “Besides, I have realized of late that something was wrong in connection with the Temples, and wondered what could have occasioned the change in their manner toward us.”

“Well, then, perhaps it will be best, having said so much, to tell you that the money which I have recently lost has all gone into Mr. Temple’s pockets.”

“Papa! Are you sure? And he advised you to make this venture!” cried Mollie, aghast at such apparent treachery.

“Yes, there can be no doubt about it, though I learned the fact only this morning, and that was what hurt me most.”

“I should think so, indeed. And he has pretended to be your friend—has even entertained you in his own home while leading you on!” exclaimed the indignant girl, with blazing eyes, her face and tone expressing infinite scorn. “Truly it has been the tragedy of the ‘spider and the fly’ enacted in real life!”

“Do not forget, dear, that the unwary ‘fly’ deserves his share of condemnation for having allowed himself to be so hoodwinked,” said Mr. Heatherford, with a bitterness which betrayed how keen was his mortification at having become entangled in the net which had ruined him.

“Oh! but one would never dream of being so ‘wounded in the house of one’s friends,’” retorted Mollie, with supreme contempt.

“And yet a great deal of Mr. Temple’s money, I am told, has been acquired by these doubtful methods. It is said that he got a fine start in some Western mines, after which he went to San Francisco, where he established himself as a banker. After he came to Boston he also put out his sign as a ‘banker,’ but I learned to-day that he has another office in the city where he operates in the dark in a different business, and that many a man is stripped of his last dollar by him.”

“How dreadful!” said Mollie, with an expression of disgust.

“It was to this office that I was taken and introduced to a gentleman with whom, Mr. Temple informed me, he had long had successful dealings. He spoke only truth, however, for it turns out that the man is his own agent.”

“Oh, papa! that is worse and worse!” cried his listener, aghast. “I never would have dreamed of anything so dishonorable of him—he has always seemed a perfect gentleman.”

“Yes, and yet there have been times when I have observed a cruel look in his eyes and about his mouth,” said Mr. Heatherford. “Of course, I have never known anything about the man until within the last few years, but I supposed him to be at least a gentleman. However, the lesson he has taught me, though dearly paid for, has, I trust, been salutary, while it has also revealed to me the fact that I possess a hundredfold richer mine of wealth and heart of gold in you, my darling, than I ever dreamed was mine.”

CHAPTER XXIII.
AFFLICTION OVERTAKES MOLLIE.

Mr. Heatherford sought an interview with Mr. Temple the morning following his revelations to Mollie, when he did not hesitate to inform that gentleman, much to his surprise, that he had discovered by whom, and by what methods, he had been fleeced of his last dollar.

Mr. Temple attempted to deny the impeachment; but there was so much of embarrassment and of conscious guilt in his manner that he stood self-convicted. He had been wholly unprepared for such a disclosure, and, consequently, was taken off his guard, while he was evidently deeply chagrined to learn that the secret of his blind operations had been discovered.

Mr. Heatherford had his say out in a quiet, dignified, but impressive manner, after which he bade the man good day, and left him to chew the cud of reflection, which he did in no enviable frame of mind.

Of course, Mrs. Temple and Philip were in ignorance of Mr. Temple’s agency in Mr. Heatherford’s misfortune—indeed, they knew nothing of his methods of doing business—and, upon learning that Mollie and her father were to leave for New York that evening, Mollie having sent a messenger with a brief explanatory note to Brookline, to get a box that had been stored there, they drove in town to pay them a farewell visit.

Mr. Heatherford was out, but Mollie received them courteously and strove to entertain them graciously, and yet the visit was formal and constrained; for the power of thought is mightier than the tongue, and Mrs. Temple’s mental attitude, in spite of her surface smiles and volubility, made itself felt.

Phil threw something of the lover into his manner, notwithstanding the warning glance from his mother, at parting, and gave Mollie’s hand a lingering pressure that was intended to speak volumes, while he observed, as he loitered a moment after Mrs. Temple passed from the room:

“Mollie, I cannot bear to have you go like this; tell me where to address you, and I will write.”

“At the old home on Fifth Avenue, for the next week or two; more than that I cannot tell you at present,” she replied.

“All right; you will hear from me very soon, and you must write me an explanation of this sudden flitting—I do not understand it at all,” Phil observed as, with another hand-clasp, he hurried away at his mother’s call from the hall.

To do him justice, he was somewhat in the dark regarding the unexpected departure of the Heatherfords. He had attended Mollie to a concert the night but one before, and, as she had known nothing of what was before her, of course nothing was said about any change, and the first intimation Phil had received was when her note had come announcing her return to New York that evening, and requesting that the “box” be sent to the railway-station for a certain train.

When he questioned his mother, she could tell him nothing beyond the fact that she knew that Mr. Heatherford’s “venture” had failed, and she supposed he had got to get home and settle up his affairs as best he could. Mrs. Temple would gladly have escaped the ordeal of a leave-taking, but she knew she could not do so without violating all rules of courtesy and decency; so, calling upon Phil to attend her, and thus prevent a “private interview and all nonsense” between the young couple, she made her farewell call.

Mollie and her father left on one of the Sound boats that same evening, arriving in New York the following morning, when they repaired at once to their palatial home on Fifth Avenue, and which they immediately proceeded to dismantle and make over, with most of its treasures, to Mr. Heatherford’s creditors.

Three days later all the world knew that the man had lost his all, but that he would meet every dollar of his liabilities, and thus leave a clean record and an untarnished name behind him when he should drop out of the social world, where he had so long held a prominent position.

Philip Wentworth wrote Mollie, as he had promised to do, a few days after her departure; but there was very little of the lover manifest in the studied sentences which he indited, and Mollie’s lips curled involuntarily with scorn, as, reading between the lines, she realized that she had been wiser than she knew when she had refused to commit herself by either confession or promise, to one who could not stand faithful under the frowns of misfortune.

She wrote a kind and friendly letter in reply, telling him frankly just how she and her father were situated—that they had lost everything, and were both about to learn from practical experience what it meant to have to work for a living.

“But”—and there was an undercurrent of reserve force and triumph in every line—“even though the future seemed to point to a far humbler sphere in life than they had ever known, she was by no means unhappy in view of the prospect, for she hoped now to learn just what she was best fitted for, and to prove the mettle of which she was made.”

There was no word or even hint of any tenderer sentiment in her letter, and Philip Wentworth heaved a sigh of relief as he read it, while he “thanked his lucky stars” that she had reserved her answer to his rash and impulsive proposal that day when they floated down the sunlit Charles, and thus he had escaped an entanglement that would have been exceedingly awkward for him to have broken away from.

Nevertheless, such is the perversity of human nature, he chafed in secret because he had failed to subjugate the heart he had coveted most of all, and so add another to the many victories of that kind which he flattered himself he had won.

He sent her a note of regret and condolence, and intimated that he should expect to hear from her often, and to be kept posted regarding any change of location, and hoped the time was not far distant when he should see her again.

But it was a long time after that before he heard from her again, and henceforth his letters to Gertrude Athol took on a tenderer tone, although he did not definitely refer to any consummation of their hopes, yet mentioned casually that he was contemplating getting settled in some business as soon as he could find a favorable opening.

Mollie Heatherford, however, realized that her old-time lover had proved recreant, even though he was too cowardly to confess it. But she did not grieve for him; she was far too busy, even if she had been inclined to do so, during those trying days when she was assisting her father in the settlement of his affairs and superintending the packing of their household-furnishings and treasures, which were to be sent to various places to be sold.

Not a murmur escaped her, not a sigh nor a tear, as one after another of the dear and beautiful things were removed from their accustomed places. She was cheerful, sunny, and intensely practical through it all, and chased many a gloomy cloud from her father’s brow by a merry laugh, a sparkling jest, and now and then by a mock reproof because he “didn’t obey orders from his superior any better.”

At last these sad duties were completed, and Mr. Heatherford, having obtained through the influence of a friend a situation in the post-office department at Washington, they removed to that city, where, taking a tiny house in a quiet but respectable locality, Mollie became mistress of the very modest home which their means would allow.

The enterprising girl wanted to put in an immediate application for a position as teacher in the public schools, but her father would not listen to the project, and appeared so sensitive upon the subject that she finally yielded, though reluctantly, and tried to be content with doing all in her power to make home pleasant and attractive for him.

And they were very happy, in spite of the great change in their circumstances and manner of living. They had only five rooms, but they were prettily, if cheaply, furnished, with odd pieces which they had been unable to dispose of when breaking up in New York. Mollie proved herself a very thrifty and efficient little housekeeper, and carefully followed the instructions of an experienced colored woman who came to help her for a few hours every day.

Mollie Heatherford, untrained in domestic economy as she was, cheerfully faced the changed conditions of her life with a brave heart. The former heiress to millions, the carefully nurtured idol of a loving father, brought up from infancy in the lap of luxury, carefully shielded from the rough side of the world, now faced the stern battle of life as the daughter of a government clerk with a true womanly spirit of independence and determination.

Mr. Heatherford’s salary proved to be ample for all their needs, and they were even able to save something from it every month.

Mollie had begged a monthly allowance for household expenses, as soon as they were settled, and her father had given her sixty dollars, reserving the remainder of his income for rent and incidentals, and the girl was jubilant at the end of the month when she showed him a balance in her favor of fifteen dollars.

“I will do even better than that next month, papa,” she said with shining eyes, after she had made him go over her neatly kept accounts with her, “for, of course, I have made some mistakes during the last four weeks, but Ellen knows how to make every penny count, and I am learning something new every day.”

But, as the winter passed and the sunny days of an early spring warned them that summer would soon be upon them, Mollie could see that, notwithstanding his apparent cheerfulness, her father’s health was suffering from the unaccustomed confinement of the winter. He said he was well, but she knew that he was not, and she watched him with jealous eyes. He rallied somewhat during the month of his vacation, which they spent in a quiet New England town by the sea. This improvement, however, proved to be only temporary, for, late in October, he was suddenly prostrated by some affection of the brain which, from the outset, baffled the physician who had been called to attend him.

Another doctor was called, but the change brought no better results and Mollie grew wild with anxiety, as she realized that, in spite of everything, her dear one’s mind was rapidly failing, like a candle that has nearly burned out, for there were times when he did not seem to know her; then he would rally for a day or two, only to lose ground faster than ever.

Finally Doctor Partridge, the attending physician, requested that a consultation of specialists might be called, as he did not wish to assume the responsibilities of the case any longer without advice.

Mollie grasped eagerly at this straw, and two noted physicians were sent for to confer with Doctor Partridge. It was not a long conference, fortunately for the poor girl to whom the suspense of that one hour was torturing beyond description.

It was over at last, and the physician came to her, his face very grave and pitiful. Mollie sprang to her feet at his approach, and stood rigid and snow-white before him, awaiting the verdict.

“Miss Heatherford,” he said very gently, “it is my painful duty to tell you that there is absolutely no help for your father. We are all agreed that materia medica has been exhausted in his case, and it is only a question of time when he will entirely lose his mind and become utterly helpless. The specialists advised me not to tell you the worst, but I had given you my word that I would not keep anything back from you, therefore I could not feel justified in deceiving you.”

Mollie listened to this cruel ultimatum like one petrified and feeling as if she also were losing her mind. Then the strong curb which she had put upon herself suddenly gave way and she burst forth in wildly rebellious tones:

“I do not believe it! It cannot be true! I will not believe it! Oh, God is good—surely He will not leave me utterly desolate! Doctor Partridge, there must be help somewhere—is there not some one else to whom we can appeal? I cannot live without my father!”

The physician was almost sorry that he had not listened to the advice of his colleagues and kept the blighting truth from her. But she had been so calm and self-possessed through all that he had overestimated her strength. Still she had insisted upon being told and he had pledged himself to withhold nothing, and he believed he was doing his duty. He was a kind-hearted and conscientious man, and had been almost an enthusiast in his profession, but there had been times when he was sorely perplexed—when he was led to doubt the virtue of drugs and the conflicting and inefficient methods of his profession, and these seasons of doubt he found becoming more and more frequent as disease and experiences like the present were multiplied.

Doctor Partridge spent a long time with the sorely afflicted girl, trying to comfort and quiet her and advising her regarding the future care of her father. He told her that the most that could be done now would be to make him physically comfortable, and in order to do this she must have some strong, reliable woman come to relieve her of household cares and assist in the nursing. He said he knew of just the right person—a faithful negress, who had had large experience in sickness, was an excellent cook and who would be glad of a comfortable home and small wages.

Mollie wondered vaguely where the money was coming from to defray all these extra expenses, but she did not demur; she told the doctor to send the woman at once, and when she came, the following day, the weary and sorrowful girl found her a tower of strength, not only in the care of her father, but to her aching heart as well.

“Don’t yo’ take on so, honey,” said the sympathetic creature, when Mollie, with a wild burst of grief, told her of her father’s hopeless case. “De doctors don’t know eberyt’ing, spite of der pertenshuns; yo’ jest trust de Lord, honey, an’ He’ll brung it out all right.”

“Oh, where is God, Eliza?” cried Mollie helplessly, while sobs shook her slight form like a reed.

“I ’spects He am ebrywhere, honey,” returned the woman, with humble faith, and then she brought her young mistress a steaming cup of tea, which she made her drink, firmly believing it a panacea for an aching heart as well as an empty stomach.

But Mollie was no weakling. When the first fierce rebellion was over she began to consider the situation in a practical way. What was to be done for the future? How was her helpless charge, to say nothing about herself, to be provided for? Nearly all of the money which both she and her father had saved had been swallowed up by the physicians and other expenses of his illness, and some provision must now be made for their daily needs.

She could teach, if she could obtain a position; but she had no influential friends in the city to whom to apply for aid to secure a school. She studied the papers every day, with the hope of finding some want or advertisement that would come within her capabilities; but it was late in the season—the public schools were all supplied with teachers, and nothing else seemed to offer without requiring her to be absent from home too many hours during the day, and the outlook seemed dark.

One morning she had an errand to do at a bank on Pennsylvania Avenue, and, after attending to it and making one or two necessary purchases, she walked swiftly to a corner, to wait for a car to take her home. A pretty French maid, who was trundling in an elegant perambulator a lovely child of about three years, was standing talking with a young man, evidently of her own nationality.

They became so absorbed in each other that they appeared to be wholly unmindful of the child, who, however, seemed to be safe enough, for all Mollie could see, although she felt that the girl was neglectful of duty.

Presently an ice-cart drove to the curb and stopped. Almost at the same instant a strong gust of wind swept around the corner, catching the perambulator and sending it rolling to the very edge of the sidewalk, and within three feet of where Mollie was standing. But before she could stretch forth her hand to save it, it went off, was overturned, and the child, with a shriek of fear, rolled to the ground, directly in front of the powerful gray horse that was attached to the wagon.

The animal tossed its head with a startled snort, and reared upon his hind legs. The driver, a powerful man, with great presence of mind snatched at his reins and, by sheer muscular strength, held the animal back upon his haunches, with his forefeet madly pawing the air.

“For God’s sake, grab that young one, somebody!” he shouted wildly.

The French maid and her companion both appeared to be paralyzed with fear. Neither seemed able to move from the spot where they stood, although the girl filled the air with her shrieks.

Mollie, without a thought of anything save the precious life of the little one, bounded forward, and crouching low under the formidable hoofs, seized the tiny form by its clothing and sprang back upon the sidewalk, just in season to escape being crushed to death as the ponderous animal, now beyond the driver’s control, came down upon its forefeet.

It was a close shave, and had Mollie hesitated an instant, the child would have been beyond the reach of human aid. As it was, the fright and the fall had rendered it unconscious, and a slight abrasion on one plump little cheek, where the iron shoe had just grazed it, showed how very narrow had been the escape. Mollie’s skirt was badly torn where the descending hoof had caught and taken a piece out of it.

The nurse was almost beside herself with mingled joy and fear, and would have snatched her little charge from Mollie’s arms, but she gently repulsed her, and said in French—the language in which the girl had been conversing with her friend: “Be quiet, the baby is not hurt, and I am sure she will soon be quite herself. I will take her into this drug-store and have her cared for—secure the carriage and then follow me.”

The maid mechanically obeyed her, and appeared greatly relieved to have some one assume the responsibility of attending to her charge.

The proprietor of the store had once been a practising physician, and into his care Mollie gave the little one. She had already begun to revive, and now manifested considerable fear at finding herself in the arms of a strange gentleman, who, after looking her over carefully, said that she was uninjured.

Mollie was very sweet and gentle with her, and she was more than half-reassured before the familiar face of her nurse appeared, when she lapsed from tears to smiles, and was soon chatting like a magpie, in French, with them both.

The perambulator also had escaped serious injury, greatly to the surprise of every one, and little Lucille, as the child was named, was ere long comfortably settled among her pillows and being trundled homeward by the thankful Nannette.

Mollie walked a short distance with them, for she saw that the girl was still greatly overcome from the shock which she had sustained, and she kindly strove to reassure her, but cautioned her never to let go the handle of the perambulator when she was on the street with the little one.

She left them at the next corner, where they were to turn, having persuaded Lucille to kiss her and given her address to Nannette, who begged to know where she lived, so that she might come to thank her again when she was more herself; then she hailed an approaching car, and returned to her own cares and responsibilities.

The further experiences of the personages in this story will be related in the sequel to this story entitled “The Heatherford Fortune,” published in style and price uniform with this volume.

THE END.

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Table of Contents

- THE MAGIC CAMEO.

- PRELUDE. THREE PICTURES.

- CHAPTER I. AN ACT OF HEROISM.

- CHAPTER II. A TOUCHING TRIBUTE.

- CHAPTER III. PRETTY HEIRESS PLEADS FOR CLIFFORD.

- CHAPTER IV. CLIFFORD FAXON’S VOW.

- CHAPTER V. A DARING TRICK.

- CHAPTER VI. CLIFFORD GOES TO COLLEGE.

- CHAPTER VII. CLIFFORD ACQUITS HIMSELF WITH HONOR.

- CHAPTER VIII. AN INSOLENT DEMAND.

- CHAPTER IX. PHILIP WENTWORTH FINDS AMUSEMENT.

- CHAPTER X. A FRIGHTFUL ACCIDENT.

- CHAPTER XI. CLIFFORD MEETS WILLIAM TEMPLE.

- CHAPTER XII. PHILIP WENTWORTH’S PROPOSAL.

- CHAPTER XIII. A REVELATION.

- CHAPTER XIV. AN UNEXPECTED ENCOUNTER.

- CHAPTER XV. A LIFELONG ENEMY.

- CHAPTER XVI. CLIFFORD VISITS AN OLD FRIEND.

- CHAPTER XVII. THE SQUIRE RECEIVES A SHOCK.

- CHAPTER XVIII. MOLLIE HEATHERFORD RETURNS.

- CHAPTER XIX. THE HEATHERFORD FORTUNE GONE.

- CHAPTER XX. MOLLIE MAKES A DISCOVERY.

- CHAPTER XXI. PHILIP WENTWORTH PUT ON PROBATION.

- CHAPTER XXII. MR. HEATHERFORD RUINED.

- CHAPTER XXIII. AFFLICTION OVERTAKES MOLLIE.

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE