That heart-broken cry struck instant terror to the souls of both men. Clifford started to his feet, and Mr. Temple sprang forward, with a muttered oath, toward the portières that screened an alcove at one end of the room, just as they parted, and Minnie Temple appeared in the aperture.

"Oh, papa, papa! what does it all mean?" she wailed as she fell into his outstretched arms, and he caught her almost fiercely to his breast. "I have heard every word that you have said. I came in here after dinner, laid down on the couch in the alcove and went to sleep. I awoke when Clifford Faxon came in, but was too late to leave; then when you began to talk I remained where I was—forgot everything but what you were saying. Oh, tell me, what is this dreadful story about mamma and me, and about Mr. Faxon being your son? I must know—I must know! I will know!"

The poor girl was fearfully wrought up, and at this point lapsed into violent hysterics that alarmed both her companions.

With the child still hugged to his bosom and a face like chalk, Mr. Temple strode to the mantle and touched an electric button.

"Send Mrs. Maxfield immediately—Miss Minnie is ill," he said when the butler appeared.

Then he attempted to soothe her, calling her every endearing name he could think of, and assuring her that there was no story—she simply dreamed or had a horrible nightmare.

But she was past all reason, and when the housekeeper appeared she was borne up-stairs in an almost unconscious condition and put to bed, while Clifford quietly left the house, but with an exceedingly heavy heart.

A physician was summoned, and after powerful anodynes had been administered the child fell into a profound stupor, from which she did not arouse until the next morning.

But, of course, when the effects of the sleeping potion wore off and memory returned, the girl, who was mature beyond her years, sent for her father and insisted upon being told the truth about herself.

Mr. Temple tried to evade her as he had done the night previous, by trying to convince her that she had only been dreaming; but she asserted that she knew better, and appealed to her mother—who had been out at a reception the night before—to make her father explain what she had overheard.

Mr. Temple was in despair—he felt that the web of fate was closing around him, and, for the first time in his life, fell into a violent passion with her, sternly commanding her to stop questioning him regarding what was none of her affairs, but had been purely a matter of business between himself and Mr. Faxon.

Of course, the curiosity of both Mrs. Temple and Philip, who was also present, was aroused, and, upon their insistence, Minnie faithfully rehearsed the conversation between her father and Clifford, and, thus brought to bay, the wretched millionaire was forced to make a clean breast of everything.

It was a crushing blow to the entire family. Mrs. Temple shut herself up in her own room and would see no one for three days.

Then she sent for Philip, who seemed to have been suddenly transformed, and bore himself with a grave dignity that he had never worn before.

They were closeted for several hours; then they requested Mr. Temple to come to them. He obeyed the summons, but appeared like an old man, out of whom all hope and ambition had been crushed.

He tried many times to see his wife during those three, to him, endless days; but she would not admit him. He had sent her note after note that were pitiful in their expressions of remorse and appeals for forgiveness. His heart sank anew within him as he now entered her presence and noted how she had also changed. When he would have greeted her with his customary caress he was waved to a distant chair with an air of repulsion.

"I have come to the decision, Mr. Temple, that there is but one thing for me to do," she began, but without looking at him, "and that is to leave Washington immediately, seek some place of retirement and hide my shame as best I can."

"Don't Nell! Oh—don't!" cried the stricken man, cringing before her; "no breath of shame shall touch you, my darling; we will right everything."

"Right everything!" exclaimed the outraged woman, turning upon him in righteous indignation. "Do you presume to talk of righting such a wrong as mine at this late day? Do you imagine that the formal benediction of a clergyman would restore to me the self-respect of which you have deliberately robbed me, or wipe out the stigma that rests upon my child? I am not your wife—I have never been your wife—I have simply been, like a piece of merchandise, labeled with your name, and—I will never answer to it again."

"Oh, Nell! forgive—you break my heart!" groaned the wretched listener.

"Break your heart!" the almost maddened woman exclaimed with a bitter laugh. "Ah, me! one could scarce expect anything else—you think only of your heart, your suffering. It is all of a piece with the selfishness and recklessness that wrecked the life of that other woman, although the wrong done her is not to be compared with mine. She at least was a legal wife and her child legitimate, while I—oh, heavens!—to think what I am! what my child is!" and she threw out her clenched hands with a cry of mingled shame and agony that rang sharply through the room.

"Mother, hush! do not go over all that again!" Philip here interposed, with quiet authority. "There is no call for you to mourn any loss of self-respect, for you are in no way responsible for this wrong, and we will guard Minnie so tenderly that the world shall never have an opportunity to make her suffer a single pang. Of course," he continued with grave thoughtfulness, "things cannot go on as they are. If your decision—that you will not legally assume the name that you have hitherto borne—is irrevocable, we must arrange for as quiet a separation as possible, for Minnie's sake——"

"Oh, Nell! spare me that, I beg," pleaded Mr. Temple, with a heartbroken sob. "Oh, forgive me this great wrong; don't talk of separation; let me make you legally my wife, then we will go away to Europe—or anywhere you like—and I will be your slave—I will do my utmost to atone for the past and make you happy for the future. No one need ever know aught of this secret. Faxon is honor itself, and he assured me that no hint of it should ever escape his lips, and I am sure he would keep his word—Phil, you know that he can be depended upon."

"Yes," Philip gravely asserted, after a moment of hesitation, "I know, if Faxon said that he will abide by it. But, Mr. Temple," he resumed in a tone which was an indication of his own attitude, "I feel sure that my mother has received a shock from which she can never recover, and I agree with her that a separation will be the wisest measure to adopt under the circumstances."

"Let your mother speak for herself, if you please, Phil," Mr. Temple interrupted, as he braced himself in his chair and turned his haggard face toward the woman whom he adored.

The proud, beautiful worldling shivered as if an icy wind had blown over her, for she had loved this man who, for twelve almost idealistic years, she had regarded as her husband. She had scarce had a wish ungratified; she had enjoyed his wealth and been proud of her position in society.

But, as Philip had said, the shock which she had sustained had been one from which she could never rally, for it had killed both love and respect at one blow. She did not move or lift her glance to him as she said in an almost inaudible voice.

"Phil has stated it right—I can never forgive the fearful wrong that you have done me. We must part."

"How about—Minnie?" Mr. Temple questioned, a look of despair on his face.

It was an unfortunate question. It aroused all the lioness in the outraged woman, and she turned upon him with a burst of passion of which he had never imagined her capable.

"Minnie is mine!" she cried in a voice that rang shrilly through the room—"mine by the right of motherhood and—oh, God!—mine, exclusively mine, by right of the shame which you have entailed upon us both."

It was a terrible thrust, and William Temple threw out his hands with a gesture of keenest anguish, as if warding off the point of a dagger. He sat like one stunned for several moments, and there was no sound in the room.

Finally the man lifted his bowed head and observed in a hollow tone and with a look of utter hopelessness:

"Very well, Nell, it will have to be as you say; but no breath of shame from the world shall ever touch either of you—I could not bear that. I know I deserve my punishment, and I bow to the inevitable. You shall have Minnie—I relinquish her to you—and you shall go where you will; or, if you prefer to remain here in Washington, I will go to the ends of the earth, on some plausible errand, and you shall never hear of me again.

"Now"—rising feebly and holding onto the back of his chair, while he gazed on her with the look of one whose heart was breaking—"arrange everything to suit yourself. I will not lay a straw in your way, and you shall have all the money you want."

He tottered from the room, groping his way down-stairs and walking like one who has been stricken blind, sought the library, and locked himself in to keep out intruders, while trying to face a future which did not seem to have a single ray of hope to make it worth the living.

There they found him five hours later, sitting before his desk, his head bowed upon his outstretched arms, unconscious and almost rigid.

The butler, desiring some instructions regarding certain orders his master had given him, rapped upon the door for admission; but, after repeated attempts, receiving no answer, he had gone out upon the veranda and entered the room by a window, to find the occupant of the room in the condition described.

He was borne to his room and the family physician summoned, when the attack was pronounced an apoplectic stroke.

He recovered consciousness after a few days, but could move neither hand nor foot, while the verdict of the doctors was that his days, even his hours, were numbered.

When this was made known to Mrs. Temple she seemed to become like one petrified. She sat motionless and speechless for several minutes; then she burst into a passion of weeping, so violent in her utter abandonment to her overwhelming grief that she was utterly prostrated by it; the flood-gates that had hitherto been held back by an almost indomitable will and pride were lifted, and all her pent-up sorrow and shame were let loose.

When the storm finally spent itself she slept from sheer exhaustion, and did not wake for several hours. Then she was calm, and once more mistress of herself, and clothing herself in soft, noiseless garments, she went directly to her husband, a chastened look on her face, an air of gentleness and resignation in her bearing that hitherto had been wholly foreign to her.

Almost ever since memory had returned to him, the sick man had lain with his eyes fastened upon the door leading from his room, and with a look of longing in them that was pathetic beyond description.

When, at length, it opened to admit his wife, his whole face lighted with an expression of joy that nearly made her weep again, but which sent a thrill to her own heart that told her she loved him still, in spite of the irreparable wrong he had done her.

She went to his bed and sat down beside him, gathering one of his lifeless hands into hers, and, bending over him, kissed him on the forehead.

Two great tears welled up from the fountain of his heart and brimmed over upon his cheeks. His wife gently wiped them away and questioned tenderly:

"Will, is there anything you would like me to do for you?"

He closed his eyes slowly, thus signifying that there was, then, opening them again, he glanced toward the nurse.

"Do you wish to be alone with me for a while?" Mrs. Temple inquired.

Yes, the sad eyes signified, and the attendant went immediately out.

"Now, dear, how can I manage to find out just what you want?" said Mrs. Temple, when the door was closed.

Again that intensely yearning look was fastened upon her face, and she instinctively divined his thought at once.

"Is it that you wish me to say something kind to you?" she asked.

His look brightened, but the tears started at the same time.

"Well, then, Will, dear," began the chastened wife, in a voice that was tremulous with emotion, "I have fought my battle out, and I believe I can truly say that I forgive all. I see now that I was selfish in thinking only of my own suffering—I had no right to be cruel to you when you were more wretched than I. Get well, Will—try to get well, and then we will all go to some quiet place and begin to live in a more earnest and sensible way."

The tears were raining thick and fast now from the man's eyes, but she wiped them away, while she continued to talk to him in a soothing, comforting strain, until he became more composed. But she soon saw that there was still something on his mind, and she tried to ascertain what it was, but though she asked many questions regarding his business and certain appointments which she knew he had made, she could not seem to get at his thought.

At last she told him that she would say the alphabet and they would spell out his wish. When she reached the letter M, he signified that was right, and she instantly jumped to a conclusion, and inquired:

"Do you want Minnie?—how strange I did not think of that before!"

Yes, the eyes assented. Mrs. Temple rang the bell and sent for the child, who had not been allowed to come into the room, except for a moment or two, while her father was sleeping.

She soon made her appearance, looking pale and drooping, for the sensitive girl had been stricken to the heart by what she had learned, and inexpressibly lonely and wretched while her mother was brooding over her own misery.

Mrs. Temple folded her in her arms and kissed her tenderly, then made her sit down in her own chair, while she drew another near for herself.

"Papa wished me to send for you, dear," she said; "he cannot speak, but you may talk to him a little; and, love, say something kind to him," she concluded, with her lips close to Minnie's ear.

Minnie sat down by the sick man and laid her cheek against his with all her accustomed fondness.

"Papa," she murmured, "I love you—I am so sorry you are ill and cannot talk to me; but"—now lifting her head and looking earnestly into his eyes—"you know that I love you—that I shall always love you."

The look of yearning and agony which he bent upon her was more than she could bear, and, dropping her head again upon his pillow, she added:

"Now cannot you go to sleep for a little while; I will sit here beside you and hold your hand; then, perhaps, when you are rested you can talk to me a little."

She clasped his hand in both of her own soft, warm palms, raised it to her lips, kissed it, and held it there, and for nearly half an hour there was no sound in the room.

Finally the nurse came softly in, to look after her patient, and Mrs. Temple turned, with her finger upon her lips.

"They are both asleep," she whispered.

It was true, both the man and child were wrapped in slumber; one in that which knows no waking, the other in the innocent, restful sleep of childhood.

So William Faxon Temple Wilton's mortal experience on this plane of existence came to an end. Love of ease and pleasure, selfishness and greed, the fostering of malice, passion, and appetite invariably bring their punishment, even here.

When all was over it was found, upon making a thorough examination of his papers, that the man had left no will. A memorandum of a few bequests was discovered in a little blankbook in his desk, showing that he had given some thought to the subject; but these, of course, amounted to nothing, and Philip Wentworth was appalled when he realized what such culpable neglect on the part of Mr. Temple meant in connection with his mother and sister.

"Mother, this is simply awful!" he exclaimed, when they were at last obliged to relinquish their fruitless search; "you and Minnie are literally penniless, for not a dollar of Mr. Temple's fortune can either of you touch. Clifford Faxon, who is his son by that other woman, becomes the sole heir to his magnificent property."

"Can that be possible?" said Mrs. Temple, greatly distressed. "Oh, it seems dreadful that Minnie—that innocent child—must suffer for the sin of another. She was her father's idol, and, of course, he intended that she should be his heiress. I know if he had even dreamed that the truth would be revealed he would have made a will in her favor, and settled the matter irrevocably."

"He did know," said Phil, flushing with indignation; "don't you know he said that he realized that Faxon was his son, as long ago as when he met him at the mountains. I cannot understand how he dared to leave matters so at loose ends."

"Well," observed Mrs. Temple, after a thoughtful pause, "I am not going to cast reflections upon him now. I told him that I forgave him, and I will hold to what I said. I begin to think that unlimited wealth is a snare which binds and warps all that is best in our natures. I am not literally penniless, as you said. I have my own small fortune, which Will insisted upon settling upon me when we were—ah! why do I refer to that miserable farce!" she interposed with sudden passion.

But she calmed herself almost instantly and continued:

"I am sure I can manage with what I have quite comfortably, though, of course, we will have to give up all this style and exercise economy. Now, Phil"—with an air of determination—"I am not going to have any legal contest or gossip over these matters. Everything has been kept quiet so far, and for both Minnie's and my sake there must be no scandal. I am going to send for Mr. Faxon, tell him frankly that there is no will, and relinquish everything to him."

"That would be neither right nor sensible!" cried Philip hotly, his old grudge against Clifford flaming up anew. "Of course, I can understand that Faxon—hem! has certain legal rights that will have to be respected; but, morally, he has no right to this fortune—Minnie should have every dollar of it. Blast it all!" he burst forth, as he sprang to his feet and excitedly paced the room, "we are in a horrible situation. If we fight for the property that damnable secret will all have to come out——"

"Yes, and there would be no use in fighting, for Mr. Faxon can easily prove his own position and get everything. Oh, it would be worse than folly, Phil, to attempt to contest the matter—our hands are tied—we are utterly helpless; so I am going to quietly give up everything. I would rather forfeit every penny than have the world know our shameful story."

Philip was almost beside himself in view of this unforeseen calamity. Since the trouble has fallen upon his mother he had borne himself with more dignity and manliness than he had ever manifested. He had seemed to be suddenly transformed, and had been a veritable staff and support to her. He had even appeared somewhat softened toward Clifford upon learning how nobly considerate he had been and that he had given his word to preserve their secret inviolate.

But now, when he realized that he alone was Mr. Temple's heir, and that his mother and sister would be deprived of the luxuries to which they had always been accustomed, his old hatred revived with tenfold fury, and he became capable for the time of almost any crime in his desire to wreck vengeance upon his rival.

But Mrs. Temple proceeded to put her resolution into immediate action, and wrote a brief, courteous note to Clifford, requesting him to call at his earliest convenience, as she had a matter of the most vital importance to discuss with him.

He at once surmised something of the nature of the matter—for he knew that if he had not been mentioned in Mr. Temple's will he could break it if he chose—and accordingly presented himself at the Temple mansion that same evening.

Mrs. Temple received him cordially, but Phil, his mother having insisted that he should be present during the interview, barely accorded him a recognition.

Mrs. Temple came to the point at once, stating the case briefly, but plainly, and to say that Clifford was astonished upon learning that there was no will and that he alone was heir to the large fortune which Mr. Temple had left would not feebly express his feelings.

He had never once thought of such a contingency. He supposed, of course, that Mr. Temple had made his will, leaving everything to the woman he adored and the child he worshiped, and that they had sent for him simply to make terms with him to prevent him from making them any trouble in settling the estate. But to learn that there were no terms to be made—to learn that they had sent for him to relinquish everything, without a desire or a condition, except that he would reassure them of his willingness to keep their miserable secret, almost dazed him.

To most people that would have been a moment of signal triumph; but it was not in Clifford's nature to triumph in any one's misfortune, although it did flash upon him, as his mind reverted to that day when Philip Wentworth had so rudely saluted him—"Say, here! you window-washer!"—that the tables had been turned in a most wonderful manner.

It seemed like a dream to be sitting there and know that, for the moment, at least, he was a millionaire, while his old-time enemy and his proud mother were groveling before him in the valley of humiliation.

He listened gravely to all Mrs. Temple had to say, and his heart ached for her in her sorrow, and grew very tender toward her, as well, for was she not the mother of his young sister?

When, at the close of her explanations, she begged him, for Minnie's sake, to take everything and welcome if he would only save them the disgrace of having the world learn the truth and point the finger of scorn at them, he flushed to his brows with wounded feeling.

"My dear madam," he said as she concluded, "I am wondering what your estimate of me can be! I assure you that I am as eager as yourself to keep these matters from the world. I may as well tell you that Mr. Temple offered to settle three hundred thousand dollars upon me upon the same condition; but I say to you now, as I said to him that evening, I cheerfully promise that, as far as I am concerned, the secret shall be inviolate, and I do not want—I will not have—a dollar of this fortune which you assert, and which I can understand, might be mine by the law of inheritance."

At this point Philip Wentworth turned and faced him for the first time during the interview, his face wearing an expression of profound astonishment.

"What are you saying?" he demanded sharply; "you do not intend to take any of Mr. Temple's money?"

"Not a penny, Wentworth," Clifford quietly returned.

"But—I do not understand it!" said Philip, with a blank stare of wonderment.

"It is very simple," returned Clifford, with a frank smile. "Mr. Temple never knew of my existence until a little over five years ago, and even after he learned the fact he manifested no interest in me. All his hopes and plans were centered in his daughter and her mother; his fortune was made for them, and he expected and intended that it would become theirs in the event of his death. Now, I feel that I have no more right to it, morally, than I have to the fortune of one of the Vanderbilts. I can see, as you do, that I might, according to the law governing such matters, claim it all if I was so disposed; but I assure you I want no part of it. Probably the world—if it were conversant with the circumstances—would judge me to be quixotic and say that my pride outweighed my judgment. Possibly, that may be true to a certain extent—I cannot quite define my own feelings regarding the matter; but," he concluded decidedly, "the fact remains—I will not touch it!"

Mrs. Temple had observed him with growing interest, mingled with deepest respect and admiration, during these remarks, and as he concluded she turned to him with an eager light in her eyes:

"Mr. Faxon," she said, "there is, I suppose, a great deal of money; may I beg, as a personal favor, that you will take at least a portion of it—that you will share it with Minnie?"

"Madam, that would be impossible. I most cheerfully resign everything to her," was the firm but courteous response.

"I am amazed!" said the lady, with visible emotion, "and, morally, it does not seem right to me that my child should, under the circumstances, alone be enriched by Mr. Temple's wealth. Oh! I trust that the innocent girl may not fall under the ban of your censure because of her father's wrongdoing."

"Surely not, Mrs. Temple," said Clifford earnestly; "on the contrary, I have long entertained a very tender feeling toward her. How could I help it after the thrilling experience in which we participated a few years ago?—and now the knowledge that we are akin to each other has only served to strengthen the bond. With your permission, I shall be glad to cultivate an even closer friendship than has hitherto existed between us."

"You not only have my permission—I shall be proud to have you for her friend, and—mine," said Mrs. Temple huskily; and then, utterly overcome by his magnanimity, she buried her face in her hands and wept.

"Thank you," returned Clifford heartily, "and allow me to say that you both have had my deepest sympathies during this trial. Had I dreamed of these results I should certainly have refused to comply with Mr. Temple's request for an interview. But we will never refer to the subject again, only let me add that I feel you have shown yourself very honorable in your proposals to me this evening."

"Oh!" cried Mrs. Temple, with a gesture of repudiation, as she lifted her face to him, "do not commend me for what was prompted by purely selfish motives; my only thought was to secure your silence at any cost, but now I really wish, out of a spirit of gratitude and of admiration for your nobility, that I could persuade you to revoke your decision."

"I cannot, Mrs. Temple," said Clifford gravely and decisively, "but"—a genial smile chasing the gravity away—"I will most thankfully avail myself of your proffered friendship, and even though—because of the world—I may not claim my young sister as such, I assure you I shall love her none the less tenderly."

Feeling that the interview should end, Clifford now arose to go, pleading another engagement. Mrs. Temple also arose and came toward him, with outstretched hand.

"I am more grateful to you than I can express," she said, with the tears springing afresh. "I have had a bitter cup to drink—a terrible wound to bear, but you have greatly soothed and comforted me to-night; if I can ever serve you in any way, believe me I shall esteem it a privilege to do so."

"Thank you," said Clifford heartily, as he clasped her trembling hand.

Then he glanced somewhat doubtfully at Philip, who during the last half-hour, had been sitting silent and apparently preoccupied, and wearing a strangely depressed air.

"Good night, Wentworth," he said cordially, after an instant of irresolution.

There was a moment of awkward silence.

"Phil!" broke in his mother, in a tone of surprised reproof.

The young man sprang to his feet and turned a flushed, shamed face upon Clifford.

"I say, Faxon," he faltered huskily, "this has been too much for me! I've been a cad and a knave time and again, but you have set your heel upon me pretty effectually this time! I am simply crushed. You have done to-night what I did not believe any man was capable of doing, and when you entered the room I was in a more murderous frame of mind than I have ever been before; but you have taken the starch all out of me, and I am ready now to eat humble pie. If you won't feel insulted, after all that has passed, I'd like to ask you to shake hands and wipe out old scores."

Clifford's hand went out to him with instant cordiality.

"Gladly!" he said, and in that friendly clasp there was ratified a treaty which endured throughout their lives.

No other word was spoken, for Philip was now beyond the power of speech, and Clifford, recognizing the fact, beat a considerate retreat, and left the house with a buoyant heart, an elastic step, a smile on his lips, and the consciousness of a noble victory gleaming in his expressive brown eyes, for of an enemy he had at last made a friend.

Mrs. Temple and Philip set themselves immediately about winding up Mr. Temple's affairs, and both seemed to have undergone a radical transformation.

The proud, gay butterfly of fashion had suddenly become the gentle, tender, considerate mother—a thoughtful, womanly woman; the indolent, aimless man was fast developing into an attentive son, a wise adviser, an efficient helper and protector.

"You are growing very like your father, Phil," his mother said to him one day, after many hours of patient labor over perplexing accounts and papers.

"Thank you, mother, you could not have said anything to have encouraged me more," the young man replied, with grave appreciation, but with a sigh over the wasted years of his life.

Upon completing their business-arrangements, Mrs. Temple insisted that the sum of fifty thousand dollars should be made over to Mr. Heatherford, who, she asserted, must have lost fully that amount, first and last, in his dealings with her husband, she and Phil having discovered the fact during their examination of the man's account. The man, at first, demurred against taking it, but she assured him that out of her abundance it would never be missed, and that she would feel that she was retaining money which did not belong to her if he did not accept it; and he finally acceded to her request, for he well knew that the methods which Mr. Temple had employed had amounted to the same thing as taking so much money out of his pockets and transferring it to his own.

During this time Clifford saw considerable of the family, and between him and Minnie there grew up a strong and endearing friendship, which, in after years, became the source of much happiness to them both.

Mollie, also, feeling her sympathies aroused in view of the wrongs and trials of the family, renewed her friendship with them—even with Phil, who was so thoroughly repentant for the past and so changed that she had not the heart to keep him longer under the ban of her displeasure.

Their business-affairs in Washington once arranged, they returned to their home in Brookline, where they dropped into a quiet, peaceful way of living, Minnie throwing her whole heart into her studies to prepare for college; Philip settling down to business in a firm where a young and enterprising man with some capital was needed, while Mrs. Temple devoted herself exclusively to her two children and their interests.

The twenty-fifth of January there was a brilliant society wedding in Washington, when Mollie Heatherford gave herself to her king, and believed that she was the happiest woman living, while Clifford felt himself truly crowned with the supreme joy of his life. Miss Athol was maid of honor to the fair bride, and her fiancé, the son of the British ambassador, was Clifford's best man.

Maria Kimberly and Squire Talford were both bidden to the festivities.

The squire did not respond in any way to the courtesy extended to him, but Maria presented herself a week beforehand, to help the affair along, and she could not have shown a more vigorous interest if Clifford and Mollie had been her own children.

The Temples and Philip Wentworth also received invitations, but they excused themselves on account of their mourning.

Mollie, however, received a family remembrance in the form of a solid silver service, and Clifford a magnificent saddle-horse for his own private use.

Life looked very bright to the happy couple, and, indeed, to Mr. Heatherford, as well, for he had grown very fond of the noble fellow whom his daughter had chosen to be her life companion, and, with health, wealth and congenial tastes, there seemed to be nothing to be desired for their future, and they formed an ideal family in their ideal home.

When the wedding was over Maria returned to the squire, but with a somewhat heavy heart, for she yearned to keep her old-time promise to Clifford—to superintend his culinary department when he was able to set up an establishment of his own.

He had told her that the place was open to her whenever she saw fit to take it, but her sense of duty would not allow her to leave the squire, "who wasn't nigh so chipper as he used to be afore he had that sickness," and she hadn't the heart to leave him—at least, until he got stronger.

The result was she continued to live at Cedar Hill for two years longer, and during which the squire gradually failed in health, and finally was found one morning cold and still in his bed.

He preserved his gruff, cynical, reticent manner till the last; but when his will was read, to the astonishment of every one, it was found he had bequeathed his entire property—excepting three thousand dollars to Maria—which proved to be a very handsome inheritance, to Clifford Faxon; while among his papers there was also found a letter addressed to the young man, in which he had poured out much of the pent-up feeling of many years, and showing plainly that his love for Clifford's mother had been the strongest and most enduring sentiment of his nature.

"I've been proud of you, too," he closed the characteristic epistle by saying—"prouder than you will ever know; but the devil in me that hated your father would never let me show it."

"Poor old man!" said Clifford, as he finished the strange missive, "how glad I would have been to have made his life more enjoyable."

Henceforth the fine estate at Cedar Hill became the summer home of the Faxons, while Maria continued to preside there, a proud and happy queen, in her way, of all she surveyed, for Mollie declared she would never presume to call herself mistress in a place so immaculately kept and well ordered as Clifford's home in the East.

She grew to love the place very dearly, for from the window she could look out upon the very spot where, as a boy, her husband had wielded those vigorous blows which had doubtless saved the lives of hundreds of people and resulted in their first meeting, when she had lost her heart while looking into his brown eyes and had given him the magic cameo, which still graced his strong hand.

THE END.