The Magic Cameo
A Love Story

By MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON

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

A. L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers New York

Popular Books

By MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON

In Handsome Cloth Binding

Price per Volume, 60 Cents

• Brownie’s Triumph
• Earl Wayne’s Nobility
• Churchyard Betrothal, The
• Edrie’s Legacy
• Faithful Shirley
• For Love and Honor
• Sequel to Geoffrey’s Victory
• Forsaken Bride, The
• Geoffrey’s Victory
• Golden Key, The; or a Heart’s Silent Worship
• Heatherford Fortune, The
• Sequel to The Magic Cameo
• He Loves Me For Myself
• Helen’s Victory
• Her Faith Rewarded
• Sequel to Faithful Shirley
• Her Heart’s Victory
• Sequel to Max
• Heritage of Love, A
• Sequel to The Golden Key
• Hoiden’s Conquest, A
• How Will It End
• Sequel to Marguerite’s Heritage
• Lily of Mordaunt, The
• Little Miss Whirlwind; or Lost for Twenty Years
• Lost, A Pearle
• Love’s Conquest
• Sequel to Helen’s Victory
• Love Victorious, A
• Magic Cameo, The
• Marguerite’s Heritage
• Masked Bridal, The
• Max, A Cradle Mystery
• Mona
• Nora, or The Missing Heir of Callonby
• Sibyl’s Influence
• Threads Gathered Up
• Sequel to Virgie’s Inheritance
• Thrice Wedded
• Tina
• Trixy, or The Shadow of a Crime
• True Aristocrat, A
• True Love’s Reward
• Virgie’s Inheritance
• Wedded By Fate

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

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

Copyright, 1898 and 1899
By Street & Smith

THE MAGIC CAMEO

THE MAGIC CAMEO.

PRELUDE.
THREE PICTURES.

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

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

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

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

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

“T. A.”

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

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

“Alfred, supper is ready.”

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

Then he turns and follows the woman into the house.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Picture number three is not unveiled until fourteen years later.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“At last!” he mutters; “at last!”

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

CHAPTER I.
AN ACT OF HEROISM.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER II.
A TOUCHING TRIBUTE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER III.
PRETTY HEIRESS PLEADS FOR CLIFFORD.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What! that cameo?”

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

Mr. Heatherford laughed aloud with amusement.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But the donor and writer was anonymous.

CHAPTER IV.
CLIFFORD FAXON’S VOW.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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