Transcriber’s Note:

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

Geoffrey’s Victory;
OR,
THE DOUBLE DECEPTION.

BY

MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON,

AUTHOR OF

“Stella Roosevelt,” “Tina,” “Edrie’s Legacy,” “Witch Hazel,” “Max,” “Ruby’s Reward,” “Virgie’s Inheritance,” “Two Keys,” “Thrice Wedded,” “A True Aristocrat,” “Trixy,” “That Dowdy,” “Sibyl’s Influence,” ETC.

NEW YORK:

STREET & SMITH, Publishers,

81 Fulton Street.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1888,

By Street & Smith,

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D.C.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER [I]. A STRANGE ADVENTURE.

CHAPTER [II]. A MONSTROUS PROPOSITION.

CHAPTER [III]. THE LITTLE STRANGER ADOPTED.

CHAPTER [IV]. A CHANGE OF RESIDENCE AND AN ADVENTURE.

CHAPTER [V]. A GRAVE CONSULTATION.

CHAPTER [VI]. THE DEVELOPMENTS OF SEVERAL YEARS.

CHAPTER [VII]. GEOFFREY ENTERS COLLEGE.

CHAPTER [VIII]. THE HAZER HAZED.

CHAPTER [IX]. A STRANGE ENCOUNTER.

CHAPTER [X]. MRS. BREVORT’S RECEPTION.

CHAPTER [XI]. MARGERY.

CHAPTER [XII]. THE RECEPTION.

CHAPTER [XIII]. “FIRST IN TIME, FIRST BY RIGHT!”

CHAPTER [XIV]. A CONFESSION.

CHAPTER [XV]. A DECLARATION.

CHAPTER [XVI]. OUT OF COLLEGE AT LAST.

CHAPTER [XVII]. A DISAPPOINTED LOVER.

CHAPTER [XVIII]. A LONG AND INTERESTING CONVERSATION.

CHAPTER [XIX]. EVERET MAPLESON RETURNS TO VUE DE L’EAU.

CHAPTER [XX]. AN INTERESTING DWELLING.

CHAPTER [XXI]. AN OCTOGENARIAN INTERVIEWED.

CHAPTER [XXII]. A REMARKABLE DISCOVERY.

CHAPTER [XXIII]. EVERET MAKES A NEW ACQUAINTANCE.

CHAPTER [XXIV]. EVERET MAKES A STARTLING DISCOVERY.

CHAPTER [XXV]. GEOFFREY PICKS UP A THREAD.

CHAPTER [XXVI]. A THRILLING STORY.

CHAPTER [XXVII]. JACK’S STORY CONTINUED.

CHAPTER [XXVIII]. GEOFFREY VISITS THE SCENE OF THE TRAGEDY.

CHAPTER [XXIX]. AN UNEXPECTED MEETING.

CHAPTER [XXX]. A STARTLING RECOGNITION.

CHAPTER [XXXI]. A RETROSPECTIVE GLANCE.

CHAPTER [XXXII]. GEOFFREY FINDS A RELIC.

CHAPTER [XXXIII]. A WEDDING IN PROSPECT.

CHAPTER [XXXIV]. ROBERT DALE’S WILL BROUGHT TO LIGHT.

CHAPTER [XXXV]. TWO LETTERS.

CHAPTER [XXXVI]. “HE IS NOT NAMELESS.”

CHAPTER [XXXVII]. A THREAT AND A WEDDING-RING.

CHAPTER [XXXVIII]. THE WEDDING.

CHAPTER [XXXIX]. WHAT BECAME OF GEOFFREY.

CHAPTER [XL]. AN ACCIDENT REVEALS AN HEIR-LOOM.

CHAPTER [XLI]. GEOFFREY LEARNS THE TRUTH AT LAST.

CHAPTER [XLII]. FURTHER DEVELOPMENTS.

CHAPTER [XLIII]. COLONEL MAPLESON’S STORY.

CHAPTER [XLIV]. THE COLONEL’S STORY CONCLUDED.

CHAPTER [XLV]. MRS. MAPLESON’S CONFESSION.

CHAPTER [XLVI]. MRS. MAPLESON’S STORY CONCLUDED.

CHAPTER [XLVII]. AN UNEXPECTED RETURN.

CHAPTER [XLVIII]. PEACE AT LAST.

GEOFFREY’S VICTORY.

CHAPTER I.
A STRANGE ADVENTURE.

It was a beautiful winter night. The sky was brilliant with millions of beautiful stars that glowed and scintillated as if conscious that their light had never before penetrated an atmosphere so rarefied and pure. The earth was covered with a glaring coat of ice above newly fallen snow.

Trees and shrubs bent low and gracefully beneath the weight of icy jewels which adorned every twig and branch.

Every roof and spire, chimney and turret, gleamed like frosted silver beneath the star-lit heavens, while the overhanging eaves below were fringed with myriads of glistening points that seemed like pendulous diamonds, catching and refracting every ray of light from the glittering vault above and the gas-lit streets beneath.

But it was a night, too, of intense cold. Never within the remembrance of its oldest inhabitant had the mercury fallen so low in the city of Boston, as on this nineteenth of January, 185-.

So severe was the weather that nearly every street was deserted at an early hour of the evening; scarcely a pedestrian was to be seen at nine o’clock, and the brilliantly lighted thoroughfares had a lonely and desolate appearance without their accustomed flow of life and humanity. The luckless policemen, who alone paraded the slippery sidewalks on their round of duty, would now and then slink into sheltered nooks and door-ways for a brief respite from the stinging, frosty air, where they would vainly strive to excite a better circulation by the active swinging of arms and the vigorous stamping of feet.

Even the horse-cars and omnibuses were scantily patronized, while the poor drivers, muffled to their eyebrows in fur coats and comforters, seemed like dark, grim specters, devoid of life and motion, save for the breath that issued from their mouths and nostrils, and, congealing, formed in frozen globules among their beards.

At ten o’clock on this bitter night, Thomas Turner, M. D., was arranging his office preparatory to retiring, and feeling profoundly thankful that he had no patients who demanded his attention, and believing, too, that no one would venture forth to call him, when, to his annoyance and dismay, his bell suddenly rang a clanging and imperative peal.

With a shiver of dread at the thought of having to leave the warmth and comfort of his home, to face the fearful cold, yet with a premonition that the summons would result in something out of the ordinary course of events, he laid down the case of instruments that he had been carefully arranging, and went to answer the call.

He found a lad of perhaps fifteen years standing outside the door.

Without a word he thrust a card into the physician’s hand.

“Come in, boy! come in,” said the doctor, pitying the poor fellow, whose teeth were chattering at such a rate it was doubtful whether he could have spoken if he wished.

He obeyed the invitation with alacrity, however, and made directly for the radiator, toward which Dr. Turner pointed, telling him to “go and warm himself.”

The physician then stepped beneath the hall light to examine the card he had received.

It proved to be the business card of a first-class, though small, hotel in the city, and on the blank side of it there had been hastily written these words:

“Come at once to the —— House. An urgent case demands your immediate attention.

A. Payson, Clerk.”

Dr. Turner frowned, and hung his head in thought for a moment.

He had had a hard day; he was very weary, and would have hesitated about answering a strange call even in mild weather, and the temptation to send the boy and his card to some one else, and remain in the genial warmth of his own home, was very strong.

Still, the man was conscientious. The summons was urgent, and it might be a case of life and death. Perhaps the delay of sending to some other physician might result in the loss of a human life.

This thought decided him.

He turned quickly on his heel and passed down the hall to his office, remarking to the waiting messenger as he went:

“Wait here. I will be ready to return with you in a few moments.”

He looked into his medicine case to see that he had everything that he wished, wrapped himself in a long ulster with an ample cape, drew a fur cap down over his ears, and a pair of seal-skin gloves upon his hands, and then went forth with his youthful guide to face the penetrating air of this bitterly cold night.

When he reached the —— House, he was conducted directly to a handsome suite of rooms in the third story, and ushered into the presence of a magnificently beautiful woman, who was reclining upon a luxurious couch.

Dr. Turner had never seen a lovelier woman. She was, apparently, about twenty-one or twenty-two years of age. Her hair was very dark, almost black; her eyes were also very dark, with straight, beautiful brows.

She was deathly pale—the pillow on which she lay was scarcely whiter—but her complexion was faultless, her skin as fine and smooth as an infant’s, while her features were remarkable for their delicacy and loveliness.

Beside her, in a low rocker, and holding one fair white hand in both her own, there sat another woman, some two or three years older, but scarcely less beautiful, although of a different type, and looking anxious and distressed.

A few direct inquiries enabled the physician to comprehend the nature of the case, after which he rapidly wrote a few lines upon a card, and, ringing for a servant, dispatched it to the clerk below.

An hour later a middle-aged woman, of respectable and motherly appearance, was conducted to the sick-room, and when morning broke there was still another presence in that chamber—a tiny baby girl, with rings of golden brown hair clustering about her little head, with eyes of heaven’s own blue, and delicate patrician features, which, however, were not like those of her mother, who lay pale and weak among her pillows, and who, strange to say, had betrayed no sign of joy or maternal love at the coming of the little stranger.

Three weeks previous two ladies had arrived, late one evening, at the —— House, where the younger had registered as “Mrs. E. E. Marston and maid.”

The clerk, as he read the entry, had glanced with astonishment at the lovely blonde who had been thus designated as “maid,” for her manner and bearing were every whit as stately, cultivated, and prepossessing as that of her supposed mistress.

Both ladies spoke French and German, as well as English, fluently, and it was impossible to determine to what nationality they belonged. The younger seemed almost like a Spanish beauty of high degree, while her companion had more the appearance of an Anglo-Saxon.

Both were richly and fashionably attired, and evidently belonged to the wealthy class, for Mrs. Marston wore jewels of the purest water in the richest of settings. She selected the most elegant suite of rooms that were unoccupied, and ordered all meals to be served in her private parlor; consequently but very little was seen or known of either mistress or maid after their arrival, although the very fact of their so closely secluding themselves served to excite a good deal of curiosity on the part of the other inmates of the house.

After the birth of Mrs. Marston’s little daughter, Dr. Turner made his usual number of visits to see that his patient was doing well, and then he discontinued them, although his curiosity and interest were so excited regarding the mysterious woman and her attendant that he would have been glad of an excuse to attend her even longer.

Three weeks passed, and he was considering the propriety of presenting his bill, since the lady was a stranger in the city, and would doubtless leave as soon as she could do so with safety to herself and her child, when, one morning, he received a note from Mrs. Marston, requesting him to call upon her at his earliest convenience.

That evening found him knocking at her door, his heart beating with something of excitement, and with a sense of constraint upon him such as he had never before experienced.

“The maid” admitted him, a dainty flush tinging her fair cheek as she encountered his earnest glance, and he thought her more beautiful than ever, while he was firmly convinced that she was in reality no servant, but connected by some tie of blood to the woman whom she professed to serve, although there was no resemblance between them.

Mrs. Marston arose to receive him as he entered.

He had never seen her dressed until now, and he was almost bewildered by her brilliant beauty.

She was tall, with a symmetrical figure. She was queenly and self-possessed in her carriage, and betrayed in every movement the well-bred lady, accustomed to the very best of society.

She was dressed in a heavy black silk, which fitted her perfectly, and fell in graceful folds around her splendid form.

She wore no colors, and might have been in mourning, judging from the simplicity of her dress, and she might not—he could not determine. Her only ornaments were several rings of great value, and an elegant brooch, which fastened the rich lace, fine as a cobweb, about her throat.

“I am very glad to see you, Dr. Turner,” she said, graciously, as she extended her white, jeweled hand to him; “and I thank you for responding so promptly to my request. Nellie, please bring that rocker for the gentleman,” she concluded, indicating a willow chair in another portion of the room.

The maid obeyed, and then quietly withdrew.

“You are looking remarkably well, Mrs. Marston,” Dr. Turner observed, hardly able to believe that she could be the same woman who had been so pale and wan when he had first seen her.

Her complexion was almost dazzling in its purity, while the flush on her cheek told of perfect health and a vigorous constitution.

“I am very well, thank you,” she responded, somewhat coldly, as if her physical condition were not a question that she cared to discuss with him—“so well that I am contemplating leaving Boston by the end of another week, and I have asked you to come to me in order that I may consult you upon a matter of great importance. But first, do you think I shall run any risk in traveling by that time?”

“If any one else had asked me that, I should have said at once, ‘Impossible!’” returned the physician, smiling. “But you have so rapidly recuperated that I should not fear a change so much for you as for many others. It depends somewhat, however, upon where you are going.”

Mrs. Marston flushed slightly at this, but, after an instant of hesitation, she said, composedly:

“Oh, I intend to go to a warmer climate. I shall probably spend the rest of the winter in the South.”

“Then I think you may go with perfect safety, if you are quite sure you feel well and strong.”

“As to that, I never felt more vigorous in my life; but——”

The lady bent her shapely head in thought, a shadow of perplexity and doubt crossing her beautiful face.

“Perhaps you fear to take the little one; the weather is rather severe for a tender infant,” suggested the doctor.

“Oh, no. I do not intend to take the child at all,” returned the mother, quickly, a nervous tremor running through her frame as she spoke.

“You do not intend to take your child with you?” repeated the physician, astonished, while he searched the downcast face before him with a suspicious look.

“No; and that was what I wished to consult with you about,” replied Mrs. Marston, shifting uneasily for an instant beneath his glance.

Then she lifted her head proudly and met his eyes with calm hauteur.

“You wish to leave it out to nurse, perhaps, and desire me to suggest some proper person,” observed Dr. Turner, trying to explain her conduct thus.

“No,” answered the lady, coldly. “I wished to ask if you could recommend some institution in the city where I could put her, and where she would receive proper care.”

Dr. Turner regarded the woman with amazement.

“Institution, madame! What kind of an institution?” he asked, aghast.

“Some public institution, or some home for homeless children,” she answered, not a muscle of her beautiful face moving.

“I really do not comprehend you,” the physician said, almost ready to believe that he was in the presence of a lunatic, for surely no mother in her right mind could think of abandoning her child in such a heartless way.

“Indeed, I thought I made an explicit statement,” remarked Mrs. Marston, haughtily. “However the child is not to go with me. There are reasons—imperative reasons—that compel me to dispose of her——”

“Abandon her, do you mean?” questioned the physician, sternly.

The lady shrugged her shapely shoulders and made an impatient gesture, as if the subject and object were alike distasteful to her.

“If you choose to put it in that disagreeable way, I suppose I shall have to accept the term,” she replied, coldly. “But you have not answered my question. Do you know of a home for orphans where she would be received and where I might safely leave her? I would make it an object for any such institution to take her.”

CHAPTER II.
A MONSTROUS PROPOSITION.

Dr. Turner did not immediately reply.

He was so indignant, so overcome by the startling and unnatural proposition that he was rendered speechless.

The knowledge that this woman, so beautiful and gifted, and who had, to all appearance, unlimited wealth at her command, should desire to cast her offspring adrift upon the world, coldly throwing her upon the indifferent care of strangers, was simply horrible to him.

The mystery, which, from the first, he had instinctively recognized as attaching itself to this woman, was thickening about her.

There must, he thought, be some terrible secret connected with her life, which she was anxious and bound to conceal, or she never could have contemplated such an unfeeling act, and he could think of but one contingency that would compel her to adopt such extreme measures.

“Madame,” he at last said, and speaking with dignified reserve, “I cannot refrain from expressing my surprise at your startling and—I am compelled to say it—heartless proposal. It would be a most unnatural—a most reprehensible proceeding. My whole nature recoils at the mere mention of it, and I can think of but one reason that would seem to make it necessary for you to abandon your child in the way you propose.”

The physician paused a moment, as if in doubt as to the propriety of saying more.

“Well, and what may that be?” briefly demanded his companion, in a tone that should have warned him not to give expression to his thought.

“Perhaps your little one has come into the world unprotected by the tie of wedlock, and therefore you desire to conceal from every one the evidence of——”

She checked the words upon his lips with an imperious gesture.

A vivid crimson rushed to her brow, suffused her neck, and seemed to extend to the very tips of her fingers; then the color as quickly receded, leaving her patrician face ghastly pale.

She threw up her proud head with a movement of exquisite grace: an angry fire leaped into her dusky eyes; an expression of scorn curled her beautiful lips.

“How dare you say such a thing to me?” she demanded, in a passionate tone that had a thrill of pain in it as well. “But for your former kindness to me, I would never pardon you! You have a suspicion that I am not a married woman.”

“I could think of no other excuse for what you proposed regarding your child,” replied the physician, meeting her flashing glance calmly, and with a note of contempt in his voice, although he half regretted having spoken as he had.

He believed even now that she was acting a part.

She saw it, and again her face flamed scarlet.

Then she drew from the third finger of her left hand a superb solitaire diamond ring, and passed it to him.

“Examine that if you please,” she commanded, briefly and icily.

He took it, and upon its inner surface found engraved in tiny characters, “C. to E. Sept. 10th, 185—. Omnia Vincit Amor.”

It had evidently been given to her in September of the previous year.

“An engagement-ring,” he remarked, as he passed it back to her with an air that plainly said: “That proves nothing to your advantage.”

Madame bowed and then quietly but proudly drew from the same finger a massive circlet of gold which she also handed to him.

A dusky red surged to the physician’s brow as he received it and realized what he had done. He felt as if he had offered the fair woman an unpardonable insult.

This ring was marked “C. S. to E. E., Paris, March 15th, 185—.”

Both circlets proved an honorable engagement and a lawful marriage, the latter occurring some seven months subsequent to the former, and Dr. Turner felt that he had got himself into a very unpleasant predicament.

“I beg your pardon, madame,” he said, with visible confusion, but in a grave, respectful tone; “but your very extraordinary preposition must be my apology for my unjust and offensive suspicion.”

For a moment the lady regarded him gravely, but with a little gleam of triumph in her dark eyes; then with a shrug of her shapely shoulders, she replied:

“Perhaps it was but natural; let it pass. I became a lawful wife, as you have seen, nearly a year ago, and my child has had honorable birth: but, for reasons which I cannot explain to you, I can never acknowledge her, and it becomes necessary for me to make some other provision for her.”

“But it is such an unnatural thing to do,” persisted the doctor, with a deprecating gesture.

“Granted; but—it cannot be helped,” replied the mother, firmly, an inflexible purpose written on her fair young face.

“Allow me to inquire if your husband is living?” Dr. Turner asked, after a moment of silence.

“Excuse me; I cannot answer that question,” replied his companion with pale, compressed lips.

“Ah! there has been some trouble and a separation, perhaps,” thought the doctor; then he asked:

“Do you think that he would uphold you in thus sacrificing your little one—his little one, to your selfish purpose—to abandon her, as you propose, to the doubtful charity of a cold world.”

An icy shiver seemed to run throughout the woman’s frame at this. She shifted uneasily in her chair, her white lids quivered, her hands were locked in a rigid, painful clasp.

“I tell you there are circumstances which make it absolutely necessary for me to give her away,” she said, in a strained, unnatural voice, after an evident effort at self-control. “My husband would—is as helpless in the matter as myself.”

“I can conceive of no circumstances which should make the well-being of your child of secondary importance, especially since you have assured me that you are a lawful wife, and it is evident that you have abundant means at your command. She is your own flesh and blood, and it becomes your duty, as a mother, to give her a mother’s love and care. I care not what fancied or real obstacle stands in the way, it should be resolutely swept aside for the sake of both duty and humanity,” Dr. Turner argued, with impressive earnestness.

“You simply do not know anything about the matter, sir,” retorted his patient, with an angry flash in her eyes, “and, if you please, we will not discuss that point any further.”

Dr. Turner bowed a cold assent; then, as he returned the wedding-ring, which he had retained until now, he remarked:

“The name you have given here does not correspond with your husband’s initials upon this ring.”

The lady’s lips curled in a little scornful smile.

“Did you imagine that I would use my true name in such a venture as this?” she asked. “But that is neither here nor there,” she added, with an impatient toss of her head. “Do you know of any institution in this city where my child would be received?”

“No: there is no public institution that would so far countenance your conduct as to open its doors to her, and I would not designate it if there were. Such places are for children who have no parents, or for those whose parents are too poor to care for them,” the physician indignantly replied.

Then, after a short pause, he continued, with great earnestness:

“Let me make one last appeal to you, madame. You have given birth to a lovely little daughter, who bids fair to be a child of whom any parent might well be proud. It would be a continual delight to watch her grow and develop into womanhood, and she would no doubt be of the greatest comfort to you years hence, when you begin to descend the hill of life. Keep your child, Mrs. Marston, do not cast her off upon the doubtful care of strangers, to become you know not what in the future. Love and cherish her, nourish her innocence and purity, and do not, I beseech you, commit the irreparable wrong which you are contemplating.”

The woman before him threw out her white jeweled hands in a spasmodic gesture in which impatience, pain, and anger were commingled.

“Spare your importunities, Dr. Turner,” she said, coolly, “for I assure you it is only a waste of breath and sentiment on your part.”

“Have you no love for your innocent babe?” he demanded, sternly.

“I have not dared—I will not allow myself to become attached to her,” was the low, constrained reply.

“Have you no pity, then, that you thrust her thus remorselessly from your sheltering care?”

“I should become an object far more pitiable if I should keep her with me,” returned the incomprehensible mother.

“I cannot understand it. Poor child! poor child!” sighed the sympathetic and perplexed physician.

“Doctor,” said his companion, with a sudden start, her face lighting with eagerness, “have you children of your own?”

“No, madame. I should consider myself blessed, indeed, if I had,” he sighed.

“Then will you adopt my daughter? I can assure you that there is not the slightest taint upon her parentage, and it is only the force of hard, obstinate circumstances that compels me to give her up. Your sympathies seem to have been enlisted for her. I am sure you are a good man, and I know that she would find a kind parent in you.”

The man flushed, and tears rose to his eyes at this appeal.

“Mrs. Marston,” he said, sadly, “if your child had been born six months earlier, and you had asked me this question at that time, I should have answered you with eagerness in the affirmative; but she who would have given the little one a mother’s care is no longer in my home. She died five months ago this very day, and I have no one else in my family to whom I could commit the babe.”

“Then what shall I do?” murmured the woman, with knitted brows and sternly compressed lips.

“I can think only of one alternative that I should be willing to suggest,” replied the doctor.

“What is that?” she demanded, eagerly.

“Advertise for some young couple to adopt the child. You will then have an opportunity to select a permanent home for her, and escape the anxiety which her uncertain fate in a charitable institution would entail upon you. I should suppose the mere thought of it would be torture to you.”

“It is,” replied the mother, with a quick, indrawn breath, while a nervous shiver ran over her. “I will do it,” she added, the look of care vanishing from her face, which had now become to the high-minded physician more like the face of a beautiful fiend than that of a tender-hearted woman. “I will advertise in the Transcript to-morrow morning, and will offer the sum of five hundred dollars to any respectable couple who will take the babe and promise to rear and educate her as their own. I wonder why I did not think of that plan myself,” she concluded, with a sigh of relief.

“I should propose omitting the reward from the advertisement,” observed the doctor, with a slight curl of his lips.

“Why so?”

“Because in that case you would be sure that whoever applied for her was actuated by a real desire to have the little one; while, if money were offered, cupidity might be the main object in the application.”

“Perhaps you are right,” Mrs. Marston observed, thoughtfully; “and yet I believe I shall offer it. I shall, at all events, give that amount to whoever adopts the child.”

She then adroitly changed the subject, plying the physician with numerous questions regarding Boston, its attractions and advantages, and so effectually led his mind in another direction, charming him with her rare conversational gifts, her evident culture and familiarity with both America and Europe, that he spent a delightful hour with her, and temporarily forgot the contempt and repulsion which he had previously entertained for her.

When the clock upon the mantel struck four, he started up in surprise, at which a sly smile curved his fair entertainer’s red lips, for she knew that she had held him by the magic of her fascinations, as she had meant to do.

But she arose also, and cordially extended her hand to him at parting, while she remarked, smilingly:

“I have neglected a very important item of business, and came very near forgetting it altogether. If you have, with you, the bill for your services to me, I shall be very happy to settle it.”

Dr. Turner flushed, and began to search his pockets, without appearing to notice the proffered hand.

At length he drew a slip of paper from his diary, and handed it to her.

She smiled again as she noticed the figures upon it; but unlocking a drawer in the table near which they were standing, she took from it an elegant purse, in which there appeared to be a plentiful supply of both gold and paper money.

She selected a bill and extended it to him.

“I am not able to change that for you, madame,” he said, as he glanced at it and saw that it was a hundred-dollar note.

“I do not wish it changed. Please take it. Even then I shall feel that I am deeply indebted to you,” she returned, with an earnestness such as she had not betrayed before during the interview.

Again the dusky red rushed to the doctor’s temples.

“If it is not convenient for you to hand me just the amount of my bill, you can send me a check for the sum later,” he said, coldly.

She bit her lips with mortification, and then tears rushed into her eyes.

“Oh, it is perfectly convenient. Excuse me; I did not intend to offend you, but I am truly grateful for the kind attention you have bestowed upon me, and I shall always entertain friendly memories of you.”

Dr. Turner returned a courteous bow for the promise of “friendly memories,” but remarked, briefly:

“I have but done my duty as a physician, madame.”

An angry flush mounted to her brow as she counted five golden eagles from her purse and laid them in his hand.

“I know,” she said, “that you think I am a heartless monster in woman’s form; but you would not, I am sure, if you could understand the strait that I am in.”

Another bow was his only reply to this.

He could not gainsay her statement regarding his estimate of her character, and he would not presume to inquire further into the mystery surrounding her.

“I should be glad to retain your good opinion,” she resumed, with a slight, deprecating gesture, “for you have been a good friend to me in my necessity, but a stern fate compels me to forego that. I trust, however, that I shall see you again before I leave your city.”

And she again extended her hand to him in farewell.

“If you need me—if I can serve you in any way, command me,” Dr. Turner returned, politely, but with an emphasis which plainly indicated that he should not voluntarily seek her society.

He bowed again, but barely touched the hand held out to him, and then went his way, wondering what mysterious circumstance, or combination of circumstances, could have forced this beautiful and gifted woman to abandon her child thus at the very beginning of its life.

CHAPTER III.
THE LITTLE STRANGER ADOPTED.

The next morning there appeared an advertisement in the Boston Transcript, offering five hundred dollars to suitable parties who would adopt a female infant, and stating that applications were to be made by letter, addressed to the office of the paper.

Of course a great many answers were received, for there were hosts of people who would agree to almost anything for five hundred dollars, while there were others who were really anxious to adopt the little baby girl that was to be so strangely thrown upon the world.

One alone out of these many epistles pleased Mrs. Marston. It was written in a clear, elegant hand, signed “August and Alice Damon.”

It was from a young couple, and stated that only a month previous they had lost their own little daughter—a babe of a few weeks—and their hearts were so sore over their loss, their home so lonely and sad, that they would gladly take a little one to fill, as far as might be possible, the place of their lost darling, and if the child in question pleased them and there was nothing objectionable connected with her birth or antecedents, they would gladly adopt her without the payment of the premium that had been offered.

Mrs. Marston, after reading this communication, immediately dashed off a note asking the young people to call upon her at their earliest convenience—in case they were at liberty to do so, the next morning at ten o’clock; she would reserve that hour for them.

Promptly at that time a young gentleman and lady of prepossessing appearance were ushered into Mrs. Marston’s private parlor, and one glance into their kind and intelligent faces convinced her that she had found the right parties to whom to intrust her child.

“Mr. and Mrs. Damon,” Mrs. Marston said, graciously receiving them, and glancing at the cards that had been sent up before them to announce their arrival, “I am very much pleased to meet you.”

She invited them to be seated, and then entered at once upon the object of their visit.

“I have appointed an interview with you in preference to all other applicants,” she said, “because of the real interest and feeling evinced in your letter to me. But before we decide upon the matter under consideration, I would like to know something about you and your prospects for the future.”

Mr. August Damon, a fine-looking young man of perhaps twenty-five years, frankly informed the lady that their home was in Boston; that he was a clerk in a large wholesale boot and shoe house; his salary was a fair one, and there was a prospect that he might become a member of the firm at no very distant date, if all went well with the business. He said that both he and his wife were very fond of children, and had been almost heart-broken over the loss of their own child. They had resolved, if they could find one to whom their hearts turned, to adopt another, and bestow upon it, as far as might be, the love and care that their own child would have received if it had lived. They had seen her advertisement in the Transcript, and had determined to respond to it, hoping thus to succeed in their object.

“Nothing could be better,” Mrs. Marston eagerly said, in reply. “This is just the opportunity that I desire. I feel sure that you will give my little one the kindest care, and I shall relinquish her to you most willingly. I shall expect you will do by her exactly as you would have done by your own; that you will give her your name, educate her, and give her such advantages as your means will allow. This must be your part in our contract, while mine will be to renounce all claim upon her, and make over to you the amount which I specified in my advertisement.”

August Damon never once took his eyes from the face of that proud, beautiful woman while she was speaking. They burned with a strange fire, an indignant flush mantled his cheek, and an expression of contempt curled his fine lips.

His wife viewed the apparently heartless mother with speechless wonder, her eyes fastened upon her in a sort of horrible fascination.

Her sweet, delicate face was colorless as the snowy ruffle about her white neck, and she trembled visibly as she listened to her abrupt and apparently unfeeling disposal of a human soul.

There was an awkward pause after Mrs. Marston concluded, and she seemed to become suddenly conscious of the very unpleasant impression which her strange words and proceedings had produced upon her visitors, and a rush of vivid color mantled her cheeks.

She could not fail to realize that her guests were well-bred, even cultivated people; the stamp of true gentility was upon them, and it was extremely galling to her haughty spirit to feel that they had been weighing her in the balance of their own refined and noble natures, and had found her sadly wanting in all those gentler qualities and attributes which naturally belong to a woman, and especially to a mother.

But she was impatient of all restraint and discomfort. She threw off the feeling with the usual shrug of her shapely shoulders, and raising her handsome head with a haughty air she continued, somewhat imperiously:

“Do you accede to the conditions that I have mentioned; and you, madame?” turning her great dark eyes full upon the gentle but shocked wife.

“Oh, how can you bear to part thus with your little one, the darling whose pulses are throbbing with your own life-blood?” exclaimed sweet Alice Damon, tears starting to her earnest, gray-blue eyes, her delicate lips trembling with emotion.

“That is a question that I cannot allow myself to consider,” responded Mrs. Marston, with a peculiar gesture of her jeweled hands, which might have meant either pain or repugnance, “neither can I enter into any explanation upon that point; the fact remains, I must part with her, and it is my wish to make the best possible provision for her.”

“We should be glad to see the child, madam,” Mr. Damon gravely remarked.

“Of course. I will have her brought in immediately;” and Mrs. Marston arose to ring a bell.

A moment later a portly matron entered the room bearing in her arms a lovely babe about a month old, arrayed in a richly embroidered robe, and wrapped in the softest and whitest of flannels.

Alice Damon uttered an eager cry, in which the tenderest mother-love and the keenest pain were blended, as she caught sight of the beautiful child who recalled so vividly her own lost treasure.

Starting from her seat she glided swiftly over the soft carpet, and the next moment the tiny creature was clasped close to her aching heart, while a sob burst from her as she pressed her quivering lips to its velvet cheek. Then she turned to her husband with it still in her arms.

“Oh, August, she is lovely!” she murmured, in husky, unsteady tones. “And, dear, my heart longs for her!”

Mr. Damon stood looking down upon the two for a moment, while he seemed struggling with some deep emotion.

He took one of the little soft hands that lay outside the heavily wrought blanket tenderly in his own, and bent for a nearer view of the small face.

“Her eyes are blue,” he said, under his breath.

“Yes, like our own darling’s. Oh, August, we will take her, will we not?” pleaded his wife, eagerly.

A look of fondest love leaped into his eyes as they met hers, but he did not reply to her just then.

He turned again to Mrs. Marston.

“I have an important question which I feel it necessary to ask you?” he began.

“In a moment,” she returned, and signed to the nurse to withdraw.

“Now, if you please,” she added, as the door closed after the woman.

“Is your child legitimate? If you can assure me of that, and that nothing of dishonor can ever touch her in the future, and that, as far as you know, she inherits no taint of insanity or incurable disease, I see no reason why we should not accede to your conditions and adopt the babe as our own.”

Mrs. Marston’s face had grown crimson during this speech, and her eyes flamed with anger.

Twice that week she had been obliged to meet this humiliating suspicion, and it was more than her proud spirit could endure.

“Do you presume——” she began, haughtily.

“Madame,” August Damon interrupted, gravely, but with the utmost respect, “pray do not accuse me of presumption when I have only the well-being of your own child at heart. If you will but consider a moment you cannot fail to realize that it is both natural and proper I should wish to be assured that the child I contemplate taking as my own is of honorable parentage, and with no heritage of future misery hanging over her. We shall, of course, use every precaution to prevent her from ever realizing that she is not our very own; but there may come a time when unforeseen events will lead her to suspect the truth, and then she will demand to be told her history. I must have it in my power to tell her that no story of shame, no stain, was attached to her birth.”

The gentleman’s tone was firm but courteous, and the proud woman before him realized a pride as deep-seated as her own, and that she had no common character to deal with.

He had a perfect right to ask her these questions, she knew, and she was bound to answer them in all sincerity.

The anger died out of her eyes; the color left her face, and there was more humility in her manner than she had before displayed, as she replied:

“Mr. Damon, I assure you that you need never fear even a breath against the fair fame or parentage of my child. I was legally married to a noble, high-minded gentleman, on the 15th of last March, although the ceremony was not performed in this country. More I cannot tell you regarding my private history. As to the little one’s constitution, she inherits no taint of disease or mental trouble that I am aware of. I have always enjoyed vigorous health, as my physique at the present time ought to prove to you.

“I know,” she continued, after a moment of thoughtful silence, “that the giving away of my child, when to all appearance there is no necessity for such an unusual act, appears like a monstrous proceeding; but I am so situated that I cannot help myself; the need is imperative—a relentless fate compels me to the unnatural act. I can tell you nothing more; if you see fit to adopt the babe, after hearing this, well and good; if not, I must reply to some other application, and make other arrangements for her.”

“I am satisfied with what you have told me, and the child shall come to us. Alice, she is yours if you so wish,” said the young husband, turning with a fond smile to his fair wife.

“I do wish it, August. I could not give her up now. See! how content she is!” and the sweet woman looked lovingly down at the little face lying so peacefully upon her bosom.

“You are willing to make the gift a legal one, I suppose,” said Mr. Damon, turning again to Mrs. Marston, who, with a look of intense relief upon her face, was closely watching the young couple.

“If you mean by that that I will sign papers to ratify the bond, I must say, No!” the woman replied, with decision.

“Of what use would such papers be,” she went on, “since I could not place my real signature upon them, and the name, by which I am known to you to-day, would amount to nothing, legally. I can only give her to you here, now, in this informal way. Take her—she is yours; and may she be a great comfort to you during your future lives.”

“I see,” replied Mr. Damon, “papers of adoption would amount to nothing;” but, nevertheless, he did not appear very well satisfied with this conclusion.

“And here is the future little Miss Damon’s dowry,” continued Mrs. Marston, with a smile, as she took a roll of bills from the same drawer whence she had paid Dr. Turner, “and I cannot begin to tell you how much of gratitude goes with it.”

“Madame, I cannot accept your money,” August Damon said, flushing hotly, as he drew back from the proffered bribe; for such it seemed to him.

“I am rich; I wish you to have it,” said the lady.

“It is the child that we want, for her own sake, not for what you offer as an inducement to adopt her,” returned the young man, with dignity.

“But I must insist,” Mrs. Marston replied. “If you have no immediate use for it, put it at interest somewhere for her, and let it accumulate for a marriage portion. You will have to name her,” she resumed, with a glance at the little one. “Call her whatever you wish, and may she prove a real blessing to you.”

She approached Alice Damon as she spoke, laid the roll of bills between the soft, pink hands of the now sleeping babe, bent over her and imprinted a light kiss upon her cheek, then turning quickly away, she bowed to the husband and wife and walked abruptly from the room.

A half-hour later the mysterious little stranger was sleeping peacefully in the dainty cradle that had once held Alice Damon’s namesake, while two tender, earnest faces bent fondly over her, as husband and wife prayed that she might long be spared to be a comfort and a blessing to them, and never realize the shadow that rested upon her birth.

The next morning, at an early hour, Mrs. Marston and her “maid” quietly left the —— House, and the city, leaving no address, nor any clew to their destination behind them.

CHAPTER IV.
A CHANGE OF RESIDENCE AND AN ADVENTURE.

Thus the stranger’s child found a home, with loving hearts and willing hands to care for her.

But August and Alice Damon Huntress had for certain reasons withheld their surname from the mother of the child they had adopted.

“I shall never put myself in the power of this woman,” he had said to his wife, while discussing the question. “If we adopt this little one we must so arrange matters that she can never be taken from us; so that she can never even be found by those who give her to us, or be told that she is not our own flesh and blood.”

So he had called himself August Damon, which was the truth, as far as it went, but no one in Boston knew him by any other name than Huntress, and he did not intend that the mother of the little one should ever know what became of the child after it was given into his hands.

They gave her the name of Gladys, for, as Alice Huntress said, she began to brighten and gladden their saddened hearts and lives from the moment of her coming to them.

The Huntresses lived in a very quiet way, on an unpretentious street in the city of Boston. Mr. Huntress had a good salary, but they were people of simple tastes, and had more of a desire to lay by a snug sum for declining years than to live extravagantly and make a show in the world.

For several years nothing occurred either to entice or drive them out of the beaten track; then, all at once, August Huntress conceived a brilliant idea, put it in practical use, secured a patent, and became a rich man.

No other children came to share the love and care bestowed upon Gladys, and the hearts of her adopted parents were literally bound up in her.

Every possible advantage was lavished upon her, and at the age of twelve years she was a bright, beautiful little maiden with glossy brown hair, lovely dark blue eyes, and regular features, and gave promise of rare beauty when she should reach maturity a few years hence.

About this time it appeared necessary for the interests of the house with which Mr. Huntress was connected, that he should remove to New York city.

Accordingly, the beginning of Gladys Huntress’ thirteenth year found the family established in a well-furnished mansion in Clinton avenue, one of the pleasantest portions of Brooklyn, while Mr. Huntress’ office was located in Dey street, New York.

Here Gladys at once entered the high school, having passed her examinations most creditably, and giving promise of becoming a brilliant scholar.

She dearly loved study, and asserted that as soon as she should complete the high school course, she should “make papa send her to Vassar for another four years, to finish her off.”

And now there occurred an incident destined to have a wonderful influence on the young girl’s whole future life.

One afternoon in May, after school was over for the day, Gladys persuaded her mother to allow their coachman to drive her over to New York to meet and bring her father home to dinner.

She had not, as yet, ever been allowed to go out alone in this way; but Mrs. Huntress could not accompany her that day, having an important engagement with some friends; but she knew her driver was perfectly trustworthy, he was very fond of the young girl, and she was sure that no harm could befall her, so the desired permission was given, and the youthful maiden drove off in high glee, and full of importance at being permitted to go by herself to the great metropolis.

The Fulton Ferry was safely crossed, and the carriage was rolling slowly up toward Broadway, when Gladys’ attention was arrested by a group of street gamins, who had surrounded a boy whom they appeared to be jeering and tormenting in a cruel manner, and who seemed completely dazed by his position, and greatly distressed by the ill-treatment to which he was subjected.

He was a peculiar looking boy, having a slender though perfect form, a delicate, rather aristocratic face, and a finely shaped head, crowned with masses of light, waving hair, in which there were rich tints of gold and brown.

He was very pale and his full, large blue eyes had a strange expression in their depths—half wild, half pathetic—which went straight to our young heroine’s heart.

He was neatly but plainly clad, though his garments had become somewhat disarranged by the rude handling of his tormentors, and he was making ineffectual efforts to recover a very good-looking straw hat that had been snatched from his head and was being ruthlessly tossed about by the vicious gamins, who were triumphing in his distress with a sort of fiendish joy.

“John, what are they doing to that poor boy?” Gladys asked, leaning forward, and speaking to the coachman.

“They’re a set of imps, miss, and as usual up to some of their infernal tricks,” replied the man. “It looks to me as if the lad is half-foolish, and they’re making game of him.”

“It is a shame,” cried the little lady, flushing indignantly. “See what a nice-looking boy he is—so different from those coarse, rude children. Stop John, and let us help him to get away from them.”

“Indeed miss, I can’t: it wouldn’t be at all proper,” returned the dignified driver. “It’s the business of the police to look after such cases, not for a young lady in your position.”

At this instant a mischievous ragamuffin seized the strange lad by the hair, giving it such a savage pull that he cried out with fright and pain, while a shout of mocking delight rang out from the motley crew about him.

Gladys Huntress sprang up in her carriage, an angry flush surging over her pretty face.

“John, stop!” she cried, imperiously. “Stop!” she repeated, laying her gloved hand upon his arm, with a touch which he involuntarily obeyed, and, drawing his reins, his well-trained horses came to a stand close beside the group we have described.

“Boys, what are you doing? Let him alone. Aren’t you ashamed to torment a boy who is weaker than yourselves?” the young girl exclaimed, in a tone of authority and scorn which for a moment arrested their cruel sport, while they gazed open-mouthed with astonishment at the elegant equipage and its fair occupant, who had so nobly espoused the cause of their luckless victim.

But it was only for a moment.

Everybody knows what lawless creatures the street urchins of New York are, and the next instant a derisive shout rent the air at this strange and unlooked-for interference.

“Hi!” cried one, who appeared to be the leader in the fray. “Mr. Chalkface must be some prince in disguise, and ’ere comes the princess with ’er coach and span to the rescue.”

Another shout more deafening than the preceding one rent the air at this sarcastic speech, and Gladys shrank back with a look of disgust on her young face.

“Pretty little Miss Uppercrust,” the young rascal insolently resumed, encouraged by the applause around him. “I guess it’ll take more’n you and your fine feathers to squelch Nick Tower. See ’ere now, how d’ye like that?” wherewith he gave the poor boy a brutal punch in the ribs which elicited a shriek of agony from him.

Gladys’ eyes blazed wrathfully. For a moment she gazed straight into the face of the impudent urchin, her beautiful lips quivering with contempt, while every eye was fixed upon her with wonder and curiosity.

It was a new departure for a young and delicate girl to face them like that. It was their experience to have every one of the better class shrink from them in disgust, and get out of their way as soon as possible.

Gladys saw that their attention was all concentrated upon her, and that the boy, upon whom they had been venting their malice, was for the time unheeded.

She saw, too, that he was stealthily edging his way toward the carriage, and a sudden bright thought flashed into her mind.

She bent forward as if to speak again, and the interest deepened on those youthful faces beneath her.

Quick as a flash she turned the handle of the carriage door, threw it open, and with a significant gesture, she cried out, in clear, ringing tones:

“Come here, boy, quick! quick!”

The lad needed no second bidding.

With one bound he was outside the circle of his tormentors; another brought him to the side of the carriage, and the next instant he had sprung within the vehicle, where he sank panting and trembling upon a rug at the young lady’s feet.

The door was immediately shut and fastened. Gladys’ face was glowing with triumph over the success of her ruse, while, at an authoritative chirrup from the coachman, who, sooth to say, had keenly enjoyed the spirited and courageous attitude assumed by his young mistress in defense of the persecuted boy, the horses started on, leaving the group of gamins speechless and spell-bound with amazement at this unexpected master-stroke.

It was only for a minute, however; the next rage, at having been outwitted by a girl, and that one of the hated favorites of fortune, superseded their astonishment, and a succession of frantic yells burst upon their ears, while as with one mind they stooped to gather mud from the gutter, rolled it into balls, and then sent their filthy missiles flying after the receding carriage and its occupants.

Gladys did not pay the slightest heed to this attack, though one vile mass came plump against her pretty sunshade where it adhered for a moment and then rolled into the street, but leaving an unsightly stain where it had struck upon the rich, glossy silk.

The irate little wretches would have followed up their assault had not a policeman suddenly made his appearance upon the scene, when they took to their heels, scattering and disappearing around a corner, like a flock of frightened sheep, quicker than it has taken to relate the occurrence.

Gladys gave a sigh of relief as the noise and pelting ceased, and then she turned her attention to the luckless waif whom she had befriended in his hour of need.

“Get up, boy,” she said, kindly, “they cannot hurt you now.”

But as he still crouched, trembling and frightened, at her feet, she turned to the coachman and said:

“John, help him up, he is too frightened to move.”

“Come, my lad, you’ve nothing to fear now,” the driver remarked, encouragingly, and reaching over the back of his seat he took the boy by the arm and lifted him from the floor, placing him opposite his young mistress.

He glared wildly about him at first, but as his eyes fell upon Gladys’ sympathetic face the fear faded from them, and he seemed reassured.

Then all at once he put his hand to his head in a distressed way, and called out:

“M’ha! m’ha!”

“What does he mean, John? Can they have hurt him, do you think?” Gladys asked, looking perplexed, and regarding the boy’s blank, though beautiful, face with anxiety.

“I don’t know, miss; perhaps it’s his hat he’s troubled about.”

The lad turned quickly at the word hat, nodded his head emphatically, and showed two rows of white, handsome teeth in a broad, satisfied smile.

“M’ha! m’ha!” he repeated, and then there followed a lot of gibberish that was wholly unintelligible to his listeners.

“How strangely he appears!” Gladys exclaimed, regarding him curiously.

“He do, indeed, miss. The poor chap is an idiot, or I’m much mistaken.”

“An idiot! Oh, how dreadful! Poor boy,” cried Gladys, pityingly. Then she added, soothingly: “Never mind your hat, papa shall buy you another.”

The young stranger nodded contentedly, as if he understood her, while his great blue eyes were fixed earnestly and confidingly on her face.

“What is your name and where do you live?” continued the young girl, wondering what she should do with him now that she had rescued him from his persecutors, if he could not tell where he belonged.

The only answer to this query was a senseless smile, accompanied by a low crooning sound of contentment.

“Oh, dear! can’t you talk at all? What is your name? you must tell me or I shall not know where to take you,” said Gladys, beginning to look greatly disturbed, and wondering what would be the result of this strange adventure.

The boy reached out a white, slender hand and touched the girl caressingly on the cheek, at the same time making a sound indicative of pleasure and admiration, but uttering no intelligible word.

It was evident that he was not only simple-minded, but that there must be some paralysis of the vocal organs as well, that prevented his talking.

A flush sprang to the young girl’s face, and a strange thrill pervaded her at the touch of those delicate fingers.

“He is the most beautiful boy I ever saw,” she said, “but, oh! how dreadful for him not to know anything! I wonder who he is, John!”

“I’m sure I can’t say, miss,” replied the man, looking perplexed and somewhat annoyed.

“How old do you think he can be?”

John gave a long look at the young stranger.

“He’s small of his age, miss, but I reckon he must be older than yourself.”

“Older than I! Oh! I do not think that can be possible,” Gladys exclaimed, attentively studying the strangely attractive yet vacant countenance before her.

“What shall we do with him, John?” she inquired, after a moment of thoughtful silence.

“I think we’d best take him straight to the office, tell the master all about him, and he’ll settle the matter.”

“Yes, I believe that will be the best plan,” Gladys returned, looking greatly relieved. “Papa will know just what to do. But,” bending forward and laying her hand on the boy’s arm to attract his attention more fully, while she spoke slowly and very distinctly, “can’t you tell me where you live, boy? Do try, and then we can take you directly to your home.”

The lad looked up with a most confiding smile at her, gently took her hand from his arm, clasped it tenderly in both his own, and murmured, in an exceedingly rich and mellow tone, some strange sounds.

“Oh, how sorry I am for him!” Gladys said, with starting tears: “I wonder if he has any father or mother, brothers or sisters. It would break my heart to have a lovely brother like this, and not have him know anything. Hurry on, John, please; I am anxious to know what papa can do for him.”

CHAPTER V.
A GRAVE CONSULTATION.

Arriving at Mr. Huntress’ office in Dey street, Gladys alighted, bidding John detain the boy in the carriage until she could bring her father.

She ran lightly up the stairs, and found that gentleman just on the point of leaving to return home, but evidently very much pleased to have his daughter come for him.

She related what had occurred on her way over to the city, and he listened attentively to her story; but his face grew grave as she proceeded, for he was so fond and careful of her, that he could not endure the thought of her running into any danger.

“I fear you have been unwise, my darling, in taking this boy into the carriage with you,” he said, drawing her fondly toward him, and bending down to kiss the bright, eager face upturned to him. “He may have come from some fever-infested locality; you should have given him into the care of a policeman.”

“But, papa, there was no policeman near at the time, and the poor boy was so frightened and distressed I hadn’t the heart to make him get out of the carriage, at least until we could get beyond the reach of those rude boys. I supposed, of course, he would tell us where he lived, so that we could take him home, but we could not understand a word that he said.”

“Perhaps he is some foreigner,” suggested Mr. Huntress.

“No, I think not, for he seemed to know what we said to him. He isn’t like those other boys—he looks as if he must belong to very nice, respectable people. His clothes are very plain, but as clean as can be—even his hands and nails are as white and clean as mine, which is not usual in a boy, you know. Come and see him, papa. I know you will pity him,” pleaded Gladys, with a very sweet and sympathetic face.

She slipped her hand within her father’s arm and drew him with gentle force out of his office and down the stairs to the carriage, where John sat, looking a trifle anxious and as if he feared a reproof for allowing a strange child in his master’s elegant equipage with his idolized daughter.

Mr. Huntress was struck with the refined, even aristocratic appearance of the boy the moment his eyes fell upon him.

He instantly recognized the wonderful beauty of his face, remarked the shape and color of his eyes, which, had they been lighted by the fire of intelligence, would have been his chief charm. His frame was slight, but he was finely formed, with shapely hands and feet. His head was rather massive for his body and of that square structure, with a broad, full brow and an unusual height above the ears, which generally proclaims a large brain and rare intellectual capacity, and yet he was unmistakably an idiot! One look into those blank, expressionless eyes but too plainly told that.

Mr. Huntress entered the carriage, after assisting Gladys to her seat, and spoke kindly and cheerfully to the boy.

He made no answer, but fixed his great eyes earnestly upon the gentleman’s face while he shrank close to Gladys, as if he instinctively realized that she was his stanch friend, and would protect him against all evil.

“I do not wonder that you were interested in him, Gladys,” said Mr. Huntress, regarding the stranger gravely, “he is peculiarly winning in appearance, though evidently very simple in mind.”

“Do you suppose he was always so, papa?” Gladys asked.

“It does not seem possible, for, aside from that vacant look in his eyes, his face has a wonderfully intelligent expression, especially when it is in repose. Can’t you make him say anything?”

“No, sir; he tries to talk, but I cannot understand what he means.”

“Ask him a question, Gladys,” said her father.

“Boy, you have lost your hat—would you like a new one?” the young girl questioned.

“M’ha! m’ha!” he instantly answered, putting his hand to his head, thus showing as before that he had comprehended something of what was said to him.

Mr. Huntress’ face lighted.

“Try something else,” he commanded.

“Where do you live, boy?” Gladys inquired.

This query, like the previous one, only elicited a perfect storm of unintelligible sounds.

“Do you wish to go home to your friends?” Gladys continued, making another effort.

But the only response was a short, sharp ejaculation of pain, while the lad seized her hand and laid his cheek affectionately against it, looking appealingly into her face, as if thus to signify that he did not wish to leave her.

“I cannot understand him at all, papa, only it seems as if he wishes to stay with me,” said Gladys, with a sigh.

Mr. Huntress thought a moment, then he turned to the coachman and said:

“Drive home, John.”

“Oh, papa, are you going to take him home with us?” cried Gladys, eagerly.

“Yes; for to-night. I find myself strangely interested in him, and I have not the heart to turn him adrift upon the street. He evidently belongs to a good family, and has probably strayed from home and got lost. We will care for him until we can learn who his friends are, and can return him to them,” Mr. Huntress replied, and they then proceeded directly home with their strange protege, where Mrs. Huntress received them with considerable surprise, although her sympathies were also soon enlisted in behalf of their charge, and she bestowed the kindest of care and attention upon the unfortunate waif so singularly thrown into her family.

Mr. Huntress caused an advertisement to be inserted in the papers the next morning, inquiring for the friends of the wanderer.

But a week passed and he received not one word in reply, and thus his identity remained a profound mystery.

Meantime, the object of these inquiries was so docile and tractable, so affectionate in his manner toward every member of the household; he was so trustful, appearing to recognize instinctively that they were kind friends; he was so exceptionally nice about his person and habits, and so gentle in his manner, that they all became greatly attached to him, and they felt more and more convinced that he belonged to some family of good blood and high position, in spite of the very common clothing which he wore, and his imbecile condition.

There was nothing about him to give the least clew to his identity. Every article he had on was thoroughly examined to try to find some name; every pocket was searched with the same purpose, and at last Mr. Huntress began to believe that he must have been brought from a distance to New York by some person or persons, and there willfully deserted for some secret reason, with the hope, perhaps, that the authorities would care for him and have him sent to some institution for weak-minded people.

This view of the affair made him very indignant toward the supposed perpetrators of the deed, and tenfold more tender toward the unfortunate victim of such an inhuman transaction, and one day, upon returning from his business in New York, he was accompanied by one of the most skillful physicians in the city.

To him the pitiable but interesting innocent was submitted for examination.

The noted M. D. at once became absorbed in and enthusiastic over the peculiar case.

“He would be a remarkable boy but for the torpidity of his intellect,” he asserted. “He was not born so. His present condition was caused either by some acute disease of the brain, or by some injury to it—the latter, most probably.”

“Possibly a great wrong has been perpetrated, and he has been deserted in this mysterious way to conceal the deed,” suggested Mr. Huntress, gravely.

“I should not be at all surprised,” returned the physician. “He may be the heir to some large property, and jealousy has brought him to this pass. Everything about him, save his idiocy, betrays that he came of a refined parentage. His physical condition is sound, although he is not fully developed as he should be, but that is owing undoubtedly, to his mental incapacity. He is evidently about fifteen years of age.”

All this was the result of but a superficial examination. A more critical one confirmed one of the doctor’s theories: there proved to be a depression of the skull which must have been caused by some accident to or violent blow upon the head.

“It was done a number of years ago,” the learned man affirmed, “and that produced a paralysis of the brain and also of the nerves that control his organs of speech.”

“Is there any help for him—can he be restored?” Mr. Huntress inquired, eagerly.

“Possibly, by an operation; but it would be attended with considerable risk.”

“Would the risk be so great, that were the boy your own son, you would hesitate to attempt it?”

“No; I should have it done at once. Still, the trouble is of such long standing that I could not answer for the success of the operation in restoring the boy to his normal condition, even should he survive the shock to his system; and yet——”

“Well?” almost impatiently questioned Mr. Huntress. He was becoming greatly excited over the matter.

Somehow a conviction had taken possession of his heart that such an operation would result favorably, and he longed to have his hopes confirmed.

“It would be a great triumph of science if the trial could be made, and he should have his reasoning powers restored,” returned the physician, gravely.

“Would he be able to talk? Would his power of speech be regained?”

“Yes, I believe so. I suspect that a portion of the skull, which was broken at the time of his injury, is pressing upon his brain, causing not only loss of memory, but also a partial paralysis of the hypoglossal nerve. If this pressure can be relieved, and the piece of skull lifted to its place, or removed altogether, and the aperture trepanned, I see no reason why he should not recover the full use of all his faculties,” the doctor explained.

“I wish it might be done. Doctor, I wonder if it would be right for me to assume the responsibility of ordering this operation to be performed,” said Mr. Huntress, reflectively.

“It would be a great blessing to the boy.”

“Yes; provided all went well.”

“And an otherwise inexplicable mystery might thus be solved; he would doubtless be able to tell who he is, and thus you could restore him to his friends.”

“Dr. Scherz, will you share the responsibility—simply that—of this matter with me?” Mr. Huntress gravely asked, after thinking deeply for several moments.

“I feel rather delicate about giving you an affirmative answer to that question,” the physician replied, “if I am expected to have charge of the case. I might be severely criticised and accused of a desire to experiment for the benefit of my profession, if there should be a fatal result.”

“Yes, perhaps; but, on the other hand, you would acquire fame if the boy was restored.”

“Undoubtedly.” And the eminent physician’s eyes glowed with eagerness.

“Well, the matter stands like this,” said Mr. Huntress, after another thoughtful pause. “I have done my best to find the lad’s friends, but there is evidently no one, at least in Brooklyn or New York who will claim him. I am unaccountably interested in him. I will not send him to an insane asylum. I cannot cast him forth again upon the street to wander about at the mercy of the rabble. I have resolved to care for him as I would wish a son of mine cared for under similar circumstances, and yet his presence, in this imbecile state, is a constant pain to me. What shall I do?”

“If you intend to give him a father’s care, I see no reason why you should not exercise a parent’s judgment and authority in the matter of his possible restoration,” Dr. Scherz responded, thoughtfully.

“Then will you take charge of the case and treat it as your judgment and skill dictate? The expense and risk shall all be mine, yours the reward and fame if a cure is effected.”

Dr. Scherz did not reply to this request for several minutes. He appeared to be considering and reviewing the matter in all its points, and evidently regarded the undertaking as one of grave responsibility and importance.

At length he looked up, and Mr. Huntress was more encouraged by the expression on his pale, thoughtful face, than he had yet been over anything that he had said about the case. He felt sure that the man would act conscientiously, and exert himself to the extent of his skill.

“I think I will attempt it,” he said, slowly. “But before I do, I would like to consult with a friend in the profession, and get his opinion upon the undertaking. I will see you again in a few days; meantime, do your best to build up the boy’s strength with a nourishing diet.”

With this, the two men separated.

CHAPTER VI.
THE DEVELOPMENTS OF SEVERAL YEARS.

A full week passed before Mr. Huntress heard anything further from Dr. Scherz, and it was a week of anxiety and unrest for him.

At the end of that time the physician went again to see the Huntress protege, taking a noted hospital surgeon with him.

After another protracted and critical examination, the two gentlemen decided to undertake the operation together.

The boy was removed to a hospital where diseases of the brain were treated, and there the delicate and hazardous operation was performed.

The result proved that Dr. Scherz had thoroughly understood the case—that his theory was the correct one.

A severe blow upon the head, years previous, fractured the skull, a portion of which was crowded in upon the brain, the pressure causing temporary paralysis and idiocy, also loss of energy in the hypoglossal or lingual nerve.

This piece of bone was removed, the brain relieved of the unnatural pressure, and the result was both wonderful and startling.

Before the patient had fully recovered from the effects of the ether which had been administered to him, memory and speech both reasserted their functions by completing a sentence which had evidently been interrupted at the time of the accident which had deprived the boy of their use.

“——tell my papa!” were the words which fell upon the ears of the startled surgeons, while the large blue eyes of their patient slowly unclosed and gazed up into the faces bending over him, the light of reason once more gleaming in their azure depths.

“What will you tell papa?” asked Dr. Scherz, in a quiet tone, while the other surgeon drew quickly out of sight.

“Jack struck Margery,” was the instant reply.

“Who is your papa, my boy?”

“Why, he’s papa; don’t you know?—my good papa,” was the response, while a puzzled look shot over the lad’s pale face.

Dr. Scherz knew from his manner of speech that he must have been very young—not more than five years of age—at the time of his injury, and when that great darkness had so suddenly enveloped him.

“Yes, your good papa,” said the doctor, soothingly. “Now go to sleep like a man.”

“I’m Margery’s little man—where is Margery?” he questioned, drowsily, and closing his eyes, he was soon in a profound slumber.

The two physicians watched him in silence for a few moments, then they looked up into each other’s face; eye held eye for an instant with an eloquent glance, the next their hands met in a prolonged and hearty clasp across their patient, for they knew that, if all went well, they had succeeded in an operation that would give them a famous reputation for all time.

When the boy awoke again he called lustily for “Margery,” and a kind and motherly nurse was at once appointed to care for him.

He seemed to know, however, that she was not “Margery,” although he appeared to take to her and was content to have her attend him.

“Where’s Jack?” he asked of Dr. Scherz, who still remained with him, determined to watch him most carefully.

“Jack who?” he asked.

“Why, Margery’s Jack; but he isn’t good like Margery,” from which the physician inferred that “Jack” must have been Margery’s husband, and not an over kind one either.

“Oh, Jack has gone away,” he answered, carelessly. “What is your name, my boy?”

“I’m Geoffrey, sir.”

“Geoffrey what?”

“Why, Geoffrey Dale—don’t you know? I’m papa Dale’s own boy.”

“Where is papa?”

“Gone away off,” was the reply, accompanied by a grieved look, “and he won’t come again for ever so long.”

Dr. Scherz would not press him further; he knew that they must be patient. Memory had lain dormant for so long, and the child had been so young at the time of losing it, that it was doubtful if they could ever learn very much regarding his history.

Weeks passed, and Geoffrey was at last pronounced well enough to return to the beautiful home awaiting him in Brooklyn.

He had recovered without a single drawback. The light of reason gleamed in his eyes, and he had the full use of all the organs of speech.

But, although the doctors had decided that he must be fully fifteen years of age, notwithstanding his growth had been somewhat stunted by the effects of his injury, mentally he was little better than an infant.

He talked like a child of five years, and acted like one.

But very little could be learned of his previous life. It was evident that he had been living with a woman named Margery—who, probably, was his nurse—and a man named Jack, possibly the woman’s husband.

Margery he had loved, and he often called for her now. Jack he had feared, and looked frightened whenever his name was mentioned.

Of the injury which had deprived him of his memory he seemed to be able to tell nothing, although he affirmed that Jack had struck and tried to choke Margery, and he wanted to “lick the naughty man.”

Of his mother he knew absolutely nothing; his father was not much more than a name to him, although he spoke of him as his “good papa,” while he could not tell anything whatever about the place where his former home had been, and knew nothing of the circumstances of his being in New York.

He was very quick to comprehend, however, now that he once more had his reason, and readily adapted himself to his new surroundings.

Mr. Huntress resolved to adopt him legally, and do all in his power to atone for the long interval of darkness and mental incapacity to which he had been so strangely doomed.

Geoffrey began at once to regard his new friends with the greatest confidence and affection, while toward Gladys he manifested the most devoted love.

She, on her part, regarded him with tenderest compassion and sympathy, for, in spite of his remarkable beauty and natural ability, he was truly a pitiable object, with the simple mind and manners of a child five years of age in a body of fifteen; for he soon began to develop rapidly, physically, after his restoration, and bade fair to be a man of splendid physique.

He was not long in realizing that he was far from being like other boys of his age, and he began to be very sensitive over the fact—to grow grave and thoughtful, and sometimes positively unhappy.

“Why can’t I be like other boys?” he once asked of Mr. Huntress, with a perplexed look on his fine face, and the gentleman kindly explained that, when he had been very young, some one or something must have struck him a blow on the head which had injured his brain, so that for years it had been the same as if sound asleep, and had only just waked up again; that his body had grown, but his mind had not.

“Oh, I know,” Geoffrey returned, with a startled look, a new light coming into his eyes. “Jack threw a great stick of wood at me.”

“What made him do that?” Mr. Huntress asked, eagerly.

The boy bent his head, and seemed trying to recall the events of that dim past.

“He came into the kitchen with a dreadful red face,” he said, “and he was very ugly to Margery—I can’t think about what. He put his hands around her neck, and she screamed. I ran up and struck him, and told him I’d tell my papa, and—that’s all I know,” he concluded, with a sigh.

Mr. Huntress could imagine that the man was intoxicated, and being in a frenzy, he had perhaps seized a stick of wood from the hearth, thrown it at the child, and knocked him senseless.

“What was Jack’s other name?” he asked.

“Jack—Jack—” Geoffrey began, then shook his head hopelessly. “I can’t tell,” he concluded; and Mr. Huntress felt that it only annoyed him, and it would be useless to try to find out anything definite from him, so he let the matter drop.

One day, after Geoffrey had been with the family some three months, he came in from the street looking flushed and angry.

Seeking Gladys he besought her most piteously to teach him to read.

Upon inquiring what prompted the request, she found that Geoffrey had been attracted by a glaring placard that had been pasted up somewhere on a building, and had asked some boys what it was.

This had at once betrayed his woeful ignorance, for if he had even known his letters, he could at least have made out something of the nature of the bill, and they had tormented him unmercifully for being a simpleton.

Gladys at once procured a primer and set herself at work to teach him.

He proved to be a most diligent pupil, with great perseverance and a wonderful power for memorizing, for in a month he had mastered the whole of its contents.

Mr. Huntress was astonished at his progress, and wanted to put him at once into school.

But Geoffrey, who was developing rapidly in every way, shrank from the proposal, and begged his Uncle August, as he had been taught to call Mr. Huntress, to allow him to study at home.

“They will laugh at me at school, for I shall have to go into classes with little boys only five or six years old,” he pleaded, with a crimson face.

“But you must go to school some time, and you will have to begin with boys younger than yourself,” Mr. Huntress replied.

“Won’t you keep on teaching me, Gladys?” Geoffrey asked, appealingly. “I will study hard and never trouble you by not having my lessons, and perhaps I can catch up with big boys by and by.”

Gladys said she would keep on with him. But she was not allowed to do so, although she often gave him help in many ways.

She had her own studies to attend to and was working hard at them, therefore Mr. Huntress would not allow her to tax herself any further, and so a tutor was engaged to come to the house every day to attend to Master Geoffrey’s lessons.

The boy was true to his promise. He studied diligently, and his tutor never had occasion to utter a word of complaint over ill-prepared lessons. Geoffrey seemed to realize more and more how far behind other boys of his own age he was, and with his pride and ambition thus aroused, no task seemed too difficult to accomplish, if it would only serve to help him to overtake them.

Another thing troubled him exceedingly. He had learned that Gladys was two years younger than himself, and yet she was nearly half through the high school, while he was simply learning his alphabet. The thought overwhelmed him with shame and pain.

“Gladys is a girl younger than I, and I am years and years behind her, when I should be ever so far beyond her,” he said one day to Mrs. Huntress, when he had become almost discouraged over one of his lessons, and had gone to her for help and sympathy.

“But Gladys has always been at school and you have not, Geoff,” returned his aunt, kindly. “Go and ask her to show you about these problems; she can help you much better than I, for they are fresher in her mind.”

But the proud boy had all at once grown keenly sensitive, and would not seek the young girl’s aid. He preferred to fight the battle out by himself, rather than be coached by a girl younger than he was.

Of course this was the better way; he gained in mental strength and self-reliance by it, and he accomplished more in three years than the ordinary school-boy would in six.

Aside from his pride and sensitiveness in this respect, he was ever ready and eager to be with Gladys.

Wherever she went, after school hours, he was her constant and devoted attendant, and no service was too hard or disagreeable to be performed for her.

And she enjoyed having him with her. He was outgrowing the delicate, almost effeminate look which he had had when he first came to them; an air of manliness and strength had taken its place, while there was a natural gallantry and manliness about him that made him a very agreeable escort.

Another year passed, and he made even more rapid strides in his studies than before; still it was a great trial to him that he had only completed the studies of the second year of the high school course, and Gladys was ready to graduate.

He was present at her examination, and also at the exercises of the class when it graduated, and it was evident, from his flushed cheek and glittering eye, that some bitter struggle was going on within him.

He watched the beautiful girl’s every movement, he eagerly drank in every word that she uttered, and was as proud of her as he could be, yet all the time miserably conscious of his own deficiency.

That evening he shut himself within his own room and fought a terrible battle out with his pride and wretchedness.

“I am nineteen years old, and she is seventeen,” he said, bitterly. “I am two years behind her, and I should be two years in advance—there are four years of my life lost; no, not lost, either,” he added, with sudden energy, “for I will make them up, I will gain them. Can I do six years work in four? Harder work, too, than I have ever done before? Yes, I will!”

He sat down to his table and began to look over his books, making calculations as to how much ground he could get over in a given time, while every few moments he would consult some catalogues that lay beside him.

The next morning he walked down to the Fulton Ferry with Mr. Huntress, and on the way he remarked, with more than his accustomed gravity:

“Uncle August, Gladys is going to Vassar next year, isn’t she?”

“Yes; she is ambitious to take an advanced course, and there is no reason why she should not do so, if she desires.”

“Will you allow me to continue my studies during the summer with Mr. Rivers, and enter some institute in the fall where I can advance more rapidly?”

Mr. Huntress turned and looked searchingly into the young man’s flushed face, as he asked this question.

He was a tall, manly fellow of nineteen, strong and stalwart of frame, his fine, massive head crowned with waving hair a few shades darker than it was when we first saw him; his eyes full of fire and intelligence, his whole face glowing with strength of character, and a certain something which gave one an idea of great reserve power, and it was no wonder that the countenance of Mr. Huntress lighted with a look of pride, as he realized that, under God, he had been instrumental in giving to the world this noble specimen of manhood.

Then a sudden smile broke over his face.

“Why, Geoff, are you envious of Gladys, because she is going to college?” he asked, in a bantering tone.

A deeper flush suffused the young man’s handsome face. Then he replied, in low but intense tones:

“I hope I am not envious of any good that comes to her; I am more proud of her than I can express, and I would not have her anything but just what she is, the kindest, the smartest, and loveliest of girls; but I can’t quite stand it to be so far behind her, to have her look down upon me and despise me for being so ignorant.”

“I do not think that Gladys would ever be guilty of anything so unkind. Geoff; she loves you far too well for that,” returned Mr. Huntress, gravely, but still closely watching his protege, for he could well understand the pain he was suffering.

Geoffrey’s face kindled, and his companion could see his temples throbbing as the blood coursed more quickly through his veins at his words.

“Thank you, Uncle August, for assuring me of Gladys’ affection; but I want her respect as well,” he said, with a slight quiver in his tone.

August Huntress started at that reply, for it betrayed a great deal.

It told him that the devotion and affection which he had manifested for Gladys from the first had now grown into a strong, deep passion, which would either make or mar his whole future, and he was strangely moved by this discovery.

How would it be with Gladys if she should discover it? Would her heart respond to this wealth of love? Would she ever be willing to link her fate with his?

She was far in advance of Geoffrey, mentally, but he was making such rapid and resolute strides after her, that, at the rate he had been gaining on her of late it could not be very long before he would reach the plane on which she was standing, even if he did not distance her altogether.

Well, well, it would be a romantic ending to the story of their lives, he thought, if these two, so strangely thrown upon his care—with so much of mystery surrounding their birth and parentage, and likely always to envelope them—should some day unite their fates and wed each other.

But he allowed nothing of all this musing to appear; he simply said, with his accustomed kindness and genial smile:

“You are worthily ambitious, Geoff, but I don’t know how you will stand it to apply yourself so closely all summer and then go right on in the fall. I cannot allow you to sacrifice your health to your love for study.”

“But I am well and strong as a giant; will you let me try, sir?” he pleaded, earnestly.

“Yes, indeed, with all my heart. It is a pleasure to give you advantages when you improve them so eagerly. I will make it an object to Mr. Rivers to remain with you during the vacation, and then we can decide later where you will go in the fall.”

“Thank you, Uncle August, you are like a dear father to me, and I could not love you better if you really were. I hope some day to prove, in some tangible way, how grateful I am for your goodness,” Geoffrey said, with deep feeling.

“Tut, tut, my boy, don’t burden yourself with any sense of obligation. I am getting my pay as I go along, in the enjoyment I get out of having a fine, manly fellow like yourself in the house. I don’t believe I could be prouder of my own son than I am of you, and, taking us all in all, I imagine there isn’t a happier family in all Brooklyn than the one residing at No. —— Clinton avenue. Eh, Geoff?”

CHAPTER VII.
GEOFFREY ENTERS COLLEGE.

August Huntress and his gentle wife, Alice, deserved to be happy, for they had devoted the best of their lives to the work of rearing the two children who had been so strangely thrown upon their care.

Of course it was but natural that their love for Gladys should be deeper, stronger, and more sacred than for Geoffrey, for they had taken her to their hearts as their very own when she was but a tiny babe, and having had no other children sent them to share their affection, their every hope had long been centered in her.

But they felt very tenderly toward the hapless boy who had first aroused their sympathy for his misfortune, and subsequently won their love by his gentleness and confidence in them.

Mr. Rivers, Geoffrey’s tutor, was very glad of the opportunity to remain with his pupil during the summer vacation, for it was simply a pleasure to teach one so eager for knowledge; while, too, being in limited circumstances, he needed the pecuniary benefit accruing from the arrangement.

Mr. Huntress sent them both into the country upon a farm, where they could have fresh air and country living to strengthen their bodies, while storing their minds with knowledge.

Mr. Rivers was most faithful in fulfilling his duties as a tutor, while Geoffrey was indefatigable as a student. He applied himself early and late; he dug to the very root of every problem and question, while he possessed the power of concentration to such a degree that he got over the ground much more rapidly than most students.

At the beginning of September he was pronounced qualified to enter a private institution for young men, where the principal, after learning the circumstances regarding his early misfortune and inability to study, allowed him special privileges.

Here he remained for a year, overcoming every obstacle with an iron will and unflagging perseverance, and surprising every one by his progress.

He developed in other ways also, becoming more mature physically, and acquired a dignity and thoughtfulness almost beyond his years, yet at the same time possessing a peculiar gentleness and courtesy of manner that won every one.

At the end of the year he was qualified to enter college.

Mr. Huntress told him that he might remain where he was if he felt the least sensitiveness about entering a university; but he was ready and eager now to take his place in the world with young men of his own age. Geoffrey had a consciousness within him that he could hold his own anywhere, and he decided that he would go to Yale.

He passed his examinations, and was received without a condition, and he could not help experiencing a feeling of triumph that at last he was on the “home stretch,” so to speak, for the goal toward which he had for years so longingly and enviously looked.

Now he was only one year behind Gladys, and he hoped to be able to lessen the distance between them before he was through with his course. At all events, if his health was spared, he would now have a finished education, and would not need to feel that he was beneath her in point of intellect.

As for Gladys herself, she was as proud as she could be when Geoffrey told her of his success.

“Just to think of it,” she cried, with shining eyes and flushed cheeks, though a little mischievous smile played over her red lips; “only six years ago I taught you your letters, and now you are almost at the top of the ladder! Oh, Geoffrey, I’m afraid you are very smart!”

“Afraid, Gladys?”

“Yes, and please don’t drive your chariot too fast, even now. Why, if you had had the opportunities that have fallen to my lot, you would have been so far above me by this time that I should never have dared so much as to lift my eyes to you,” the young girl returned with mock humility.

He bent and looked earnestly into her eyes.

“Gladys,” he cried, under his breath, “I am sometimes almost glad that I was cast adrift upon the world.”

“Glad! Why, Geoff!” she exclaimed, astonished, and wondering at his intense mood.

“You think that rather an extravagant statement,” he said, smiling, “but if my life had run along smoothly in my own home, like that of other boys, I might never have learned what mettle there was within me, and besides, I might never have known you—you who have been my good genius and my inspiration.”

Gladys shot one startled glance up into those earnest eyes looking into hers, then her own quickly dropped, and a vivid scarlet shot up to her brow.

Geoffrey had never spoken like this to her before, and the suppressed passion in his voice betrayed volumes.

The unexpected glimpse of his heart set her own to beating with strange emotions.

She had always been fond of him in a sort of tender, compassionate way, which of late had developed into something of pride for his smartness, and the character he exhibited; but she had never dreamed that she could ever learn to regard him other than as a dear friend or brother, or that he would ever entertain but fraternal affection for her.

She was strangely affected by this discovery of a deeper sentiment.

Geoffrey entered Yale the first of September, and began his four years’ course there with the greatest of enthusiasm.

He had been hard at work at college a little over a week when, one evening, while he was deeply absorbed in the preparation of the morrow’s lessons, there came a quick, sharp rap upon his door.

He glanced up as the door opened, and was astonished to see half a dozen fellows from the sophomore class enter and station themselves at different points in the room, while one, who appeared to be the leader of the company, slowly advanced toward him.

In an instant it flashed upon Geoffrey that he was about to be subjected to that terror of all freshmen—hazing—it being before the days when the practice fell into such disfavor as at present.

For a moment he was indignant at this intrusion; then he said to himself:

“If they are not unreasonable I’ll make the best of it, and let them have their fun.”

He arose from his table and turned to meet the young man approaching him, a genial smile on his handsome face.

But, as if suddenly arrested by some supernatural power, both young men stopped transfixed, and gazed at each other with undisguised astonishment, while expressions of wonder passed from lip to lip among those who were looking on.

And it was no wonder, for those two standing in the center of the room might well have been twin brothers instead of utter strangers, for they appeared to be exactly alike in form, and feature, and bearing.

Both were fair, with nut-brown hair and blue eyes.

Both were tall and well-developed, with a proud bearing that would have made them conspicuous anywhere, although a critical observer might have noticed that Geoffrey was more firmly built, more muscular, perhaps; thus showing greater strength than the other.

The intruder was the first to recover himself, however, and remarked, with a toss of his fine head and a long-drawn breath:

“I say, Huntress, this is downright queer! We came to give you a little surprise party, and you’ve completely taken the wind out of our sails to begin with. I could almost swear that I was looking at my own reflection in a glass. Who are you, anyway? Give us a history of your antecedents.”

“Gentlemen, you have the advantage of me,” Geoffrey politely returned, as he glanced from face to face. “You appear to know me by name—be good enough to tell me whom I have the honor to entertain, then I shall be happy to answer your questions.”

“Well, I must say you’re a cool one for a ‘fresh,’” returned the other, with a light laugh, “but we can’t stop for formal introductions all round. Since I am master of ceremonies for the evening, I will introduce myself as Everet Mapleson at your service. I am a Southerner by birth—son of Col. William Mapleson, of ‘Vue de l’Eau,’ Virginia. Now, for your genealogy, young man.”

Geoffrey colored.

Young Mapleson’s tone was offensive in the extreme, while his manner said as plainly as manner could say, “I belong to one of the F. F. V’s—beat that record if you can,” and Geoffrey’s first impulse was to refuse to comply with his authoritative demand.

But he had heard something of the indignities which sophomores sometimes heaped upon unlucky freshmen, and after a moment of thought he quietly replied:

“My genealogy is not a remarkable one. I am an orphan, having lost my parents at a very early age, but I have been reared and educated by an uncle, Mr. Huntress, of Brooklyn, New York.”

“Is that so?” drawled the young Southerner, with languid insolence. “Then it’s a very singular coincidence, our being the double of each other. Why, one would be almost tempted to swear that the Mapleson blood flows in your veins; but since my governor and I are the very last of our race, that can’t be possible, and it can only be accounted for, I suppose, as a strange freak of nature.”

Geoffrey simply bowed in reply to these remarks; his blood began to boil at his visitor’s assumption of superiority, and his fingers began to tingle to take him by the collar and walk him out of the room.

“However,” young Mapleson resumed, rubbing his white hands and winking at his comrades, “we must not be diverted from the object of our visit. We have called upon you, Mr. Huntress, to test your powers of oratory; you will kindly favor us with a speech. Be seated, my fellow sophs.”

Everet Mapleson helped himself to the easiest chair in the room, and waved his hand toward his companions as a signal for them to do likewise.

Geoffrey saw by the expectant faces around him that there would be no reprieve for him, and though he inwardly rebelled against having his privacy thus unceremoniously invaded, and at being peremptorily ordered about by a conceited fellow younger than himself, as Mapleson evidently was, yet he knew he would get off easier if he made light of his uncomfortable situation and indulged their caprice, at least to a reasonable extent.

CHAPTER VIII.
THE HAZER HAZED.

Accordingly Geoffrey smiled and bowed, remarking, in an off-hand way:

“I fear that my powers as orator will be somewhat disappointing to you, gentlemen; nevertheless, I will favor you to the extent of my ability.”

Assuming a somewhat exaggerated attitude of dignity, he began reciting one of Cicero’s orations, rendering it in the original with perfect ease and fluency, while his audience listened as if spell-bound to the smoothly rolling sentences.

But this display did not satisfy Mapleson. He insisted that Geoffrey should give a recitation in a reversed position—the speaker standing on his head.

This proposal was received with shouts of “Shame!” “No, no!” “You are going too far, Everet!”

Geoffrey’s eyes glowed with indignation, and a spot of vivid scarlet settled on each cheek. He saw that the young Southerner intended to degrade him.

“I think you have made a serious mistake,” said Geoffrey, boldly approaching Everet Mapleson, “if you expect to humiliate me. If you are sure that these gentlemen will not be satisfied until they see how I would look standing in a reversed attitude——”

“Quite sure, and we’ll soon prove it if you don’t get about it,” was the satirical interruption.

“Then I will give you a text from the ancient Phœdrus, and at the same time gratify your friends—by proxy.”

Geoffrey made a sudden spring as he uttered those last words, seized the young Southerner about the waist, whirled him to the floor quick as a flash, and grasping him by the legs, held him aloft in this reversed position with a grip of iron, while he repeated, in a voice of thunder, that Latin maxim:

“Sæpe intereunt aliis meditantes necem. Often they who plot the destruction of others become the victims of their own machinations.”

Then he released his hold upon the young man, politely assisted him to rise to his feet, and making a profound bow before him, gravely remarked:

“I think I have satisfied all requirements. I have shown your friends, if not you, how I should look standing on my head, while I have given you a quotation which may prove useful to you in the future.”

It had all been done so quickly and so resolutely that there had scarcely been time for the others to interfere had they been so disposed; hardly time, even, for Mapleson himself to resist, he had been so completely taken by surprise, while every one was amazed at the wonderful strength and dexterity that Geoffrey displayed.

But once more on his feet, Mapleson flew into a white heat of rage.

All his hot Southern blood was up, and he dashed at Geoffrey with blazing eyes, crimson face, and with fists clenched and uplifted as if to smite him to the floor.

But Geoffrey caught him by the wrists, with a grip that rendered him instantly powerless, while he said, with the utmost good nature:

“Mr. Mapleson, you are no match for me; I measured you well before I touched you; my muscles and sinews are like iron from long gymnastic training, so I advise you not to waste your strength. I am sorry to have offended you, but this affair was none of my seeking, and you tried my patience altogether too far. I have simply acted in self-defense.”

But Mapleson had lost his head entirely, and blustered and swore in the most passionate manner, while his comrades were so struck with admiration for Geoffrey and his masterly self-control in the face of such excessive provocation, that not one of them was disposed to meddle in the quarrel.

“Let go! you cold-blooded Yankee!” Everet Mapleson cried, hoarsely, through his tightly locked teeth.

“I will release you, Mapleson, but you must not try the same thing again,” Geoffrey returned, with quiet firmness, and instantly loosed his hold upon the young man’s wrists.

With another violent oath, quick as a flash, and before any one suspected his intention, Mapleson whipped out a pistol from an inner pocket, cocked and pointed it at Geoffrey.

What might have been the result no one can tell, if a young man named Abbott had not dashed forward, and thrown up his arm.

The next instant he had wrenched the weapon from his grasp.

“Are you mad, Mapleson?” he cried; “we shall have the whole faculty down upon us if you trifle with such a plaything, and then there will be a fine row.”

The other sophomores now gathered around and tried to pacify their enraged leader, but he only grew the more furious and vowed that he would yet have the Yankee’s heart’s blood for his insolence in laying hands upon him.

“No, no, Mape, you drove him to it,” interposed one; “you can’t blame him, and you would have done the same had you been in his place.”

“Who ever heard of a ‘fresh’ getting the upper hand of a half-dozen ‘sophs’ before?” he retorted, angrily. “You’re a set of cowards, every one of you.”

Two of the students seized Mapleson by the arms, and he was forced from the room, muttering threats of vengeance as he passed out.

When Geoffrey was at length left alone, he closed and locked his door, and then sat down and fell into troubled thought.

He was sure that he had made a bitter and lasting enemy of the young man, and he regretted it, for Geoffrey Huntress was one who loved to be at peace with all mankind; but he could only wait patiently to see how the matter would end, and having reached this conclusion, he resumed his interrupted studies. But he could not put his mind upon them, for all at once the remarkable resemblance between himself and the young Southerner began to haunt him.

Could it be possible that any of the same blood flowed in their veins? If so, how?

Why was Everet Mapleson the favored son of a proud and wealthy father, while he had been a poor, demented outcast, abandoned in the streets of a large city and left to his fate.

CHAPTER IX.
A STRANGE ENCOUNTER.

Several days went by, and Geoffrey heard nothing more either of or from the sophomores who had attempted to haze him.

Neither did he happen to meet any of them on his way to or from his recitations, and he hoped that the occurrence would gradually be forgotten and occasion no more trouble.

He did not mention it to any one, and he bore none of the actors any ill-will, for he well knew that hazing had been an established custom in many colleges, and that every freshman was liable to be subjected to the ordeal.

But the affair was destined to be more serious, eventually, than he imagined an occurrence of that kind could ever become.

Young Mapleson realized, as soon as his passion began to cool somewhat, that he should be obliged to relinquish all thoughts of retaliation for a season, for none of his comrades would bear him out in any plan for revenge; but he vowed in his heart that there should yet come a day of reckoning between himself and Huntress for the indignity to which he had been subjected before his companions.

He was furious with them for not having come to his release, and he raved over the affair all the way back to his room after leaving Geoffrey’s.

But they made light of it, and tried to pass the whole thing off as a joke. This only enraged him the more, although he began to see the wisdom of keeping still about it, since he could get no sympathy from them.

There is no telling what rash act he might not have committed if he had been allowed to go and come as usual while this fierce mood lasted. But he had wrought himself into an excessive perspiration, and then going out into the chill night air afterward, he had taken a violent cold, and for three weeks he was confined to his room with a threatened fever.

At the end of that time, although his anger had not abated one whit toward Geoffrey, and he was no less determined to have his revenge, he had come to see the wisdom of refraining from all rashness which might rebound injuriously upon himself, and he resolved to conceal his purpose in his own breast and watch his opportunity to strike his foe down at some time in the future, when the blow would be felt with bitter force.

So, upon recovering his usual health, he resumed his studies and his intercourse with his fellow-students as if nothing had occurred to ruffle him, and those who had participated in the hazing of Geoffrey Huntress imagined that the unpleasant affair had blown safely over and become a thing of the past.

Thus the fall and winter passed.

Meantime Gladys was winning golden opinions for herself at Vassar.

Study was a perfect delight to her, consequently excellence in every department was but a natural result.

The name of Gladys Huntress became the synonym for all that was learned and brilliant in her class, and there was not one who did not predict that the first honor should be conferred upon her at the end of the course.

No one appeared to be jealous of her, either, on account of it, for she was a general favorite with both teachers and scholars, always having a pleasant word and a kind smile for everybody.

During the recess, which occurred between the winter and spring terms of her second year at Vassar, she was in New York city for a few days with her chosen friend and roommate, Addie Loring.

There was considerable shopping to be done to prepare for the warm weather, dress-making to attend to, besides a gay round of social duties, and the two girls were all the time in a delightful flutter of business and pleasure.

One morning, after a long siege of shopping, feeling both weary and hungry, they entered an up-town cafe to obtain a lunch and rest a little before going home.

At the cashier’s desk near the door, as they stepped inside, there stood a tall, handsome young man in the act of paying for his dinner.

Gladys caught sight of him in an instant, and she started and flushed a vivid crimson.

Then a smile of joy illumined her whole face as she sprang forward, and, laying her hand lightly on the young man’s arm, exclaimed in delighted tones:

“Why, Geoffrey, where did you drop from? I imagined you a solitary recluse at Yale, and hard at work over Latin and Greek, ‘to gain time’ as you wrote in your last letter.”

The young man turned quickly as the sweet, lady-like voice fell upon his ear, his whole body thrilling at that light touch upon his arm, and found himself face to face with the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.

A tall, slender, perfect form, clad in a bewitching suit of modest gray, stood before him. Her small head was proudly poised on a pair of graceful shoulders, and crowned with a jaunty turban of gray velvet in which there gleamed a scarlet feather. The face was delicate in outline, with lovely features and a complexion of pure white and rose. Her eyes of dark blue were lighted with surprise and gladness, her lips wreathed with a tender smile of welcome which parted them just enough to reveal the small, milk-white teeth between.

A look of admiration shot into the young man’s eyes, and then they began to gleam with amusement.

He raised his hat with all the gallantry of which he was master, and bowed low, as he replied:

“You have made a slight mistake, lady. I do not answer to the name by which you have addressed me, although I might be tempted to do so, perhaps, if I could thereby secure the pleasure of your acquaintance. Allow me,” he concluded, drawing a card from his pocket-book, and respectfully presenting it to her.

At the first sound of his voice Gladys was conscious that she had made a dreadful blunder, and she was instantly covered with confusion.

She knew at once that this man could not be Geoffrey, and yet who was he? So like him in face and form, with his very eyes and hair, and that familiar way of throwing up his head when suddenly addressed!

“Everet Mapleson, Richmond, Virginia,” she read upon the card that he had given her, and instantly the startled thought shot through her mind: “Can it be possible that he and Geoffrey are related?”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Mapleson,” she said, recovering herself somewhat, while she searched his face for something by which she could distinguish him from Geoffrey. “I perceive that I have made a mistake, but you so strangely resemble my—Mr. Geoffrey Huntress that I mistook you for him.”

She had been about to say “my brother,” but suddenly checked herself, for, since Geoffrey had shown so much of his heart to her and she had begun to analyze her own feelings toward him, she had been very shy about calling him brother.

“Ah! Mr. Geoffrey Huntress,” repeated Everet Mapleson, with a quick flash from his eyes, while his keen mind at once made a shrewd guess, and argued therefrom that this beautiful girl must be either the sister or the cousin of his enemy. “I have met that gentleman, for I also am a student at Yale,” he continued, “and—pardon my boldness—I presume I now have the pleasure of meeting his sister, Miss Huntress.”

“No, I am not his sister, Mr. Mapleson,” Gladys replied, her color coming and going in soft, little sunrise flushes, “but we are members of the same family, and I am Miss Huntress.”

“Ah, yes—excuse me—you are cousins, I presume. Huntress once told me that he was reared by an uncle. I am sorry, upon my word,” he went on, with an appealing look, “if our singular resemblance has caused you any annoyance to-day; pray think no more of it since it was a very natural mistake. We are often addressed by each other’s name—indeed, we are known at Yale as ‘the mysterious double.’”

All the time the young man was speaking he was closely observing the young girl.

He had noticed her fluctuating color when she spoke of Geoffrey; he remarked the tender inflection of her voice as she uttered his name, and how eager she had been to correct his mistake in supposing them to be brother and sister.

“They are cousins—perhaps not first cousins, either, and the girl loves him,” he said to himself. “Of course he returns her affection—no fellow in his senses could help it. I wonder how it would work if I should try my own luck in this direction. I have never paid off that old grudge against him, and this would be a fine way to settle it.”

But Gladys, all unconscious of this secret plotting against her own and Geoffrey’s happiness, looked up with a merry smile at his words to her, and remarked:

“The resemblance is surely very striking, although your voices are unlike. I knew the moment you spoke that I had made a mistake, and my apparent rudeness must have been quite startling to you,” she concluded, coloring again as she remembered how eagerly she had approached him and laid her hand upon his arm.

“No, indeed; you are very hard upon yourself, Miss Huntress. Believe me I shall consider the incident a most fortunate circumstance if I may be allowed to consider it as a formal introduction to you, and thus secure the pleasure of your acquaintance.”

He was so gentlemanly and affable, so refined in his language and manner, that Gladys thought him very agreeable, and, since he claimed to know Geoffrey, she thought there could be no possible harm in receiving him as an acquaintance.

Still she was not quite sure that it would be proper, and this made her a little guarded in her reply.

“I am always glad to meet any of Geoffrey’s friends,” she said, with one of her charming smiles; but if she could have known how he cringed under her words, and what venomous hatred was rankling in his heart against him who was her ideal of all manly excellence, she would have fled from him in dismay.

But nothing of this nor of the miserable plot which was rapidly taking form in his mind appeared on the surface, while before he could frame a suitable reply Gladys turned quickly and drew Addie Loring to her side, saying:

“Allow me to introduce my friend—Miss Loring, Mr. Mapleson.”

He lifted his hat in acknowledgment of the presentation while he was still inwardly chafing over that last guarded speech of hers.

“She wouldn’t look at me if she knew the truth,” he thought, “and that clever cousin will be letting it all out when he learns that we have met. Never mind. I’ll make hay while the sun shines, and do my best to ingratiate myself with her before he finds it out; she’s dusedly pretty and it would suit me finely if I could cut him out.”

He detained the young ladies for a few moments longer—for he had the power of making himself very agreeable when he chose—then Addie Loring pulled forth a little gem of a watch and remarked, with a look of surprise:

“Gladys, dear, we promised mamma to be at home by four, and it is nearly three now, while we have flowers yet to get for Mrs. Brevort’s reception.”

Everet Mapleson’s heart gave a great bound at these last words, for the friends at whose house he was visiting also had cards for Mrs. Brevort’s reception, and he mentally resolved that he would grace that lady’s elegant drawing-room with his presence that evening, although he and Al Vanderwater had previously planned for something entirely different.

He took pretty Miss Loring’s hint, however, begged pardon for having detained them so long, then made his adieus and passed out of the cafe, while the young girls moved forward to an empty table, where they chatted over the strange encounter as they ate their cream and cake.

CHAPTER X.
MRS. BREVORT’S RECEPTION.

Gladys Huntress was very beautiful that evening when she entered Mrs. Brevort’s drawing-room, leaning on the arm of Mrs. Loring, who was to present her to their hostess, while Addie and her mother followed close behind.

Her dress was blue, of elegant surah, which fell in soft, graceful folds around her, its long train making her most perfect figure seem almost regal.

It was cut, front and back, with a V shaped bodice, and this was filled in with a profusion of soft filmy lace, gathered close about her white throat, and fastened with a string of rare, gleaming pearls.

Her beautiful arms, round and as smooth as marble, were also covered, but not concealed, by sleeves of lace.

Her nut-brown hair, which shone like finest satin, had all been drawn up and coiled around the top of her head like a gleaming coronet, while a few soft, silken rings curled charmingly about her pure forehead.

There was not a flower nor an ornament about her anywhere excepting that string of pearls, but the very simplicity of her toilet was artistic and just adapted to enhance her beauty of face and form.

Everet Mapleson saw her the moment that she entered the room; indeed, he had been watching her for a half-hour or more, and his eyes glowed with admiration.

“She is a hundred fold more lovely than I thought her this afternoon,” he said, under his breath. “I shall love that girl, if I allow myself to see much of her. And why not? I believe I will set myself regularly at work to win her; thus I shall not only secure a charming little wife, but accomplish my revenge, also, for the indignity that I have received from his hands.”

He watched Gladys, while she was presented to the hostess, and was charmed with the ease and grace of her manners.

“She belongs, evidently, to a good family; she has been well reared,” he continued, “even my critical and aristocratic mamma could not fail to be satisfied with her as a daughter, although she is not particularly partial to Northern women. She reminds me of some one, too. I wonder who it can be? There is something strangely familiar in the proud way that she carries herself.”

He moved toward another portion of the room, as he saw Gladys and her friends pass on, and, seeking Mrs. Vanderwater, who, by the way, was the mother of Albert Vanderwater, Everet Mapleson’s chum and especial friend at Yale, he asked:

“Do you know the party of people who have just entered—that gentleman with three ladies?”

“Oh, yes; they are the Lorings. Mr. Loring is a wealthy Wall street broker. His wife is a daughter of the late Colonel Elwell, and their daughter, Miss Addie, is a charming young lady, not to mention the fact that she is the only child and the heiress to a great deal of money.”

“Introduce me, will you?” asked Everet, eagerly.

“To be sure I will; but is it the money or the beauty that attracts you most?” queried the lady, roguishly.

“I will tell you later,” retorted the young man, in the same vein; “but you did not say who that young lady is who accompanies them,” he concluded, as if his attention had but just been drawn toward her.

“No, I do not know myself; she is a stranger, but a very lovely one, is she not? Really, I do not believe there is another lady in the room so beautiful. Come, I have a curiosity to know who she is myself, and we will beg Mrs. Loring for an introduction.”

Thus Everet Mapleson managed to secure a formal introduction to the Lorings and Gladys through one of the leaders of New York society.

He knew that there could be no exceptions taken to any one whom Mrs. Vanderwater vouched for, and therefore the young girl would have no excuse for avoiding him on the score of not having been properly presented to him.

But she received him very graciously, even referring in a laughing way to their previous meeting earlier in the day, thus showing him she would not have been the least bit prudish about recognizing him, even without Mrs. Vanderwater’s reassuring presence.

He soon after searched out his friend Al, whom he presented to Miss Loring, and then left him to be entertained by her while he devoted himself exclusively to Gladys.

They danced together several times, and he managed to secure her company during supper, while afterward they had a social chat in Mrs. Brevort’s charming little picture-gallery, where there were several works of rare value.

But the only picture which Everet Mapleson seemed to consider worthy of his regard was an exquisite face, framed in lustrous brown hair, with the bluest eyes that he had ever seen, and whose every expression only served to wind the silken chain of his bondage, the chain of love, more closely about him.

Gladys, on her part, was strangely moved by the young man’s presence.

He was Geoffrey and yet he was not.

Several times she almost forgot herself and was on the point of addressing him in the old familiar way which she had always adopted toward her father’s protege, and only restrained herself in season to prevent herself from appearing bold and forward.

Everet Mapleson found her eyes fixed upon him with great earnestness several times, and he knew that she was measuring him by her estimate of Geoffrey Huntress.

It nettled him exceedingly, for he was only too conscious of his own inferiority.

“Well, Miss Huntress, are you, like many others, trying to solve within yourself the mystery of my resemblance to your cousin, that you observe me so closely,” he asked, with an amused smile, upon finding her gaze riveted upon his face instead of the picture before which they were standing.

Gladys blushed slightly.

“I shall have to plead guilty, Mr. Mapleson,” she confessed. “I trust you will excuse me if I have appeared rude, but, really, to me it seems the strangest thing imaginable.”

“It is, indeed,” he said, and added to himself: “and dusedly uncomfortable to me, too.”

“I wonder if you are not in some way related,” Gladys said, musingly, and more to herself than to him.

Everet Mapleson’s face darkened.

“I do not think so,” he answered, curtly. “He is a Northerner—I was born at the South. My father is a Southern gentleman, and has always resided near Richmond, Virginia, excepting during the war, when he was in the field or camp most of the time, and a year or two that he spent traveling in Europe.”

Gladys was conscious of a slight feeling of resentment toward her companion during this speech. The emphasis which he had, perhaps unconsciously, expended upon his personal pronouns, and the fact of his father being a “Southern gentleman,” implied a sense of superiority which grated harshly upon her ear.

“Is your mother also a native of the South?” she asked.

“Oh, yes; and my mother is a most magnificent woman, too, Miss Huntress,” the young man returned, with a kindling face.

Gladys’ heart softened a trifle toward him at this. If he loved his mother like that there must be some good in him, she thought.

“Have you brothers and sisters?” she inquired.

“No, I am the only child. I was born within a year after my parents’ marriage, and there have been no other children.”

“Do you resemble your father or mother?”

“My father. My mother has often told me that I am very like what he was at my age; but there is a portrait of my grandfather Mapleson at home, which, but for the ancient style of dress, you would believe had been taken for me; the resemblance is every bit as striking as that between Huntress and me.”

“Has your father no brothers or sisters?” Gladys asked.

Everet Mapleson looked surprised.

He knew that she was trying to account in some way for Geoffrey Huntress’ likeness to himself; but, surely, he thought, she must know all about her cousin’s parentage and their connections, and it was a little singular that she should be so persistent in her inquiries regarding the Mapleson genealogy.

“No,” he replied; “my father was an only son. He had a sister, but she died while very young. The only other connections that I know anything about were an uncle who made my father his heir, and a distant cousin—a very eccentric sort of person. Both, however, are long since dead, and both died single. The Mapleson family was never a numerous one, and it is now almost extinct. I see, Miss Huntress,” he added, with a slight smile in which Gladys thought she detected something of scorn, “that you are trying to account for this resemblance upon natural principles; but it is simply impossible that we are in any way connected. The fact can only be attributable to a strange freak of nature.”

“Possibly,” Gladys returned, thoughtfully, and yet she was impressed that there was more in it than Mr. Mapleson appeared willing to allow.

She did not feel well enough acquainted with him to speak of the mystery surrounding Geoffrey’s parentage and his early life. It is doubtful if she would have told him, under any circumstances, because of Geoffrey’s sensitiveness upon the subject, still she was strangely impressed by their resemblance.

The evening was one of keen enjoyment to Everet Mapleson, and when at length Gladys withdrew with her friends, he accompanied her to the carriage and assisted her to enter.

“I have rarely enjoyed a pleasanter evening, Miss Huntress, and I hope we shall meet again before I leave the city,” he said, as he handed her the extra wrap which hung over his arm and stood a moment beside the carriage door.

“Then come and call upon us, Mr. Mapleson; the young ladies will be together for a few days longer,” said Mrs. Loring, who had overheard this remark; and having learned from some source that he belonged to one of the F. F. V’s, she was anxious to cultivate his acquaintance for Addie’s sake.

CHAPTER XI.
MARGERY.

Everet Mapleson availed himself of Mrs. Loring’s invitation, and called the second morning after Mrs. Brevort’s reception, to pay his respects to the young ladies.

He was fortunate enough to find them both at home, and both were charmingly entertaining.

Addie Loring was a merry little body, and no one could ever be dull when in her society.

Gladys was more reserved and dignified in her bearing, but she possessed a peculiar fascination which instantly attracted everybody, and, taking the two together, it would have been difficult, go the world over, to have found a more entertaining couple than they.

Everet Mapleson was beguiled into a call of a full hour—a delightful hour it was, too, to them all—and looked his dismay when finally, glancing at his watch, he found how the time had slipped away.

Addie Loring laughed merrily, when she saw the expression on his face, and caught his well-bred, “I had no idea it was so late.”

“Pray, Mr. Mapleson, do not look so disturbed,” she cried; “there is no fine for such an offense, and you are absolved even before confession, for this time.”

“But I have overstepped all bounds. I have been here a whole hour, and this my first call, too.”

“How dreadful!” laughed the little lady, roguishly. “Pray, tell me, what is the Southern rule for first calls?”

“Twenty minutes, or half an hour, at most.”

“I am glad I do not live at the South then. Why, one would hardly get through talking about the weather in that time.”

“Miss Loring, I protest; there has not been one word said about the weather this morning,” retorted the young man, thinking that she was very nearly as pretty as Gladys, as she stood before him in that graceful attitude, her head perched saucily on one side, a mocking smile on her red lips.

“True; but this wasn’t a formal call, you know, for which we both feel very much obliged to you, I am sure. People usually begin upon the weather when they make ceremonious visits, and that is about all there is to say. It is really refreshing to have had such a breezy hour as this. Pray come again, Mr. Mapleson, and don’t bring your watch next time; at least, don’t look at it if it is going to make you uncomfortable,” replied Miss Loring, with charming cordiality.

“Thank you; you are so indulgent and your invitation is so alluring that I am sure I shall not be able to resist it,” he answered, as he shook hands with her. Then he turned to Gladys, and added: “May I assume that you indorse all that your friend has said, Miss Huntress?”

“It has, indeed, been a very pleasant hour, Mr. Mapleson—if an hour has really slipped by since you came in—and I shall be happy to meet you again, although I remain only a very few days longer with Miss Loring,” she replied.

Mr. Mapleson’s face clouded at this.

“Surely your vacation is not nearly over yet?” he said.

“Oh, no; but I only promised Addie a week; there are but two, and papa and mamma will want me at home the other.”

“Allow me to ask where is your home, Miss Huntress?”

“In Brooklyn.”

“True; I had forgotten. I remember that Huntress told me he resided in Brooklyn,” Everet said, aware that the “City of Churches” was quite convenient to New York, and that he could run over there as easily as to come way up town to the Lorings.

“We are not going to give Gladys up until Saturday, Mr. Mapleson,” Miss Loring here interposed, “for Thursday evening we give a reception in her honor; the cards were issued several days ago. It is rather late to offer you one, but if you will accept it, we shall be glad to see you with our other guests.”

Everet Mapleson was only too glad to get it, even at that late date, and, with thanks, he took the envelope which Miss Loring proffered him, and expressed the pleasure it would afford him to accept her invitation.

He then bowed himself out, more than ever in love with beautiful Gladys Huntress, and more than ever determined to win her love in return.

He took a car down town, leaving it near Grace Church, on Broadway, to go to a certain club-house, where he was to meet his friend Vanderwater.

On his way thither he passed a flower-stand behind which there sat a woman who appeared to be about fifty years of age.

She was an unusually tidy and respectable looking person to be a street vender of flowers, and she had a rare and choice collection for that season of the year, and they were arranged in a really artistic manner.

It was this arrangement which attracted Everet Mapleson’s attention, for he was a great admirer of flowers, and was rarely seen anywhere without some bud or spray in his button-hole.

He had worn heliotrope to-day during his call, but it was wilted and discolored, and he paused now before the stand to replace it with something else.

He selected one exquisite rosebud nestling between its dark green leaves, and taking out a piece of silver, he tossed it over the vases into the woman’s lap, and then would have passed on without waiting for his change, but that she had put out her hand to detain him.

She had given a start of surprise and uttered a low cry the moment he had stopped before her, but he had not noticed it, and she had not taken her eyes from his face during all the time that he was making his selection.

As she looked she began to tremble, her lips quivered, her eyes filled with tears, and she breathed with difficulty, as if overcome with some powerful emotion.

Her face was wrinkled and sad, showing that she must have passed through some terrible grief. Her hair was very gray, and there was a white seam or scar above her right temple, the mark of an injury received years before.

“Oh,” she cried, putting out her hand to detain him as he was turning away. “Oh, Geoffrey, have you forgotten Margery?”

Everet stopped short, looked back, and attentively scanned the woman’s face.

“‘Margery!’” he repeated. “I never knew anybody of that name, and mine isn’t Geoffrey, either, my woman,” he said, somewhat brusquely, for it nettled him whenever he heard that name, which he had grown to dislike so much.

“Surely my eyes can’t deceive me,” returned the flower vender, earnestly. “I could never forget the dear boy that I nursed and tended during the first five years of his life. Can’t you remember me, dearie? Have you forgotten the chickens and the rabbits—old Chuck, the dog, and the two little white kittens. Ah! try to think, Master Geoffrey, and tell me what became of Jack after he gave you that dreadful blow and then ran away with you when he left me for dead, so many years ago.”

“What under the sun is the old creature talking about?” murmured Everet, with a perplexed look.

“I’d readily forgive him for the hurt that he gave me,” the woman went on, unheeding him, “and overlook the past, if I could only set eyes on him once more and feel that I wasn’t all alone in the world in my old age; it’s hard not to have a single soul to care for you. Sure, I can’t see how you could forget Margery, when you were so fond of her in those old days.”

“I tell you my name is not Geoffrey,” repeated Mapleson. “You are thinking of some one else. I do not know anything about Jack, or his striking anybody, and then running away, and I never saw you until this moment.”

The poor woman was weeping now, and moaning in a low, heart-broken way that made the young man pity her, in spite of his irritability.

“You must have forgotten,” she responded, wiping her fast falling tears. “Perhaps the cruel blow Jack gave you hurt your memory—and whatever could he have done with you after he took you away from the old home that night? It breaks my heart that you don’t know me, dearie, for I served your poor mother so faithfully when you were a wee baby. She was the sweetest little body that the sun ever shone on—so gentle, and kind, too, with a face like a lily and eyes as blue as heaven. Poor boy! You never realized your loss when she died, for Margery promised to care for you as if you were her very own, and she did. You were the pride of my heart during all those five blessed years.”

“You have made a mistake, my good woman,” Everet said, more gently, for her grief and pathetic rambling touched him.

He believed that he had run across an old nurse of Geoffrey Huntress, for he remembered now that he had said he lost his parents when very young, and he did not wonder that she had mistaken him for her former nursling.

But it angered him so to talk of his enemy that he would not take the trouble to tell her anything about him, and he never dreamed how near he was to discovering what had been a sealed mystery for many long years.

“My name is Everet,” he went on, “and my mother is not dead, neither has she a face like a lily—she is dark, with a rich color and brilliant black eyes.”

The woman appeared still more perplexed and troubled by this statement.

She wagged her head slowly from side to side, as if she could not reconcile his assertions with her belief.

“Your mother’s name was Annie——” she began.

“No, my mother’s name is Estelle.”

“Estelle,” she repeated, searching his face keenly; “that might have been her other name. Didn’t she have bright, beautiful brown hair, and a sweet, gentle way with her?”

“No; her hair is as black as a raven’s wing, and no one would ever think of describing her as ‘sweet and gentle,’” the young Southerner replied, with a smile, as a vision of the magnificent woman who reigned in his home arose before him, “but proud and imperious. She is like some beautiful queen.”

“And is she your own mother?” questioned the flower vender, eagerly.

“Yes, my own mother, and I am her only child.”

“Well, well, it is very strange,” sighed the poor woman, tears of disappointment again filling her eyes. “I was so sure that I had found my boy at last. I’ve been hunting for him these eighteen years. It isn’t much wonder that I mistook you, though, for you couldn’t be more like him if you were his twin; and yet he mayn’t look like you at all, now that he’s grown up. Ah, Jack, peace to your soul if you’ve gone the way of all the earth, but where under heaven did you leave the child?”

She dropped her head upon her breast and kept on with her muttering, apparently convinced at last that she had made a mistake.

Everet Mapleson stood irresolute a moment, half tempted to tell her where she could find Geoffrey, and yet obstinately averse to doing anything for one whom he so disliked.

He was in a hurry, too, for it was already past the time that he had appointed to meet young Vandewater, and he was unwilling to be detained any longer to answer the questions of a garrulous old woman, so he went unheeded on his way.

All the way to the club-house she was in his thoughts. Without doubt, he reasoned, she had been a servant in the Huntress family, and probably after Geoffrey’s adoption by his uncle she had lost track of her charge, perhaps by a change of residence on her part or his.

He could not seem to understand her reference to the dreadful blow that Jack had given the boy, nor to his running away with him afterward and leaving his wife, as he evidently believed, dead.

The more he thought it over the more strange it appeared, and the more interested he became regarding the matter. Possibly there might be something connected with Geoffrey Huntress’ history which he might be able to use against him in his future scheming.

“I will go back by and by and question her some more,” he muttered, as he reached the club-house, ran up the steps, and entered the elegant vestibule.

He did not return that day, however, but the next he made it in his way to pass the spot where Margery had had her flower-stand the previous morning.

But she was no longer there. Flowers, stand, and vender had all disappeared, and although Everet sought her several times after that he did not see her again during his stay in the city.

He was greatly disappointed, for the more he considered the affair the more he became convinced that there was something which he might have learned of Geoffrey Huntress’ life and parentage that would have been to his own advantage, and he blamed himself severely for having neglected his opportunity.

CHAPTER XII.
THE RECEPTION.

Mrs. Loring’s reception on Thursday evening proved to be a very brilliant one.

It was given nominally in honor of Gladys, but it really was as much for the sake of the daughter of the house, who was the pride and darling of her fond parents’ hearts, and her taste was consulted, her lightest wish gratified, in every arrangement.

The elegant mansion was beautifully decorated for the occasion.

A platform had been extended fifty feet from the broad south balcony and inclosed like a pavilion for dancing, while one of the finest bands in New York had been secured to discourse sweet music to entice tripping feet, and an elaborate supper had been ordered from Delmonico’s.

Mr. and Mrs. Huntress were, of course, among the invited guests, and Geoffrey had also been sent for and pressed to honor the occasion with his presence, for Gladys’ sake.

He had sent a telegram in reply, saying that he would come if possible, but at nine o’clock he had not appeared, and Gladys turned eagerly toward the door at every fresh arrival, hoping to see him enter.

Mr. Mapleson had not failed to present himself at an early hour, when he immediately constituted himself Gladys’ most devoted attendant, and was so persistent and marked in his attentions that the young girl began to feel a trifle uncomfortable and anxious, lest matters should grow more serious than she desired.

“Papa, where do you suppose Geoff is?” she inquired, with a troubled face, as Mr. Huntress came up to her, while Everet Mapleson was doing his utmost to be agreeable.

Mr. Huntress had been introduced to the young man earlier in the evening, and had been startled, as everyone else was, by his singular resemblance to the boy whom he had reared, and he had resolved to make some inquiries of him regarding his connections, hoping thus to gain some light upon Geoffrey’s early life.

“I do not know, dear,” the gentleman replied to his daughter’s question; “it is surely time that he was here. Possibly something detained him at the last moment, and he could not leave.”

“Oh, I hope not; the evening will be spoiled if he does not come,” Gladys cried, in a tone that made the blood surge angrily to Everet Mapleson’s brow, for it told him how little hope there was of his retaining Gladys’ companionship if his fortunate rival should make his appearance.

“I shall be sorry myself not to see Geoff; he needs the change and recreation, too, for he is working very hard,” responded Mr. Huntress, glancing wistfully toward the door himself. “But you must try to enjoy yourself, all the same, if he does not come. Mr. and Mrs. Loring will be disappointed if their reception does not prove a pleasant one, after all their effort.”

Gladys’ glance was bent upon her fan, with which she was nervously toying: her cheeks were flushed, her brow slightly clouded, her lips compressed, and it was evident that she was greatly disturbed.

All at once she turned her gaze again toward the door. She gave a sudden start.

“Why! there he is now! Oh! I am so glad,” she cried in a joyous tone, her beautiful face growing radiant with undisguised delight, as she saw Geoffrey, looking more handsome and manly than ever, just entering the room.

She instantly darted toward him without even thinking to excuse herself to her companions, thus leaving Mr. Huntress and young Mapleson to entertain each other.

The latter watched that graceful figure, a lurid fire in his eye, his lips compressed until they were colorless, his heart throbbing with jealous anger.

He saw her steal softly up to Geoffrey, who was looking in another direction, and slip one white hand within his arm, while she looked up at him, with a rogueish but happy glance, and addressed some bright words of welcome to him.

He saw, too, how Geoffrey’s countenance lighted, how his eyes glowed as he turned to look down upon that fair, upturned face, while the glad smile that wreathed his handsome mouth, told something of the joy which this meeting afforded him also.

Everet Mapleson read these signs as plainly as he would have read a printed page, and he knew that the young man loved the fair girl with all the strength of his manly nature, and the knowledge made him grind his teeth in silent rage.

But Mr. Huntress spoke to him just then, and he was obliged to turn his glance away from those two central figures, which were now moving out of the room together, and answer him.

Mr. Huntress was more and more impressed every moment that there must be kindred blood in the veins of these two young men, and he was resolved to learn the truth.

But he was destined to be disappointed, for Everet Mapleson repeated about the same story, with some additions, that he had already told Gladys, and there seemed no possibility of there being any relationship between them.

“My father was a colonel in the Confederate Army during the war,” Everet said, in reply to his companion’s query, “and my home, with the exception of a short residence abroad, has always been in the South.”

“And is your mother also a Southerner?”

Everet smiled, for he knew well enough what these questions meant.

“Oh, yes; she and my father were second cousins, and they were married in 1853.”

“Ah! in ’53,” remarked Mr. Huntress, reflectively; “and was that Colonel Mapleson’s first marriage?”

“Yes, sir; and it was a somewhat romantic affair. They had an uncle who was very wealthy, and when he died it was found that he had made a very singular will. He divided his fortune equally between them, but expressed a wish that they should unite it again by marriage; indeed, he made the possession of it conditional, and in this way. My father was about twenty, my mother seventeen, at the time of his death. Both were to come into their share of the property at once, but if either married some one else before my mother reached the age of twenty-five, he or she would forfeit that portion and it should go to the other. If both refused to carry out the conditions of the will and married contrary to his wishes, or remained single after my mother, who was the younger, reached the age of twenty-five, the whole fortune was to be made over to a bachelor cousin of the testator, and who was also a very singular character.”

“That was an exceedingly strange will,” observed Mr. Huntress.

“Very, though it was not more eccentric than the man who made it; but my father and mother chose to fulfill the conditions of the will; thus the property was all kept in the family.”

“And are you their only child?”

“Yes, sir. I never had either brother or sister.”

“It is very strange,” murmured Mr. Huntress, musingly.

Everet Mapleson regarded him curiously.

“You are thinking of my resemblance to Mr. Geoffrey Huntress,” he said, somewhat stiffly, after a brief pause.

“Yes, I am.”

“Surely you can have no idea that we are in any way related.”

“I—do—not know, of course; but——”

“You do not know!” interrupted the young Southerner. “Why, you surely ought to be able to trace his genealogy, since he is your nephew.”

“But he is not my nephew.”

“How?”

“I never saw the boy until about eight years ago.”

Everet Mapleson turned a look of blank astonishment upon his companion, while a strange pallor settled over his own face.

Mr. Huntress then related to him the circumstances which brought Geoffrey to his notice, telling of his unaccountable interest in him, of the experiment which had resulted in the restoration of the boy’s reason, and of his subsequent adoption of the lad.

Everet Mapleson grew very grave as he listened, and a hundred conflicting thoughts came crowding into his mind.

Could it be possible, after all, that this young man whom he had so disliked, and was fast learning to hate from a feeling of jealousy, was in some mysterious way connected with the proud family of Mapleson?

He did not know of a relative by that name, and yet there might be.

He resolved that he would sift the matter the very next time he went home.

“And you know absolutely nothing about him previous to that time?” he asked of Mr. Huntress.

“No, nothing; while he was evidently so young at the time he received the injury which deprived him of his reason that there was comparatively little that he could remember about himself. Of his father or mother he knew nothing; ‘Margery’ and ‘Jack’ are the only names that he has been able to recall, while his memories of them are very vague. I imagine, however, that the woman Margery must have been a sort of nurse who had the care of him.”

Everet Mapleson started and colored as he heard these names.

He instantly recalled the incident that had occurred a few days previous, on Broadway, when the poor old flower vender had detained him, believing that she had at last found the boy whom she had nursed so many years ago.

His first impulse was to tell Mr. Huntress of this adventure, but he checked the inclination, resolving that he would himself try to find old Margery again and glean all that he could from her regarding Geoffrey’s early history.

He began to realize that there was something very much more mysterious about their strange resemblance than had at first appeared.

It might not be so much a “freak of nature” as he had tried to think it, and if there was any important secret connected with the affair, he meant to ferret it out alone, and possibly it might give him an advantage over his rival in the future if he should stand in the way of his winning Gladys for his wife.

A little later, when he went in search of her, and found her pacing up and down the great hall leaning on Geoffrey’s arm, chatting with him in a free and unrestrained way, and saw both their faces so luminous and happy, and knew that already they had become all in all to each other, he ground his teeth savagely, and vowed that he would destroy their confidence and peace before another twelve months should elapse.

He stationed himself behind some draperies where he could see without being seen, and continued to watch them, although it drove him almost to a frenzy to see how happy and unreserved Gladys was with his rival.

Her face was eager and animated—it never had lighted up like that when in his presence—her eyes glowed, her lips were wreathed with smiles, and she chattered like a magpie. She seemed to have forgotten where she was, by whom surrounded, everything, save that she was with Geoffrey.

He knew well enough when she began to tell him about encountering his double in the cafe, for he saw Geoffrey start, change color, and then grow suddenly grave.

“Is Everet Mapleson here in New York?” he heard him ask, as they drew near where he was standing.

“Yes; and oh, Geoff, he is so like you. Even I could hardly detect any difference.”

Geoffrey smiled at the reply.

It implied a great deal; it told him that she could distinguish between them if any one could, and that her eyes, sharpened by affection, had been able to detect something unlike in them.

“Do you think you would always be able to tell us apart, Gladys?” Geoffrey eagerly asked.

“Of course I should, you dear old Geoff,” she affirmed, with a toss of her bright head.

“How?”

“Why, I only need to look into your eyes to know you,” she said, with a fond upward glance.

At this reply, Geoffrey hugged close to his side the small hand that lay on his arm, and his heart thrilled with a sweet hope.

“What is there in my eyes, Gladys, that is different from Everet Mapleson’s?” he asked.

She blushed crimson at the question, for she knew that it was only in their expression that she could detect any difference.

“Perhaps strangers could not tell you apart,” she admitted, with drooping lids; “probably it is because we have lived together so long that I know your every expression; then, too, there is a certain little quiver about your lips when you smile that he does not have. Your voices, though, are entirely different.”

“Yes; any one could distinguish between us to hear us speak,” Geoffrey assented; but his heart was bounding with joy, for he knew well enough that only the eye of love could have detected the points that she had mentioned.

Yet, in spite of all, he experienced a feeling of uneasiness over the fact that Everet Mapleson was spending his recess in New York and was cultivating the acquaintance of Gladys.

He had never mentioned him in any of his letters—had never spoken of that hazing experience, simply because his mind had been so engrossed with other things that he had not thought to do so.

“There is the band, Geoff,” Gladys exclaimed, as the music came floating in from the south balcony. “Mr. Loring has had the loveliest pavilion erected for dancing, and you know that I cannot keep still a moment within ear-shot of such enticing strains. Come, let us go out.”

“Which means, of course, that I am to have the first set with you,” he said, smiling.

“It does mean just that. You know I always like to dance with you, for you suit your step to mine so nicely. There! I’m so glad you asked me, for here comes Mr. Mapleson, this minute, doubtless to make the same request,” Gladys concluded, under her breath, as she saw the young man step out from among the draperies, where he had been watching them, and approach them.

CHAPTER XIII.
“FIRST IN TIME, FIRST BY RIGHT!”

Everet Mapleson advanced toward the young couple with all the assurance imaginable.

He nodded indifferently to Geoffrey, simply saying, in a patronizing tone:

“How are you, Huntress?” and then turned to Gladys with his most alluring smile. “The signal for dancing has been given, Miss Huntress; may I have the pleasure of doing the opening set with you?”

Gladys’ cheeks were very red, for she resented his manner toward Geoffrey. What right had he to assume such insolent superiority over him, who she knew possessed by far the nobler nature of the two.

But she said politely, though with a little secret feeling of triumph in refusing him:

“You are a trifle late, Mr. Mapleson, as I have already promised the first dance; but if you will come to me later, you shall write your name upon my card.”

The young man frowned slightly, for he could never endure to have his wishes denied, but he was obliged to bow acquiescence, and turned away to seek a partner elsewhere.

But he managed to station himself where he could watch the young couple incessantly, and not a movement, not a smile or glance escaped him.

“They love each other,” he muttered, “at least he loves her, and it would not take much to make them acknowledged lovers. I shall be both watchful and diligent. I wish I knew the secret of the fellow’s life. It can’t be possible that he is anything to our family, and yet I am dusedly annoyed by the mystery.”

When he went later, to claim Gladys’ promise to dance with him, he exerted himself more than he had ever done to be entertaining and agreeable.

He told her about his Southern home, and the life he led when there. He described the luxuriant beauty which surrounded “Vue de l’Eau,” his father’s estate, and so called from the broad, sweeping view which they had of the beautiful James River, which lay right beneath them. He told her something of his courtly father and his stately, beautiful mother, and was really eloquent in his description of the spot that had given him birth.

“I wish you could come to ‘Vue de l’Eau’ sometime, Miss Huntress; I am sure you would agree with me that there is nothing finer in the way of scenery, even on your far-famed Hudson,” he said, in conclusion.

“Thank you, Mr. Mapleson; your descriptions are surely very enticing,” Gladys replied, with a smile. “I suppose your parents are both natives of the South?”

“Yes, they were both born in Richmond, and my father was a colonel in the Confederate army at the time of our civil war; but, as it happened, his estate was not harmed, and it has since increased greatly in beauty and value.”

“Do you remember much about the war?” Gladys inquired.

“No, I knew very little about it at the time, of course, I was very young—only about eight years of age—and besides, my father sent my mother and me abroad, where we remained until the war was over.”

“I suppose some of your people still feel antagonistic toward us Northerners?” Gladys remarked.

“I presume there is a feeling of bitterness to some extent among the veterans, but, as to the generation that has been growing up since, I think we all feel that we are one nation, and our interests are with and for the Union. But if I had been ever so bitter toward Northern people, that feeling could not have possibly continued to exist after my present experience with them,” and Everet Mapleson’s glance told the young girl that for her sake alone he would have been willing to waive all past grievances, however aggravating.

Her cheeks flushed, and her eyes drooped.

“It is better to put aside all bitterness—the war was a terrible thing, and there were mistakes on both sides, and now that peace has been restored, it is far better to let by-gones be by-gones. Have your parents ever been North?”

Gladys tried to speak in a general and unconscious way, but it was very hard with those admiring eyes fixed so earnestly upon her.

“No; they have been in Europe, and my father has been on the Pacific coast several times, but they have yet to visit this portion of the country.”

“Without doubt, then, they will improve the opportunity to do so when you leave college. It would be natural for them to desire to be present when you take your honors.”

“Those will be very few, I fear,” young Mapleson replied, with a flush. “I am not a good student.”

He did not love study, although he was quick to learn, and brilliant in recitation, when he chose to apply himself.

“I do not believe you really mean that,” Gladys said.

She could not believe that anybody could be a poor student who so closely resembled Geoffrey, who excelled. She imagined that he must be like him mentally as well as physically.

“Do you think it pays to get a reputation for good scholarship?” he asked.

“Perhaps not the reputation alone, but the knowledge pays. If I was a college boy I believe I should strive to attain the top round of the ladder.”

“It is not every one who can do that.”

“True, but every one can at least try to excel, and even if one does not, he has the satisfaction of knowing that he has done his best.”

“Are you going to be first in your class at Vassar, Miss Huntress?” Everet Mapleson asked, studying her eager face earnestly.

Gladys flushed again, and laughed.

“I am doing my utmost, Mr. Mapleson, to come forth from my school an honor to my class; and Geoffrey is bending all his energies toward the same object; indeed, I surmise that he is trying to gain a year, by his being so zealous for study during the recesses.”

A startled look shot into Everet Mapleson’s eyes.

If Geoffrey Huntress did gain a year he would graduate at the same time with himself, and the thought was anything but pleasant to him.

“He will have to be very smart to do that,” he said, with a skeptical curve of his lips.

“Geoffrey is smart; he has achieved wonders during the last few years, and I predict for him a brilliant college career. I am very proud of him.”

The beautiful girl’s face glowed, and her eyes gleamed as she said this, while her glance rested more fondly than she was aware, on the manly form that was standing beside his hostess, quietly conversing with her while they watched the dancers.

Her companion was so nettled by this, that for a moment he could not control his voice to reply.

“I should judge that the young man must be a prodigy,” he said, at length, with a covert sneer.

Gladys lifted her eyes searchingly to his face.

His tone was not pleasant to her, but he looked as innocent as if he had spoken in all sincerity.

“Why!” she said, after a moment’s thought, “if Geoffrey does gain a year he will take his degree when you take yours!”

“Yes.”

A little ripple of roguish laughter issued from the fair girl’s red lips.

“Then let me warn you,” she said, with a merry glance, “to look out for your honors, Mr. Mapleson, for Geoffrey is bound to go to the front, and I have fully made up my mind to hear him deliver the valedictory at Yale two years hence.”

Again the young Southerner had to pause for self-control; it was very hard for him to conceal the rage that was well-nigh overmastering him.

But all at once he bent toward Gladys, and, speaking in a low, resolute tone, said:

“Miss Huntress, you have inspired me with an ambition which I never before possessed. I would give more than you can conceive to merit such praise from your lips as you have just bestowed upon another, and from this hour, my purpose shall be to ‘go to the front,’ as you have expressed it. I shall deliver the valedictory two years from next summer.”

Gladys laughed gleefully.

She never dreamed of the fierce enmity and jealousy that lay beneath all this, and she was delighted to think that she had aroused his desire to excel in his class.

“It will be a worthy contest,” she said; “and I honor you for your resolution. I shall watch the rivalry with a great deal of interest, I assure you.”

“Will you wear my colors if I succeed, Miss Huntress?” the young man asked, in a low, almost passionate tone.

“That depends——”

“Upon what?”

“Upon whether Geoffrey takes his degree at the same time; if he gains his year and leaves with your class, I think I shall have to be loyal to him, even though he should suffer defeat,” Gladys replied, though in her heart she felt sure that he would not fail to do himself honor.

“That is hardly fair,” urged her companion; “‘to the victor belongs the spoils,’ you know.”

“Yes; but you will have your own friends to rejoice with you, and I could not desert dear old Geoff, though he should fail a hundred times,” she returned, a tender glow overspreading her face.

“Happy Huntress!” sneered the exasperated young man, for a moment forgetting himself.

“Why, Mr. Mapleson, I hope you are not offended with me,” Gladys said, with surprise, and not once suspecting that this venom was aimed at the object of their conversation; then she added: “Perhaps, however, his colors and yours will be the same, and then I can honor you both.”

Everet Mapleson was glad that supper was announced just at that moment, which saved him the necessity of replying.

The mere thought of sharing any honors with his rival made him white with anger, and her praise of him had driven him nearly frantic.

He saw Geoffrey approaching them, and surmised that he contemplated taking Gladys in to supper.

He resolved that he should not; so, turning to her with a smile, as he laid her hand upon his arm, he remarked:

“That is no doubt a pleasing announcement to everybody. Shall we follow the hungry crowd?”

“Thanks; but I see Geoffrey coming for me; pray find some one else, Mr. Mapleson; I have already occupied more of your time and attention this evening than I ought,” the fair girl responded.

“I could not bestow it more acceptably to myself anywhere else,” he replied, in a low, earnest tone, and detaining the hand which she would have withdrawn from his arm.

At that instant Geoffrey bowed before them.

“Excuse me for interrupting your chat,” he said, courteously; “but are you ready to go into supper, Gladys?”

“Excuse me, Huntress,” young Mapleson interposed before Gladys could reply, and bestowing a haughty glance upon his rival, “but I must claim the privilege of taking Miss Huntress in by virtue of the old saw ‘prior tempore, prior jure’—‘first in time, first by right.’”

Geoffrey colored more at his tone and look than at his words, but returned, with a genial smile:

“That will apply to my case exactly, Mr. Mapleson, since I secured Miss Huntress’ promise, more than an hour ago, that she would give me the privilege you claim.”

“But possession is nine points in law. Miss Huntress,” said Everet, addressing Gladys, and ignoring Geoffrey entirely.

“Really, Mr. Mapleson, you will have to excuse me. I have given my promise, as Geoffrey says, and since he leaves for New Haven again to-morrow morning, I must say all I have to say to him to-night.”

Everet Mapleson instantly released her, with a low bow of acquiescence.

“Your wish is sufficient,” he said, with significant emphasis, and he turned abruptly away to seek some one else; but not before he had shot a revengeful glance at his successful rival.

“He shall have his pay some day,” he muttered, as he moved down the room; “he maddens me beyond all endurance with his assumption of affability and his high-bred civility. He goes back to New Haven to-morrow, does he? Well, I’ll improve the remainder of this recess to cultivate to the utmost my acquaintance with ma belle Gladys.”

He found a young lady to whom he had been introduced early in the evening, and solicited her companionship during supper, but he was careful to station himself where he could watch every look and movement of the girl whom he was fast learning to adore.

After supper Gladys and Geoffrey stole away to a quiet corner, where they could have a little confidential chat before they separated, for each had much to tell the other about school and various other matters.

Geoffrey had been much disturbed inwardly to see how devotedly attentive young Mapleson appeared to Gladys.

He did not bear him any ill-will on account of the hazing to which he had been subjected so long ago, but he instinctively felt that he could not be a very noble-minded man to allow himself to be so controlled by passion as he had been at that time, and Gladys was too precious a treasure to be willingly yielded to one unworthy of her.

He wondered what opinion she had formed of him, and he meant to find out before he left her; and after they had chatted awhile he asked, smilingly:

“Well, Gladys, what do you think of my double?”

“I think it the most remarkable resemblance in the world; but why have you never written us anything about him?” she asked.

“I have had so many other things to write and think about, that I suppose it escaped my memory; besides, I seldom meet Mapleson, as he is not in my class. I am very glad, though, that he does not belong in New York,” Geoffrey concluded, with a wistful glance at his companion.

“Why?”

“Because I fear you might often make the same mistake that you did the other day in the cafe, and—I think I should hardly like to share your favors with him.”

Gladys shot a quick, inquiring glance into the young man’s face, and saw it was clouded.

“Isn’t he nice, Geoff?”

“I have heard that he belongs to a good family, and feel that I have no right to say one word against him; still, where you are concerned, Gladys, I feel very jealous lest any ill should come to you,” he returned, earnestly.

“I think I could never again mistake him for you,” Gladys said, thoughtfully.

“What makes you think that?” was the eager query.

“There are certain expressions in your face that I do not find in his, and vice versa; while somehow a feeling of antagonism, a barrier, almost amounting to distrust, comes between us when I am with him. Perhaps it is because I do not know him as well as I know you; it would be natural to differently regard one who had always been like a brother,” Gladys replied, gravely.

A painful thrill shot through Geoffrey’s heart at those last words.

“Does she feel nothing but sisterly affection for me?” he thought; “and I love her—oh! not with a brother’s love; Heaven help me if I fail to win her by and by! She is dearer than my own life, and yet I dare not tell her so; I have no right to win the heart of the child of my benefactor until I can make a name and position worthy of her acceptance.”

But he allowed nothing of this conflict to appear. He changed the subject, and they chatted pleasantly of other matters until Mr. and Mrs. Huntress came to tell him that they were going home.

He then bade her good-night and good-by, and went away, loving her more fondly than ever, but with a heavy burden on his heart.

CHAPTER XIV.
A CONFESSION.

There was not much sleep for Geoffrey that night. He lay through the long hours thinking of his love for Gladys, and half believing, yet hardly daring to hope, that she was beginning to return it.

Her manner toward him during the evening, her glad, even joyful greeting when he entered Mrs. Loring’s drawing-room, her shy, sweet glances, while talking with him, and the ever ready color which leaped into her cheeks beneath his fond gaze, all thrilled him with the blissful conviction that she was not indifferent to him.

And yet this only increased his unhappiness—to feel that he might win her, and yet could not without being guilty of both treachery and ingratitude toward the man from whom he had received such lasting benefits, and who had stood in the place of a father to him.

“But my life will be ruined if I cannot win her,” he said, a sort of dull despair settling down upon his heart at the mere thought. “I have always been determined to make the most of my advantages for her sake—that I might be worthy of her; I have resolved from the first that no one should excel me, and that when I should be through with my college course I would battle, with all the energy I possess, for a high position in the world to offer her. But what will it all amount to if, in the meantime, some one else steals my darling from me!—if, while my own lips are sealed, from a sense of honor, some other man wins the heart I covet, and I have to see her become his wife? Good heavens! I could not bear it—it would destroy my ambition—it would make a wreck of me.”

He tossed and turned upon his pillow in an agony of unrest and apprehension, the future looking darker and more hopeless to him with every waning hour, and when at last morning dawned he arose looking haggard and almost ill from the conflict through which he had passed.

When the breakfast bell rang he shrank, with positive pain, from going below to meet his kind friends with this burden on his heart.

But he stopped suddenly while in the act of crossing the threshold of his room, his eye lighting, a vivid flush rising to his brow, as some thought flashed upon his mind.

“I will do it,” he murmured, resolute lines settling about his mouth. “I will go directly to Uncle August and confess my love for Gladys in a manly, straightforward way, and if he does not oppose me—if he betrays no repugnance to such a union, I will no longer conceal my feelings from her, although it may be years before I shall dare to ask her to share my fortunes. I know if I can have before me the hope that she will some day become my wife, that no goal will be too difficult for me to attain. I shall be able to remove mountains, for her dear sake. But if he shrinks in the least from giving me his only child, I will sacrifice every hope—I will go away and hide myself and my despair from every eye, rather than he should think me ungrateful for all that he has done for me.”

Having made these resolutions, a new hope seemed to animate him, the clouds cleared from his brow, his heart grew lighter, and he descended to the dining-room looking more like himself.

Still Mr. Huntress noticed his paleness and the unusual gravity of his manner, and wondered at it, for he had seemed remarkably cheerful, even gay, the previous evening at Mrs. Loring’s.

“The boy is working too hard,” he said to himself, anxiously: “he has too much ambition for his strength,” and he resolved to caution him anew before he left.

As they arose from the table Geoffrey looked at his watch.

“Uncle August,” he said, a hot flush mantling his cheek, “I have an hour just before I need to go. Can I see you alone for a little while on a matter of business?”

“Business, Geoff!” laughed his uncle. “I imagined that your mind was filled with literary pursuits, to the exclusion of all else. I had no idea you could combine the two.”

“I should not have called it business; the matter upon which I wish to speak is far more vital than any business could possibly be,” Geoffrey replied, gravely.

“I’ll wager the boy is borrowing trouble over his resemblance to that chap whom we met last evening; he doubtless believes that he is on the verge of some important discovery, and wants me to help him ferret out the truth,” Mr. Huntress mused, as he led the way to his library.

“Now, Geoff, I’m ready to listen to whatever you may have on your mind,” he said, seating himself comfortably, and motioning the young man to another chair.

“Uncle August,” Geoffrey began, after pausing a moment to collect his thoughts, “you know, do you not, that I am truly grateful to you for the unexampled kindness which you have shown me ever since you found me, such a pitiable object, in the streets of New York?”

“Why, my boy!” said Mr. Huntress, looking astonished over this unexpected speech, “I have never stopped to think whether you were grateful or not; you have always shown that you loved me and desired to please me, and that was enough.”

“I have loved you—I do love you; if I should ever discover my own father I do not believe that I could give him the deep affection which I cherish for you. But, Uncle August, I have a confession to make to you this morning which may cause something of a change in your feelings toward me.”

“A confession?” repeated Mr. Huntress, looking up quickly and anxiously. “Surely, Geoff, you haven’t been getting into any trouble at college?”

“No, sir; what I have to tell you, you may regard as far more serious than any college scrape—it may alienate your affection for me far more, but——”

“Out with it, Geoff, don’t beat about the bush; I fancy you won’t find me very obdurate, no matter what you have done,” Mr. Huntress interrupted, although he believed Geoffrey was making a mountain out of some molehill.

“I will, sir; confession is the only honorable course open to me, and yet if I offend you I shall dread to look my future in the face.”

“Good heavens, Geoffrey! you begin to frighten me; speak out—what have you been doing that is so dreadful?” exclaimed his friend, now looking thoroughly alarmed.

“I have dared to—love Gladys, sir.”

“You have dared to love Gladys! Well, of course, who could help it?” said August Huntress, his astonishment increasing, and not, on the instant, comprehending the full import of the words.

“But—but—Uncle August, you do not understand; I love her as a man loves the woman whom he wishes to make his wife,” said Geoffrey, with a very pale face, for the die was cast now, and he waited the result with fear and trembling.

“Humph! and this is your confession?”

“Yes, sir; I hope you will not regard me as a viper that turns and stings the hand that nourishes it,” the young man pleaded, with emotion.