Jessie Lyndon had been strong enough to send her lover from her because he was bound to another, but she was not brave enough to meet him daily in the intimate association of her mother’s home as she knew must be the case if she went to Mrs. Dalrymple’s before the wedding.

She must see him there daily with Cora, and she knew that her presence would only make him more unhappy, and hinder the return of his heart to the girl to whom it was plighted.

Besides, she knew that she was not brave enough, or strong enough, to bear the pain of seeing him daily with his betrothed—perhaps to be compelled by the narrow conventionalities of society to be a guest at his wedding.

Fondly as she longed to meet her mother and convey to her the dying messages of her father, she determined to postpone that meeting till after Frank and Cora were married and gone.

Her mind ran over her few humble friends in New York, suggesting the Widow Doyle as the most available one with whom to stay during the short interval that must elapse between now and the marriage. In this secluded suburban cottage she had no fear that Frank Laurier could trace her even should he make an attempt.

So to Widow Doyle she went, and was fortunate to find the good woman at home, receiving a hearty welcome, and most sincere sympathy, when the sorrowful tale of her father’s loss was told.

“Poor dear, you will have to stay with me and be my daughter,” she said, with a tenderness that brought tears to Jessie’s eyes.

“I will never forget your kindness—but I have a relative to whose care I shall go shortly. In the meantime, I will accept your hospitality most gratefully,” she cried, not caring to disclose her relationship to Mrs. Dalrymple until she should have been accepted as a daughter by the lady.

How could she tell but that the proud, rich lady might deny her claim, might denounce her as an impostor!

What proof could she offer save her dead father’s word?

And would that suffice for the proud, rich woman of whom she had dreamed such beautiful things, but who might not in any way come up to her ideal mother.

The future looked very gloomy to Jessie as she sat resting in the little easy-chair in Mrs. Doyle’s sitting room.

She realized that unless Mrs. Dalrymple accepted her as a daughter she would be thrown on the world penniless, and obliged to make her own way.

She had remembered that her father, by a strange whim, carried the whole of his fortune, consisting of magnificent uncut gems, in a belt of leather around his waist.

But she knew that she had a talent that, if exercised, would provide her a living. It was her voice, whose power and sweetness equaled those of the most world famous prima donnas. The professors who had cultivated that charming voice had told her she could secure a position on the operatic stage any time she chose.

But Jessie cared nothing for fame. At the present moment, so young, so fair, so tender, all that her heart craved was love.

And the pain of her disappointment took all the zest out of life.

She spent a quiet, lonely day with her humble hostess, whom she entertained by a recital of the way she had spent her time since leaving New York.

In the evening she grew listless and taciturn, her mind wandering from this humble abode of the poor widow to the grand mansion on Fifth Avenue, where her beautiful, stately mother reigned supreme, and where Cora was now perhaps receiving Frank and renewing their vows of love.

“Perhaps when he sees her again his heart will turn back to her with the old love. How could he help it when once he loved her so well? He will soon forget poor Jessie, and that will be the best,” she thought, but so inconsistent is love that hot tears welled to her eyes at the fancy.

Then Widow Doyle ran in with the evening paper, which she had borrowed from a neighbor.

Jessie took it and glanced indifferently at the columns, thinking that the news of New York had but little interest for a sad heart like her own.

But presently she found herself quite mistaken, for her eyes lighted on a paragraph of vital importance to herself.

It ran briefly:

A cruel pain like a sharp thorn pierced Jessie’s heart as she clutched the newspaper in her rigid hands, staring at the fatal paragraph with dilated eyes.

She could not stay away from her mother as she had planned. She must go to her at once and receive her dying blessing.

Stifling back a choking sob, she rose to her feet, exclaiming eagerly:

“Mrs. Doyle, I have just read in this paper of the serious illness of a very dear friend of mine on Fifth Avenue. If I could get a cab I would go to her at once.”

“There is a cab stand on the next block. I’ll get you one at once.”

“Thank you—God bless you!” Jessie sobbed, and while the good woman was gone she slipped on her hat and jacket and stood impatiently waiting, her heart sinking with fear lest her mother should be dead ere she reached her side.

The cab arrived speedily, and Mrs. Doyle asked hospitably:

“Shall you return, my dear, to-night?”

“It is not likely, but you shall certainly hear from me to-morrow. Good night, dear, kind friend,” and with a word of direction to the chauffeur she was gone.

While Mrs. Doyle was wondering over Jessie’s sudden departure, there came a hasty knock on the door, and when she opened it there stood that black sheep of a stepson of hers that she had not seen for two years—the redoubtable Carey Doyle.

Slouching carelessly in, and falling into a seat, he said amiably:

“How-do, old lady?”

“Well, Carey, this is certainly a day of surprises, and you’re the second one that has turned up to-day that I hadn’t seen for two years!” ejaculated the old lady, in the pleased surprise of one that leads a quiet, lonely life when confronted with old friends.

“But where have you been all this time? Never coming near your poor old stepma for two years?” she added reproachfully.

“Has it been so long? By Jove, I didn’t think it! But I’ve been hard down to business, and though I thought of coming often, still I couldn’t spare the time. But you’ve been getting on all right, have you?”

“Yes, I’ve scratched along and kept body and soul together,” she replied, prudently making the worst of her situation, lest he had come to borrow money, a shrewd suspicion, for his face fell as he exclaimed:

“Then you haven’t a hundred dollars or so you could lend a fellow to help him off to the Klondyke?”

“Mercy, no! Where would a poor body like me get a hundred dollars, or even a hundred cents ahead, making a living by her needle?” she exclaimed, prudently ignoring a little hoard, Leon Lyndon’s gift to her, that she had laid by for the future “rainy day” that must come to all the poor in sickness or trouble.

Doyle looked disappointed and muttered to himself that he was sorry he had taken the trouble of coming since he couldn’t wheedle any funds out of the old woman.

His disappointed gaze roved over the floor and he saw almost at his feet an exquisitely embroidered handkerchief. Picking it up, he read aloud the name in the corner:

“Lisa Chanler!”

“Why, that must be Miss Lyndon’s handkerchief. She went off in such a hurry she forgot it—a young girl that was staying with me, you know,” explanatorily.

Carey Doyle looked up with quick interest, for the name touched a chord in memory, and brought back a face that had charmed him with its beauty and enraged him with its pride.

He remembered that Jessie Lyndon was dead—that he had heard a strange story of how she had been found dead in the snow and acknowledged as the stolen daughter of a grand, rich woman on Fifth Avenue; then he had put her out of his thoughts and married the pawnbroker’s daughter, Yetta Stein, leading a cat-and-dog existence, quarreling, till a week ago, when he had left her, swearing that New York was not large enough to hold them both, and that he would start to Alaska next day. He meant what he said, and was raising all the cash he could for the long, perilous journey.

But the name of Lyndon still held a charm for him that roused his curiosity, making him question his stepmother about her guest until she told all she knew about Jessie, from almost two years ago till now.

“And only think of being burned up in the middle of the ocean! All one’s clothes, I mean—and escaping without a rag to one’s back, or a dollar in one’s purse!” she added vaguely, continuing:

“That fine handkerchief you see was given her by a Miss Chanler, one of the passengers—and her other clothes, too, for, as I said, she hadn’t a rag to her back, poor girl!”

Carey Doyle was secretly astonished and mystified—Jessie Lyndon dead, and Jessie Lyndon living, what could it mean? He resolved to come back to-morrow and see the girl for himself.

When the old family physician came next morning to see his patient, he was surprised to see her so well.

“Why, how bright you look! You are certainly better,” he cried gladly.

“I am better, indeed, and it is all owing to such a pleasant visit I had last evening from an old friend. It was Frank, and you know how fond I am of him. Cora brought him in to see me, and he entertained me so pleasantly that I quite forgot I was almost dying. Indeed, I am almost resolved now to get well,” smiling brightly at him.

“Capital! Capital! You only need the will to get well, and you will soon be in your best health again. I have always told you that, you know, and I am glad Frank has roused you to take an interest in life again!” he cried, with hearty joy.

“And he is coming again to-day. I am expecting him any moment!” Mrs. Dalrymple added, two spots of feverish color brightening her cheeks in the unrest of her mind. “There, I hear his voice now! No, doctor, do not go. He will have strange news for me, perhaps, and I may need you in my excitement. Besides, if it is good news I wish you to hear it.”

Frank Laurier entered with Cora, and after salutations all around, he looked anxiously at the patient, whispering:

“Can you bear the shock of good news?”

“Oh, Frank, yes, yes—speak quickly—my suspense has been terrible!” she cried hoarsely.

And to the amazement of the doctor and Cora, he replied: “I obeyed your command, and—the casket was empty!”

A shriek of joy broke on their ears, then Mrs. Dalrymple lay like a corpse before them, so ashen pale, so deadly still.

The old doctor with a cry of dismay knelt by her side, and felt for her heart.

“Do not tell me that my good news has killed her!” Frank cried with horror in his dark-blue eyes, while Cora awaited the dénouement in wild suspense.

A secret hope came to her that this might be death, that her aunt might not live to prosecute the search for her hated rival, Jessie Lyndon.

But presently the old doctor’s efforts at her recovery were rewarded with success. Her eyes opened, the color came back to her lips, she faltered:

“Ah, you thought that I was dead!—but how could I die with such happy news!”

“But I do not understand!” the physician replied blankly, while Cora remained silent from consuming rage.

“Tell them all, Frank,” commanded Mrs. Dalrymple, with a happy smile, and he obeyed in a few words.

“We had reason to suspect that the young girl, Jessie Lyndon, whom Mrs. Dalrymple buried as her daughter almost two years ago, had been resurrected and was alive in New York, and—we find that our suspicions are true.”

“This is startling!” cried the doctor, but Cora listened silently with a ghastly face and burning eyes.

Frank Laurier continued:

“We know that it is true because I went, by Mrs. Dalrymple’s request, to her vault in Greenwood this morning, and opened the casket that we saw closed on the dead face of her daughter. It was empty.”

“Is it possible?”

“And,” continued Frank, “as if to prove correct the suspicions of our friend that her divorced husband had taken away the corpse, I found on the floor a glove that was marked inside with the name Leon Dalrymple.”

“Ah, it is true, it is true!” cried the invalid faintly, triumphantly. “My daughter lives! I shall not die now that I have that happy knowledge. And you will find her for me, Frank? Every moment is an hour till my Darling is restored to me!” cried the anxious mother.

“I will do all that is possible,” he answered, but in her anxiety she made him promise to insert personals in all the newspapers begging Jessie Lyndon to come at once to her sick mother, V. D.

Frank’s first effort was to find the chauffeur who had taken Jessie away from the steamer, but he was unsuccessful.

Days came and went with no tidings, and then more personals appeared offering rewards for news of Jessie Lyndon.

In the meantime, she had never returned to the Widow Doyle’s humble cot nor sent any message.

But Carey Doyle, watching proceedings with a hawk eye, chanced upon the personals and ejaculated:

“Come, now, this is very strange. The old lady said she had gone to see Mrs. Dalrymple, yet apparently she never got there. Is there foul play anywhere? Maybe I have stumbled on a private Klondyke of my own! I’ll claim that reward for news of her anyway, but I won’t face Laurier, I’ll go to Mrs. Dalrymple herself.”

And so eager was the lady for news that he gained admittance to her boudoir, where she sat in an easy-chair getting stronger every day, and claiming the reward, obtained it, and blurted out his news.

Mrs. Dalrymple was terribly startled. She called out in wild excitement:

“Send Miss Ellyson to me instantly!”