After Maria had settled the question of duty, she went very systematically to work to prepare for her journey. She calmly finished ironing her curtain, hung it nicely in its place, and then swept a satisfied look around the neatly arranged and immaculate room before closing and locking the door to keep out all intruders during her absence.

Then she rolled up her sleeves, and for the next three hours baked and boiled and fried until her pantry was well stocked with substantial and toothsome provisions for the hired man and chore-boy.

"This'll last you nigh onto two weeks, with what you can cook for yourselves," she said to Pat, as she showed him the result of her labors. "There's plenty of salt pork in the barrel that you can fry when you want a change from corned beef and ham, and there's all kinds of veg'tables in the cellar. I guess you can manage some way till I come back, and if you get out of bread you can ask Miss Barnes to bake you some, or you can buy it of the baker."

Her cooking out of the way and everything about the house left in the most tidy manner imaginable, Maria packed her small trunk, arrayed herself in a good, serviceable gown for traveling, and was driven into New Haven in ample time to catch her train.

She made her connections in New York without any difficulty, after having wired Clifford what hour she expected to arrive in Washington the following morning. He was at the station to meet her when the train rolled into it, and welcomed her most cordially; indeed, a great burden rolled from his heart the moment he caught sight of her strong, honest face, for he felt that she was equal to the responsibilities awaiting her.

To her inquiries regarding the squire's condition, he replied that he was pretty sick and had been delirious all night, but had fallen asleep a few moments before he left him to come to her.

"Who's been taking care of him?" Maria questioned.

"Well, he has not needed much care until yesterday and last night, and I've done what I could," Clifford modestly returned.

Then he told her about his accident and of his narrow escape from being burned to death, although he made as light as possible of his own agency in these matters; but Maria learned all about it later, when she had made the acquaintance of the landlady, who could not say enough in praise of him.

For three weeks Squire Talford was a very sick man, and even Maria found her powers of endurance taxed to the utmost, in spite of the aid of Clifford, who insisted upon sharing her vigils at night and doing all that he could besides out of business hours. He pulled through, however, though it was a hard pull; yet when he began to convalesce he mended very rapidly.

Five weeks after Maria's arrival he was able to be up and dressed; his appetite had returned, and he said he felt as if he had "been made over new."

One morning, after she had served him a nice breakfast and put his room to rights, Mrs. Kimberly seated herself directly opposite her patient, with a very determined look on her honest face.

"Well, what is it, Maria?" the squire questioned, for he always knew that matters of importance weighed heavily on her mind when she looked like that.

"I've got something to tell you," she replied, and coming directly to the point.

"I thought so. What is it? Go ahead."

"Waal, I expect you won't like it very well, but it's got to be told," the woman observed, and flushing slightly. "When I was cleanin' the attic, after you left, I took that little hair trunk o' your'n up to move it, dropped it, and smashed the lid off."

The squire started and shot a quick look at her at this.

"Of course, everything tumbled out," she pursued, "and I had to pick 'em up and put 'em back. I suppose I don't need to tell you that I found among the mess a box belonging to Cliff."

She glanced up as she concluded, to find that her companion had lost some of his recently recovered color during her recital.

There was a moment of awkward silence, then the man curtly remarked:

"Well?"

"Waal, the box had come apart in the smash, and I found a lot of letters directed to Cliff's mother and—to his father. I found, too, the papers that told about Mis' Faxon's marriage and Cliff's christening."

"Well?" questioned the squire again as she paused, but with white lips.

"Of course, I didn't read the letters. I thought 'twas none o' my business what was in 'em, but when I saw them certificates I made up my mind that a burnin' wrong had been done that boy—a wrong that must be righted, squire; so, when I got his message to come to take care o' you, I brought that box along with me."

"You did!" exclaimed Squire Talford, in a startled tone. "What have you done with it—have you given it to Cliff?"

"No, sir! You don't ketch Maria Kimberly doin' anything underhanded if she knows it," responded the woman, with considerable spirit. "As long as I found the things in your trunk, I made up my mind I'd tell you about it first and see what you'd do before I went any farther."

"That shows your good sense and honesty, Maria," said the squire appreciatively. "I suppose, however, you think the boy ought to have the papers," he added thoughtfully.

"Of course I do, and that ain't all he oughter have, either," his companion retorted, with stout-hearted frankness.

"What do you mean?" demanded the squire, with well-assumed surprise.

Maria sniffed significantly and tossed her head.

"I suppose you imagine I don't know who Cliff's father was," she said, with a wise smile. "I suppose you think I never heard that story about Belle Abbot, who, after she was engaged to one man, fell in love with another and jilted the first one. But I never suspected that the man she married was anything to you—I never heard that part of it—until just afore I came to Washington. I was dustin' the books in that old secretary in your bedroom, and came across that old Bible your mother used to like because the type was so clear. I'd seen it a hundred times, but never took any notice of the family record till that day, when I found the same name, among a lot of others, that I saw on Belle Abbot's marriage-certificate.

"You could have knocked me over with a feather, for I always believed Cliff's mother married a man by the name o' Faxon—and she did, too, for that was one of the names. I never could understand afore why you hated the boy so; but now I see through it. You knew he didn't know anything about his father; you pretended to be a friend to Mis' Faxon after she came back from the West, influenced her to bind the boy to you when she was dyin', and managed, some way, to get hold o' them papers and have kep' 'em hid from him ever since, for you didn't mean he should ever have his rights if you could help it."

"Don't you think you are getting pretty sharp and familiar in your talk, Maria?" the squire demanded shortly, as she paused for breath, but the hand that was fingering an envelope trembled visibly.

"Maybe," she coolly retorted. "I'd made up my mind that the right time had come for some 'sharp and familiar' talk to you, and I wasn't going to shirk my duty. I've lived with you, Squire Talford, nigh on to eighteen years, and I've tried to do my best for you and your'n all that time—'specially since Mis' Talford died, for I felt I owed her a lot for the pains she took to train me; then, of course, I wanted to feel that I earned the money you was payin' me, though I've never had a rise in my wages. So my conscience is clear on that score, and I don't think I've neglected anything except to speak my mind, and that I'm goin' to make up for now, if I never set foot in the old place again.

"I've had hard work to hold my tongue in the past when you was abusin' Cliff as you used to, and you'd no cause to hate him as you seemed to, either. He never wronged you; he wasn't to blame for comin' into the world the son o' the other man instead o' your'n. A better, brighter boy never drew breath; he served you faithful as the day was long and you treated him shameful—worse'n a slave. I used to wonder how you could sleep nights after some o' those awful thrashin's you gave him. I never felt meaner in my life for anybody than I did for you when you let him go off to college without even a word o' kindness and encouragement, and if I knew then what I know now he'd never have gone away as empty-handed as he did."

"You are spreading it on pretty thick, Maria, and I think it is about time you stopped," the squire here interposed, and with a face that was now crimson with mingled anger and shame.

"Yes, I s'pose I am spreadin' it on thick," she composedly admitted, "and I tell you I'm downright glad of the chance for once. I reckon I am about through, though, only I'd like to ask what you propose to do for Cliff."

"I'm not sure that I propose to do anything," was the sullen reply.

"You don't," cried Maria, bridling again, "Well, then, I do. I propose to see that that young man gets his rights. I'm far from bein' a rich woman, but I've saved up a plump little sum out o' my wages and Cliff shall have every dollar of it to help him fight for his share of the fortune that his grandmother left, and if you was clothed and in your right mind you'd want him to have the rest of it when you're done with it.

"What are you thinking of, Squire Talford," she went on, glowing with indignation, "to nurse, at your time o' life, such a spite against such a splendid fellow like Clifford Faxon—a fellow that any man might be proud to own as a son? Haven't you any gratitude for what he's done for you? You'd have been burned to a cinder and lyin' under them brick walls outside, but for him; he did what precious few men would have done that night o' the fire, to save a man he knew hated him and had abused him as you did when he was a boy.

"And that ain't all, neither; he gave up this nice room to you and has been sleepin' in a back room that's little better'n a closet, at the end o' the hall, so's he could be handy to spell me when I had to rest. And he's set up watchin' with you, night after night, just as faithful 's if you was his own father. I could never have done it alone; for, squire, you came mighty nigh slippin' over Jordan some o' them nights—mighty nigh. Man alive! haven't you got any heart? What are you made of, anyway? Waal," drawing a long breath and looking a trifle frightened as she began to realize that she had been holding forth with more vigor than discretion, "I guess I've said enough for now, and I'll leave you to think it over. I've got that box in my trunk, and if you don't see fit to do the square thing by Cliff I shall give it to him, tell him all I know and then you an' I'll settle our accounts."

The woman arose as she concluded and walked quietly from the room, leaving the squire to meditate, in no enviable frame of mind, upon a situation which he had never dreamed would overtake him.

Maria did not go near him again until luncheon-time, when she carried him a tray of daintily prepared viands that would have tempted an epicure.

She watched him out of the corners of her eyes while she arranged his table, and the thoughtful expression on his face appeared to afford her an immense amount of satisfaction, for two or three times, when she passed behind his chair, she nodded her head with a gratified air which spoke volumes.

The man did not refer to the conversation of the morning, but there was that in his manner and in the tones of his voice whenever he addressed her, which assured her that he did not think any the less of her for the stand she had taken.

She kept out of his way during most of the afternoon, also, giving as a reason that she was going to be busy in the laundry, but at night, as at noon, his dinner was prepared with the greatest care and nicety.

"You are a good cook, Maria," he remarked as she brought him a second cup of coffee, the aroma of which pervaded the whole room, "and," he added gravely, "you have proved yourself to be a tip-top nurse."

"Thank you, sir," Maria respectfully responded and flushing with pleasure at the unusual praise; "I had a good woman to train me—Mis' Talford made me what I am, and I'm not backward to give her the credit of it; she was a prime housekeeper and one o' the salt o' the earth."

Whether it was this reference to his wife, or whether some other matters were pressing heavily upon him, Maria had no means of knowing, but she was sure she heard him sigh and saw his lips contract spasmodically—signs of emotion which were very rare with him.

He finished his dinner in silence, but as she was about to leave the room with his tray he suddenly inquired:

"Maria, has Cliff come in yet?"

"Yes, sir; I met him in the hall as I was bringing up that last cup of coffee."

"Well, will you go to his door and ask him if he can spare me an hour this evening? Say that it is a matter of importance."

"All right, sir; I'll tell him," Maria responded, but with a sudden choking in her throat which rendered her utterance somewhat indistinct.

"And, Maria——"

"Yes, sir."

She paused with her hand upon the handle of the door, but did not look around.

"When I ring you may bring me that box, of which you told me to-day."

"Yes, sir."

It was all she could say; then she passed out of the room, shutting the door softly behind her, but paused in the hall to wipe away the tears that were raining over her cheeks.

Maria hurried away to the basement with her tray, then, all unmindful of the fact that as yet her own fast had not been broken, sought Cliff, who was in the library, his landlady having considerately offered him the freedom of the house while he was excluded from his own room.

"Is it anything particular, Maria?" the young man inquired when she had delivered her message, while he glanced at his watch, for he had an engagement with Mollie for nine o'clock.

"Yes, 'tis," the woman replied with an emphatic nod of her head; "it's very particular, and I'd advise you to 'tend to it now, while the squire's in the right mood."

Cliff regarded her curiously a moment; but, as she did not seem inclined to say more, he observed:

"Very well, I will go to him at once," and, following her from the room, he mounted the stairs and was soon knocking for admission at the door of the room above.

"Good evening, Squire Talford, how do you find yourself to-night?" he inquired pleasantly upon entering at the man's bidding.

"I'm getting on very well," was the somewhat laconic reply.

"Maria told me that you wished to see me. What can I do for you?" Clifford asked, but instinctively scenting something unusual in the atmosphere.

"Sit down," briefly commanded the squire and pointing at a chair opposite him. Clifford obeyed, smiling indulgently at the peremptory tone.

"I've got a story to tell you," began the squire plunging at once into the disagreeable task before him, "and I expect it may surprise you a bit in some ways. My father died when I was a baby. He was a rich man, owning the place which has always been my home, besides considerable other property. He made a will before he died giving everything he possessed to my mother, and leaving her free to do with it just what she chose. Two years afterward she married a second time—a man with no means, a bookworm and would-be literary man, who sometimes earned a little by his pen, though for the most part he was a failure from a pecuniary point of view.

"Less than a year later there came another boy into the family—my half-brother—and at the end of another twelve months my mother was again a widow. From that time she lived only to rear and educate her children, who grew up together, nominally as brothers, but secretly antagonistic to each other from their earliest youth. From my boyhood I was thrifty and ambitious; all my interest and my pride were centered in my home, and I was always planning and working to improve it and make it yield a handsome income. My brother, on the contrary, would not work; he was fond of books, like his father, and, more than all, of a rollicking good time.

"He had no interest in the farm or in anything that pertained to the ways and means of living, and, as he grew toward manhood, he became wild and unmanageable, giving our mother many a heartache because of his reckless habits and extravagance. He always managed to get the lion's share of everything, and, although I know my mother did not mean to be unfair to me, she favored him in many ways, and denied herself almost every luxury to keep his pockets well filled. We both went to college, but when I was through I settled down to manage the estate and make the most out of it and what other property my mother owned. When Bill finished his education he insisted that he must have a trip to Europe. He had his way, and spent a pile of money—more than he had any right to—while I trudged on at home and bore all the burdens. About six months after he went away I became attracted to a—a handsome girl in New Haven. Her name was Isabelle Abbot."

"My mother!" exclaimed Cliff with a sudden start and thrill of dismay, while he grew first crimson, then white.

"Yes, your mother," sharply repeated the squire, "and, as I said, she lived in New Haven, her father doing a good business there in gents' furnishing goods. She returned—or appeared to return—my regard for her, and we shortly became engaged and planned to be married the next fall, as soon as the harvesting was over. In June my brother returned from Europe—the same rollicking, pleasure-loving, indolent fellow he had always been. My mother urged him to settle down to some business or profession, but he kept putting her off, telling her that when he found something that suited him he'd dip in, as he expressed it; but he didn't find what he wanted and continued to live his lazy life, but spending money just as freely as ever. It was a bitter day for me when I introduced him to the girl I expected to marry. He expressed a great deal of admiration for her, called me a 'lucky dog' and said he should 'be very fond of his pretty sister-in-law.'"

The bitterness in Squire Talford's tones as he repeated these sayings of his brother plainly betrayed that his heart was still very sore from these painful experiences of the past.

"Well, it is the old story of treachery, and confidence betrayed," he resumed after a short pause. "He began to visit Belle on the sly, and wormed himself into her affections, and I, while I could see that she was not quite the same as she was before he came home, never dreamed of what was going on between them, until one day—just a month before the day set for our wedding—they both disappeared, leaving only this to tell what had occurred."

The squire paused again and drew from the inner pocket of his dressing-gown a small, square leather case, which he passed over to Clifford.

The young man took it with fingers that were trembling visibly, opened it and drew forth a soiled and yellow envelope addressed to Mr. Alfred H. Talford and in a hand which he instantly recognized to be his mother's.

Slipping the missive from the envelope, he unfolded it and read the following brief letter:

"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 elsewhere. Forget and forgive if you can. T.A."

Clifford was very pale as he perused these lines; which had crushed all the brightest hopes of the man before him and embittered and warped his whole life.

He sighed, and a feeling of sympathy thrilled his heart as he returned the epistle to its worn, leathern receptable and handed it back to his companion, while he told himself that there must be depths to the man's nature that he had never suspected, or he would not have preserved and carried about with him for so many years this relic of an old-time love.

The squire hesitated before taking it, glancing irresolutely from it to Clifford, as if half-ashamed of the tenacity with which he had clung to it, and was inclined to repudiate any further interests in it, but he finally put forth his hand to receive it and returned it to the pocket from which he had taken it.

"Then, my mother married your half-brother, Squire Talford," Clifford gravely observed, after a thoughtful pause, "and that makes you—"

"Yes, it makes me your uncle, or half-uncle, though perhaps the least said about the relationship the better," was the somewhat bitter reply. Then he resumed with pale, pain-drawn lips, which betrayed that it was no easy matter for him to lay bare these secrets of his heart; "You can, perhaps, imagine something of what that letter meant to me—it changed in one moment of time my whole life; it made a devil of me, and all the affection which I had previously entertained for those who had so wronged me turned to rankest hatred, and I vowed that I would some day make them conscious of the fact; that I would spare neither of them if the time ever came when I could set my heel upon them.

"That time came, at least for one, sooner than I expected. Meantime, I married a thrifty, sensible girl who made me a good wife. I'd got to have somebody to keep house for me and look out for things generally, for my mother was giving out; that last act of Bill's broke her heart as well as turned mine to stone. But she—my wife—didn't live so very long. I expect she found life rather disappointing, for she never seemed very chipper after the first month or two. So, when she died, I concluded I was better off alone, and, as Maria had been thoroughly trained in the ways of the house and farm, I concluded I'd fight it out by myself. But, to go back a little," he continued, his voice suddenly hardening again, a little note of regret having crept into it while he was speaking of his mother and his dead wife. "Mr. Abbot, Belle's father, was all broken up over her elopement; he had a long sickness, during which his business went to rack and ruin, and when he finally got out again he settled up the best he could and bought that little place where you spent the first thirteen years of your life, paying down what he could and giving a mortgage for the rest. I bought up that mortgage just as soon as I got wind of it, and that was the first grip I got toward paying off old scores. He and his wife lived there very quietly for a couple of years; then Mrs. Abbot died. Her husband struggled on alone for ten or eleven months longer, and then he gave up the battle.

"He made his will only a few weeks previous, leaving his interest in his house to his daughter, if she ever came back, and made me administrator of the estate—that was another grip for me. You see, I held the mortgage, and as I'd never let on about my state of mind regarding that old disappointment, he naturally thought I'd be the best one to manage the business, if I could ever get trace of his daughter. Ha!"

Clifford moved uneasily in his chair, for the vindictiveness in his companion's voice rasped almost beyond endurance. The squire observed it, and a wintry smile flitted over his face.

"That strikes you as rather vicious, doesn't it?" he said. "But I told you that that wrong made a devil of me. Well, Mr. Abbot hadn't been gone two months when his daughter came home, bringing her four-weeks'-old baby—you—with her."

"But, my father—where was he?" questioned Clifford in an eager tone.

"That was more than any one could tell; he had deserted his wife nearly a year previous, and she never saw or heard from him afterward. Here is the letter he wrote her, informing her of his intention. I found it among her papers after she died, and, as it struck me as being something rather unique, I have kept it as a curiosity and with the thought that it might prove useful to me at some time or other. It may, perhaps, serve to give you an inkling regarding his character."

He lifted a letter from the table beside him and handed it to Clifford with a grim smile on his face.

This is what the young man read;

"I'm off. 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 who 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."

"Wretch!" he muttered between his tightly locked teeth. "And have you never heard anything of him since?"

"Wait; let me tell my story in my own way and you will know all there is to know when I am through," the squire replied, and then resumed: "I told you that Belle Abbott came home with her baby, to find her father and mother both gone and with no resources for herself except the interest in the house where her parents had died. But she was thankful for even a roof to cover her, and, being a woman of considerable energy and strength of character, she began to look about for something to do to support herself and her child, and—to pay the interest on the mortgage, which, even then, was overdue."

Again Clifford moved restlessly, for the man's malice irritated him excessively, for he began to realize now, as he never had before, something of what his mother's wrongs and sufferings had been, and how this vindictive man had oppressed her to gratify a mean revenge.

"You think I was a 'wretch,' too, no doubt," said the squire. "I don't deny it; but you know the old saying that 'even a worm will turn when trod upon,' and my heart had been trampled to adamant and I had sworn that I would have my pay for it. Your mother never went by her husband's surname after she came back—she called herself Mrs. Faxon, for she did not want you to know anything about the troubles of her life until you were old enough to comprehend them clearly. That was why she would never talk with you about your father. She had a first-rate education, having stood at the head of her class when she graduated from the Normal School in New Haven, and so she decided to open a private school in her own house and try to get her living that way. She managed to just about cover her expenses, except that she couldn't meet the interest on that mortgage, during the last few years, and so the place came into my hands, as you know, when she died. I didn't press her for the money, and I didn't show my hoofs to her very much. I—well, I had my reasons for it, as you will see." The man faltered and changed color here a trifle.

"So," he went on, bracing himself after a moment, "she naturally believed that I had wiped out old scores; but I hadn't. I simply wanted to work out certain plans which I had in view for you, and when I proposed that she should bind you to me for a term of years she fell into the trap without a suspicion, believing that I would look out for your future interests, and, if at any time your father's death could be proved, you would come in for a certain share of the property. But that was the very thing that I was determined should never happen, and so, when, the night before she died, she sent for me and gave me a box of letters and other papers explaining your parentage to keep for you until your time was out——"

"What!" cried Clifford, flushing crimson with sudden indignation, "and you never gave them to me! Why have you done this—this wicked, inhuman thing—why have you kept them from me?"

"Because of that old devil in me, I suppose," was the dogged response. "The hatred which I had been nursing against your father and mother for so many years seemed to concentrate upon you. I never meant you should know who your father was, nor your relationship to me, nor that you should get a penny of your grandmother's property, if I could help it."

"Did my grandmother make a will?" Clifford briefly inquired.

"No, there was no will; but as nothing was ever heard of my brother, and as I had managed everything for years, the property has all remained in my hands," the squire replied.

"Why have you told me all this now—why have you changed your mind and revealed these secrets?" Clifford demanded as he leaned forward and gazed steadily into his companion's face. Something about him seemed to fascinate the man, for he regarded him with a peculiar, searching look for a full minute.

"Your eyes are very like your mother's," he musingly observed. "She had the most beautiful eyes I ever saw, and your features are something like hers. I used to think you looked like your father, but you have changed during the last few years, and you make me think of her to-night. Oh!"—with a sudden start and giving himself a rough shake—"why have I told you this story now? Well, for one reason, I was compelled to do so. I thought that box of papers would never see the light again—I meant to have burned it long ago, but kept putting it off—but fate has taken the matter entirely out of my hands. I had it safely locked away in an old trunk, with a lot of other papers, but while Maria was cleaning house, after I came to Washington, the trunk got a fall, was smashed, and she found it. She brought it along with her, and this morning she informed me that I must relate the facts of your history to you or she should take the matter into her own hands. Of course, I preferred to face the inevitable," he concluded stoically.

"What are the papers in the box?" queried Clifford.

"Some old love-letters that passed between your father and mother while they were fooling me to the top of their bent, the certificate of their marriage, and another of your baptism, with some other things of minor importance."

"Oh! then there is proof that my mother was legally married?" said Clifford eagerly.

"Yes, they were married, straight enough; though it wouldn't have surprised me at all if my scapegrace of a brother had made a fool of her. I never knew him to consult his conscience much where his own pleasure was concerned," said the squire dryly.

"I once inferred from something you said that there was some doubt about it," said Clifford flushing.

"Well, I was pretty mad at you that night, and I didn't care much what I said."

"You have said that my father was your half-brother, and that Faxon was not his surname. What was his name?" the young man inquired with a clouded brow.

"Well, it is natural that you should want to know, and these papers will tell you. I'll call Maria and she will bring them to you," Squire Talford replied, and he rang the little handbell by his side, and which was to summon Mrs. Kimberly to the scene.

Maria, evidently, was not far away, for she entered the room almost immediately after the ringing of Squire Talford's bell and bearing the box in her hands. She paused, after closing the door, and glanced inquiringly at the squire.

"Give it to him," he said, with a nod toward Clifford, and Maria placed it in his hands, after which she walked quietly from the room again.

Clifford was deeply moved, and his hands trembled visibly as he untied the cord that held the cover in place and removed it. He merely glanced at the letters as he took them out; but seized the folded parchment with an eagerness which betrayed how anxious he was to learn the identity of the man who had married and deserted his mother.

He removed the pin that held the two papers together and unfolded the topmost one, which proved to be the marriage-certificate. He searched it eagerly for the name he wanted, and a perplexed look swept over his face as he read it: "W. F. T. Wilton."

"W. F. T. Wilton," he repeated thoughtfully. "Well, it does not enlighten me very much. What do the initials 'W. F. T.' stand for?"

"William Faxon Temple," briefly replied his companion, and regarding him with a peculiar look.

At first the name did not seem to mean much to Clifford. Then, all at once, he started erect, a terrible shock galvanizing him from head to foot, as his mind flew back to his first summer in the mountains, where he had met the wealthy banker, William F. Temple, and his family; as he recalled also his interview with the man on the morning after Minnie Temple's rescue, when he had been so strangely moved upon learning his own name.

"But it cannot be possible!" he muttered, repudiating the thought almost as soon as it had taken form in his mind.

"What cannot be possible?" inquired the squire.

"Why, I know a man here in Washington by the name of William F. Temple, and it struck me as an odd coincidence that is all," Clifford explained, but with clouded eyes.

"Well?" said the squire, but with such a peculiar intonation that Clifford started again.

"You cannot mean—surely it cannot be possible that he is the man you refer to—your half-brother!" he cried breathlessly.

"Yes, he, and no other, is the man," was the emphatic response, "only he has found it convenient to drop the name of Wilton."

"But are you sure? Have you met this man who calls himself William F. Temple? Do you know that he is your brother?"

"Yes, I am sure—we have met and recognized each other, greatly to his confusion. I could take my oath as to his identity and that he is the man who married Belle Abbot more than twenty-three years ago, though I am sure he has never dreamed of your existence, for you were born eight months after he had deserted your mother. She called herself by the name of Faxon and named you Clifford, for your grandfather, Abbot. She said you should never be known by the name of Wilton, and as the population of New Haven was constantly changing, and her home was on the outskirts of the city, she hoped to keep your identity a secret and your young life unhampered by any knowledge of the great wrong of which your father had been guilty. She never heard one word from her husband, and she finally came to the conclusion that he must be dead. I also shared that belief, for I was pretty sure that if he was alive and needed money he would make some effort to get his share of his mother's property; but four years ago last summer we suddenly ran across each other on a train between New York and Albany——"

"You did?" sharply interposed Clifford, "and did you tell him of my existence?"

"You may be sure I didn't. I never meant that any one should know that there was any tie of kinship between you and me," replied the squire, with some asperity. "At first Bill pretended that he did not know me, but I very soon brought him down from his high horse and convinced him that I knew my man. He was dressed like a nabob, and told me that he had become rich—he even told me that I was welcome to all that our mother left, and that he should never give me any trouble about his share of it; but I supposed that was a kind of bribe for me to let him alone, and, as I'd come to look upon everything as belonging to me, I concluded to give him a wide berth, rather than to get into an expensive lawsuit over the matter. I never met him again until the day you took your degree at Harvard—bah! I did not mean to let that cat out of the bag!" the man interposed, with a shrug of irritation and flushing hotly.

"Oh! I knew you were there," Clifford quietly returned. "I saw you almost as soon as I entered the hall, and your presence was a great inspiration—I feel I owe you a great deal for it."

"An inspiration!" repeated his companion, wonderingly.

"Yes; for I knew you had come to criticize—to ascertain for yourself if I had been able to work my own way through college and acquit myself creditably, and the knowledge proved a wonderful bracer for me. But you were telling me about your second meeting with Mr. Temple."

"Yes, I ran against him and his whole family just as I was leaving the grounds. They were a stunning party, and their carriage and horses as fine as one would care to see. But it nearly took Bill's breath away to see me—he looked as if he had met a ghost, though neither of us let on that he knew the other," the squire explained.

"And that man is my father!—you have taken my breath away by the revelation," said Clifford, with an air of bewilderment and a sudden sense of repulsion. "However, I have no desire to lay claim to any such relationship. Do you know where he went and how he made his money after he deserted my mother?"

"I've been told that he 'struck pay-gravel' in some Western mines; then went to San Francisco, where he set up as a banker, got into society there, and served one or two terms as Mayor of the city and met his present wife—who was a rich widow by the name of Wentworth and married her there. I learned this from a San Francisco man whom I met when I first came to Washington."

"When—how long ago was he married to this woman?" Clifford questioned, with a violent start.

"I'm sure I don't know—I haven't felt interest enough in their affairs to make any inquiries about the matter," said the squire indifferently. "I remember when I met him on that trip to Albany I told him that all the folks at home were gone. He said he knew it—he'd kept himself posted; so I suppose he must have married this woman after that."

But Clifford had grown deathly pale while he was speaking, for his mind had been working rapidly.

"No—no; great heaven;" he exclaimed, "I am sure he must have married her before my mother died!"

"What's that?" exclaimed the squire, and now all on the alert, while a malicious gleam flashed into his eyes.

"Yes, I am sure of it—oh! the shame of it!" groaned Clifford in deep distress, "and that dear, sweet child, Minnie, who is, of course, my half-sister, has no legal right to the name she bears; neither has her proud-spirited mother. What a wretch that man has been!"

"Hold on, my boy—don't go so fast," interposed his companion, with considerable excitement. "What is all this lament about?—explain what you mean."

"You have said that you have seen Mr. Temple's whole family; then of course you know that he has a beautiful little daughter about eleven years old——"

"His child by this second marriage?—are you sure?" exclaimed the squire breathlessly.

"Yes; her name is Minnie Temple."

"Ha! I had never given a thought to the girl nor her possible age. But if what you say is true, I have lived to see him bitterly punished," and the man chuckled maliciously.

"Ah, yes, he must long have felt that a sword was hanging over his head," Clifford gravely observed. "Let me see; I met the family in the White Mountains during the vacation after my first year at college. Minnie was then five years old; more than five years have elapsed since then, so she must be between ten and eleven now, and my mother died ten years ago last August," he concluded, with a look of keen pain in his eyes.

"And that proves Mrs. Temple to be no wife and the child illegitimate. Bill Wilton was a fool ever to show his face this side of the Rockies again—it's a true saying, 'give a rogue rope enough and he'll hang himself.' We'll fix him now, though I never dared to hope for such a triumph as this," said the squire, with another chuckle that actually made Clifford's flesh creep.

"Oh, don't!" he exclaimed, with mingled disgust and distress.

"Don't!" repeated the man in a tone of astonishment. "Don't you want to see a rascal like that brought to justice? I do. His whole life has been one long story of selfish indulgence and crime."

"I am not thinking of him at all," said Clifford sorrowfully, "but of the innocent ones who have been so deeply wronged by him—that lovely woman and her sweet child——"

"How about yourself?" snapped the squire. "You have your rights."

"My dear mother was a legal wife. Assured of that, I am not disturbed about myself, as far as Mr. Temple is concerned. I have fought my way thus far, and I shall go still higher, without extorting anything from him."

"But you surely will demand that he shall do the fair thing by you in the disposition of his property."

"No!" cried Clifford, in a tone of scornful repudiation. "I would never claim kinship with such a man and I want none of his gold. But"—a wistful expression creeping into his eyes and dropping into a musing tone—"I could love that dear child—my little half-sister—very tenderly if I might be allowed to. I have always felt a sort of proprietorship in her ever since the day that I went over that precipice after her—somehow she has seemed to belong to me in a way, though I little imagined that I was rescuing my own sister from a terrible death——"

"'Death!—rescue!'" repeated the squire wonderingly, "what are you talking about, Cliff?"

The young man looked up with a smile and shook himself. "I was dreaming of the past, and hardly realized that I was speaking aloud," he said.

Then he described the event, while the man listened attentively, his eyes fastened upon the manly young face, and a look of wonder grew in his eyes as he began to comprehend the heroism of the deed.

"And you did that! you went over that precipice and down a hundred feet on a rope and back again, the same way, with that child on your back!" he demanded in astonishment when Clifford concluded.

"Of course—there was nothing else to be done."

"Weren't you afraid?—you must have known that you were liable to lose your head, fall and be dashed to atoms on the rocks below."

"Well, I knew there was a risk, of course; but I did not stop to think about being afraid. I should have gone, just the same, if I had known I should fail—I could not leave that child there without making an effort to save her," was the grave reply.

"Well, that makes another!" ejaculated the squire thoughtfully.

"Another what?" questioned Clifford, who did not catch his companion's meaning.

"Another deed to be proud of," was the hearty, but almost involuntary response.

It was now Clifford's turn to look astonished—and he was beyond measure—for it was the first time he had ever heard a word of genuine commendation from the man's lips.

"Thank you, sir," he earnestly returned.

"Humph!" grunted the squire, as if half-ashamed of having betrayed so much weakness; "so you don't appear to be very much elated over the fact that you are the sole heir to William Faxon Temple's millions."

"No, sir; I do not want a dollar of his money," was the spirited reply, "and I should never—under any circumstances—attempt to prove myself his heir, or entitled to bear his name. My mother named me Clifford Faxon, and while I live I will bear no other."

"Well, I must say, you are mighty indifferent about your rights; and you do not seem to grasp the fact either, that, as my nephew, there is a possibility that you may inherit something handsome from me one of these days," and the man regarded him curiously as he said this.

Clifford flushed again.

"I had not thought of such a thing, I assure you," he said coldly. "Of course I cannot help the fact that a certain relationship exists between us; but I do not want your property, Squire Talford—I don't want any man's money."

"Oh, you don't! It strikes me that you are mighty independent, and perhaps may live to regret assuming such airs," snapped his companion, in evident irritation. Then he added maliciously: "But then, I forgot for the moment that you are expecting to marry a fortune—I am told that Miss Heatherford is a rich girl."

Clifford was secretly furious at this spiteful thrust; nothing but his respect for the man's age and weakened condition kept him from voicing a scathing retort.

"Miss Heatherford's property will be settled exclusively upon herself before she becomes my wife," he merely replied, with an air of dignity that sat well upon him. "I have no desire to build myself up upon the foundation of another. From my earliest boyhood I have been conscious of something within me that was bound to rise, and if I have my health I have no fear that I shall be able to make for myself a name and position of which neither I nor my friends will be ashamed."

"Humph!" grunted the squire again; but he shot a look at the fine face opposite him that had an unwonted gleam of respect in it.

"You remarked a while ago," Clifford resumed after a moment of silence, "that you believe Mr. Temple is unaware of the fact that he has a son. I am confident you are mistaken. I am quite sure that he knows that I am his son, although he evidently thinks that I am ignorant regarding my relationship to him."

He then described his first meeting with Mr. Temple a few days after Minnie Temple's accident, and how agitated the man had been upon learning of his name and the fact that he had been bound to Squire Talford for four years.

The squire smiled grimly as he concluded:

"Well, it does look as if he had an inkling of the truth, that's a fact," he said, "and he must have had quite a shock at the time—he couldn't have felt over and above easy, I'm thinking, especially since I came to Washington. I don't see that it has done much good telling you this story," he went on moodily, "except that perhaps it has set your mind at rest about your origin. I don't suppose I should ever have told it if it hadn't been for Maria—she was bound that you should know the truth, and, on the whole, I am not sorry it is over with."

Clifford made no reply to these remarks—he felt they called for none—but busied himself with gathering up his papers and replacing them in their box, his companion regarding him curiously while he did so.

When he had arranged everything in an orderly manner, Clifford tied the cover on the box, after which he arose to go.

"I am very glad that we have had this explanation, Squire Talford," he thoughtfully remarked, "for I never could understand why I was such an object of aversion to you. I sincerely regret that I should have been the innocent cause of so much discomfort to you; but let me say now, as it is probable we shall never meet again after you leave Washington, that you need give yourself no uneasiness for the future, for no one shall ever learn from me the relationship that exists between us."

"Humph! and you really mean, too, that you will never tell your father that you have learned you are his son and can prove the fact?"

"Never. I have no wish ever to meet the man again," Clifford returned with decision.

"Suppose he should some day approach you upon the subject?"

"That is a different matter, though I think it is not a supposable case; he has too much at stake to care to agitate so serious a subject. I hope our long talk has not wearied you and that you will still continue to improve as rapidly as I am glad to see you have been during the last few days."

"Yes, I am getting along finely, and we are going home the first of next week," the squire observed, but with his eyes downcast in a thoughtful mood.

"Ah! I was not aware you had set the day; but no doubt you will be far more comfortable in your pleasant home at Cedar Hill. I trust, if there is anything I can do for you in a business way, or otherwise, before you go, you will command me. Now, as I have an engagement, I must go. Good night."

"Good night," briefly returned the man, but without looking up, and Clifford quietly left the room. He met Maria in the hall.

"Waal, you've got it," she observed, and glancing significantly at the box in his hands.

"Yes, thanks to you, my faithful friend. I feel that I owe you a great deal, first and last," the young man replied in a grateful tone; "and the squire tells me you are going home next week."

"I guess there ain't no call for you to feel overburdened," said the woman, swallowing hard to keep a sob from choking her, as she thought of the coming separation, "I never had to ask you twice to do anything for me, even when you was a boy; you was always careful about makin' trouble, you never made any litter bringin' wood—you never got any ashes on the floor when you made the fire in the mornin', and you always had a pleasant word for me when other folks were cross'n two sticks. I don't forget them things, I can tell you."

"And I am sure I have just as many pleasant memories. You were always very kind to me, Maria," said Clifford. Then, as he saw she was almost ready to weep, he added, with a laugh: "Oh, those turnovers and doughnuts that you used to tuck into my basket when I had to take my dinner to school on stormy winter days were things a boy could never forget! I believe nobody can make such doughnuts as yours, Maria—really, my mouth waters for one this very moment."

"Sho!—now you're giving me taffy," the woman retorted, with an answering laugh; but her face flushed with pleasure at his tribute nevertheless.

The next morning Squire Talford busied himself with writing a somewhat lengthy epistle, which, after addressing it, he directed Maria to post immediately.

Mrs. Kimberly was not above glancing at the superscription as she went out, and nodded significantly as she read the name, "William Faxon Temple, Esq." for she had recently seen the same, with another added, in the old family Bible at home. She, therefore, had a shrewd suspicion that the contents of that envelope related to matters of grave importance that were closely connected with Clifford. She looked even more wise when, that same evening, the maid who waited upon the door handed her a card and told her a gentleman was in the parlor and wanted to see Squire Talford, for one glance at the bit of pasteboard had revealed the same name that she had seen on the letter which she had posted that morning.

The squire told her to show the gentleman up immediately, and the two men were closeted together for more than two hours.

When the visitor left, Maria, who of course, was on the alert, observed that he was deathly pale, and that he walked unsteadily like one who had received a severe blow or had suddenly aged.

"So, that's the man; waal, the day o' judgment has come for him at last! The way of the transgressor is hard," she muttered gravely to herself.

The next afternoon, shortly before leaving his office, Clifford received the following note:

"Will Mr. Clifford Faxon have the kindness to call this evening about nine o'clock at No. 54 —— Street? A matter of great importance is the excuse for the request. Very respectfully,  William F. Temple."

Clifford was somewhat appalled as he read this, and readily understood that Squire Talford had taken matters into his own hands.

His whole soul arose in rebellion as he read the formal note, and his first impulse was to pen a curt refusal to comply with the writer's request. He had hoped that he need never meet the man again, now that he had learned who and what he was; this man, devoid of all honor, who, according to his own written statement, had deliberately set himself to win the love of a pure and innocent girl, just out of a spirit of rivalry with his brother, and then, as soon as he had become weary of his toy, he had remorselessly broken her heart by deserting her and leaving her in a strange city to fight the desperate battle of life alone.

His contempt for the man was beyond the power of expression, especially when he thought of how he had daringly ignored all moral and civil law by marrying another without taking any pains to ascertain whether his first victim was still living, and thus had entailed upon the second wife and her child irrevocably shame and sorrow.

Of course he understood that motives of revenge alone had prompted Squire Talford to precipitate matters in this way—that he would gloat over this opportunity to pay off, in a measure, the old scores which he had nursed for so many years, and his scorn for him was little less than that for his more daring and reckless brother.

But after giving the matter some serious thought, and realizing that a meeting between himself and Mr. Temple was bound to occur sooner or later, he decided to comply with his request, boldly declare the attitude which he intended to maintain toward him, and thus settle the matter for all time.

Accordingly the hour designated—nine o'clock—found him standing upon the marble steps of Mr. Temple's palatial residence ringing for admittance. A dignified butler admitted him to a reception-room and took his card to his master. He reappeared very shortly with a request from Mr. Temple that he would kindly step into the library.

As Clifford followed the man through the spacious hall he could not fail to observe everywhere the numerous evidences of great wealth and the exquisite taste displayed in the choice of furnishings, pictures, bric-a-brac, etc., and a pang of bitterness, mingled with righteous indignation, smote his heart as he recalled how his mother had toiled and struggled to eke out a miserable existence.

As he entered the luxurious library and the servant withdrew, closing the door after him, Mr. Temple came forward to greet him with extended hand, but with an almost colorless face and unsteady step.

"We have met before," he said, "we need no introduction——"

"That is true, Mr. Temple," Clifford observed, as the man faltered, while he gravely met his glance but ignored his proffered hand, "and while I would have much preferred—since learning from Squire Talford yesterday of the relations existing between us—that we need never meet again, it has seemed best to me to respond to your request and come to some definite understanding regarding our attitude toward each other in the future."

Mr. Temple had grown red and white by turns during this formal speech, and his eyes wavered and fell beneath the clear, direct look of the young man before him. He felt deeply humiliated in the presence of his unacknowledged son—a son whom he realized any father might be proud to own.

"I comprehend," he said after a moment of awkward silence, "you refuse to take the hand of the man who you feel has deeply wronged both yourself and your mother; you perhaps have no desire to recognize any tie of kinship between us."

"You are right, sir," Clifford briefly but positively declared.

Mr. Temple flushed again, but bowed a grave acquiescence to his decision.

"Will you be seated?" he remarked. "I will not presume to question the justice of the attitude you have chosen to adopt, at the same time there are some matters regarding which I wish to consult you.

"We might as well come straight to the point," the gentleman began, but with white lips and averted eyes, for he had never been as conscious of his own littleness of soul and lack of manliness as at that moment in the presence of his son, whom he recognized as infinitely his superior in every respect. "I spent a couple of hours with Alfred Talford last evening, and he told me of his interview with you and also gave me the history of your life. Since this conference must necessarily be mostly one of confession, I may as well state plainly at the outset that I never really loved your mother. She was a bright, handsome girl, and I was temporarily attracted toward her, while a spirit of deviltry prompted me to try to make her prove false to Alf, between whom and myself there had always existed a feeling of jealousy and rivalry.

"How well I succeeded you already know. I completely mesmerized the girl into believing that her existence depended upon me, and persuaded her to elope with me, leaving her discarded lover to bear his disappointment as best he could. We went West, but I soon grew weary of my unloved wife. Perhaps I could have borne our relations better if we had been prosperous; but after the money I had taken with me had given out and I knew I would not be likely to get any more out of the estate while my mother lived, I had hard luck—I did not get business that amounted to anything, and every day was a struggle for a meager existence. Belle had to work hard to help along, and so had no time to spend upon pretty toilets to make herself attractive as before our marriage, while anxiety and disappointment stole all her color and beauty. I stood it as long as I could, and then I made up my mind to bolt. I——"

"Pardon, Mr. Temple," Clifford here interposed, a look of mingled pain and aversion sweeping over his face, "pray spare yourself and me a rehearsal of that—I have in my possession the letter which you wrote my mother at that time, and it needs no elucidation."

"Very well," the man curtly observed, though he shrank visibly, as he realized how utterly contemptible he must appear in the eyes of his son if he had read the cruel lines he had written. "On leaving Chicago I dropped my last name, Wilton, and called myself Temple. I drifted into a mining-district of Colorado, where, after a time, I made a lively strike, and, in a few years, became independently rich. Then, as I did not like the rough life of a miner and craved better society, I sold out and went to San Francisco, where I established myself as a banker."

"Did no sense of responsibility make you feel that you ought to make some provision for the wife you had left after you became so prosperous?" Clifford here inquired.

"Well," replied Mr. Temple, with a restless movement, "I supposed she had gone back to her own folks, and, as Mr. Abbot was doing a good business when she left home, I imagined she would be well provided for, while I wanted to keep dark. I was perfectly willing that all my old acquaintances in the East should believe me dead. I knew my mother was dead, for I had read a record of it, having ordered a New Haven paper sent to a certain address after I went to San Francisco, and there was nobody else in that region that I cared anything about. Later, I became interested in politics, made myself popular, and served two terms as Mayor of the city.

"Then"—he paused and swallowed hard, while his face became drawn and pinched with pain—"I met my present wife, who was a wealthy widow with one son, visiting some friends in the city, and I fell really in love for the first time in my life, and—and my affection for her has strengthened with every passing year. You doubtless wonder how I dared to marry her without procuring a divorce from Belle. I admit it was a bold and risky thing to do; but I knew that I had no grounds for a divorce—that if I should attempt such a measure, very likely I should fail, for I felt very sure that Alf must hate me to that extent that he would spare nothing to thwart any plan of that kind. I told myself that I was practically dead to all who had known me earlier in life—that it would be better for me not to arouse sleeping dogs, who would be likely to blight all the dearest hopes of my life; the continent was between us, and as I had changed my name, it seemed more than probable that I could live out my life without the fear of being molested by any one.

"So I boldly won the woman I loved and resolutely silenced every fear for the future. In less than a year my little daughter, Minnie, was born, and then for a while I confess I experienced some uneasiness on her account; but a year later that all vanished when one day I read in my New Haven paper of the death of Mrs. W. F. T. Wilton, and knew that at last I was free. I told myself that now I could enjoy life to the utmost—my past was a sealed book, and the future was bright with unlimited wealth, a beautiful wife, a lovely child. I felt as if I had been released from a terrible bondage, and lived accordingly. We had the entrée of the best society, and there was even some talk of making me governor of the State. An almost ideal existence was ours, and yet, even then, occasionally there would be forced upon my consciousness the fact that my wife had no legal right to the position she occupied and that my idolized child was——"

"Oh, I beg you will not speak like that of that innocent child!" Clifford here broke forth, with a note of keen pain in his tones. "It is wholly unnecessary to rehearse all that to me."

"Yes, yes, I suppose it is," Mr. Temple assented, as he shook himself roughly as if arousing from a disagreeable dream, "and I hardly know why I have allowed myself to go so into details. Well, the greatest mistake of my life was made when I yielded to Mrs. Temple's persuasions to come East and settle, so that her son could be educated at Harvard—and, by the way, it seemed like the mockery of fate that you two should have been in the same class. At first I objected to the plan, for I, of course, felt safer to be three thousand miles from the scenes of my youthful escapades, and I was still ambitious for political honors, in spite of the fact that my own party had been defeated in the last elections; but her heart was so set on the project that I finally gave up the point. We accordingly went to Boston, and a little later I purchased a fine estate in Brookline, which has been our home ever since.

"Mind you, during all this time I had never dreamed of your existence. My first intimation of the fact that I had a son was that morning when I sought you to express my gratitude to you for having saved the life of my little daughter. The moment I looked into your eyes I was conscious that there was something strangely familiar about you, and when you told me that your name was Clifford Faxon, it seemed as if the earth was slipping out from underneath me. I knew the truth then, for your mother had often said that if she ever had a son she would name him Clifford, for her father; and I understood that she had refrained from giving you your true surname because she wished to keep from you the knowledge of who your father was.

"I have learned all about her life after she returned to New Haven, and also her history from Squire Talford. I know what you have had to meet and overcome, and that you have steadily and resolutely risen above every obstacle. I realize the fact that you are a young man, morally and intellectually, of whom any man might feel proud as a son, and yet, situated as I am, you can readily see that such a recognition would entail——"

"I beg that you will give yourself no uneasiness, sir; I have no desire to recognize such a tie, nor to have any one else informed of the fact," Clifford quietly interposed.

Mr. Temple changed color, yet at the same time the look of intense anxiety which his face had worn hitherto faded out and he drew a breath of relief.

"Very well; and now we have arrived at a point where I wish to discuss matters from a business point of view. I tell you candidly I adore my wife, I worship my child, and I would far rather that a millstone should crush me at this instant than have either learn the terrible facts regarding their true position. Therefore, I am going to throw myself upon your mercy; I know that you are an honorable man, and that your word would be as sacred to you as your oath, and I am going to ask you to pledge yourself never to reveal to any one the secret of my past. In return for such a pledge I will settle upon you outright the sum of three hundred thousand dollars——"

Clifford drew himself suddenly erect, and a statue could scarcely have been colder or more rigid.

"Mr. Temple," he interrupted, with a dignity that was most impressive, "there is not the slightest need of purchasing my silence. As I have said, I have no wish to have any part of this history known; my love for my mother, who was a pure, sweet, gentle woman, and my pride alike, forbid that I should lay any claim to kinship with you, and I would not accept a dollar of your money to save myself from starvation."

"You are hard on me, young man," said Mr. Temple, cringing beneath the scathing words as under a blow.

"Hard!" repeated Clifford, whose scorn for the man was almost beyond control, for he not only had his own and his mother's wrongs to remember, but the treachery of the man in connection with Mr. Heatherford, "the greatest condemnation that could be pronounced upon you, you have yourself voiced to-night in the heartless story which you have related to me; and let me assure you that I am actuated by no sympathy with or pity for you in promising that my lips will forever be sealed regarding our relations to each other, but out of regard alone for the dear child whom I saved from a terrible death, and for whom I have ever since entertained a strong affection. For her sake this secret, which would blight her young life, shall be guarded most sacredly—ah!—what does that mean?"

And Clifford paused briefly, a look of blank dismay upon his face, as a low, wailing, shuddering moan sounded through the room.