Transcriber’s Note:

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

THREADS GATHERED UP
A Sequel to “Virgie’s Inheritance”

By MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON

AUTHOR OF

“Max,” “Lost, A Pearle,” “For Love and Honor,” “Helen’s Victory,” “Brownie’s Triumph,” 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.

For Love and Honor. Sequel to Geoffrey’s Victory.

Forsaken Bride, The.

Geoffrey’s Victory.

Her Heart’s Victory. Sequel to Max.

Helen’s Victory.

Love’s Conquest. Sequel to Helen’s Victory.

Lost, A Pearle.

Max, A Cradle Mystery.

Nora, or The Missing Heir of Callonby.

Sibyl’s Influence.

Threads Gathered Up. Sequel to Virgie’s Inheritance.

Trixy, or The Shadow of a Crime.

True Aristocrat, A.

Virgie’s Inheritance.

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, 1887, 1888, 1891

By Street & Smith

Under the title of Virgie’s Inheritance

THREADS GATHERED UP.

CONTENTS

[CHAPTER I.] AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR.

[CHAPTER II.] VIRGIE RECEIVES A MYSTERIOUS PACKAGE.

[CHAPTER III.] VIRGIE SHALL YET HAVE HER INHERITANCE.

[CHAPTER IV.] A STARTLING DISCOVERY.

[CHAPTER V.] VIRGIE BECOMES A NURSE.

[CHAPTER VI.] “I AM THE WOMAN YOUR BROTHER LOVED.”

[CHAPTER VII.] AFTER EIGHT YEARS.

[CHAPTER VIII.] A GLIMPSE AT LILLIAN LINTON’S HEART.

[CHAPTER IX.] A STRANGE MEETING.

[CHAPTER X.] MR. AND MISS KNIGHT VERSUS CUPID.

[CHAPTER XI.] A BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT.

[CHAPTER XII.] AN UNEXPECTED MEETING.

[CHAPTER XIII.] RUPERT’S REQUEST.

[CHAPTER XIV.] THE BETROTHAL.

[CHAPTER XV.] “I HAVE MET LADY LINTON BEFORE.”

[CHAPTER XVI.] MORE INTRODUCTIONS.

[CHAPTER XVII.] SOME STARTLING DISCOVERIES.

[CHAPTER XVIII.] A SUDDEN FLITTING.

[CHAPTER XIX.] AN UNEXPECTED MEETING.

[CHAPTER XX.] A STARTLING ANNOUNCEMENT.

[CHAPTER XXI.] THE ARRIVAL AT HEATHDALE.

[CHAPTER XXII.] A BACKWARD GLANCE.

[CHAPTER XXIII.] REUNITED.

[CHAPTER XXIV.] “GOD IS GOOD.”

[CHAPTER XXV.] THREADS GATHERED UP.

THREADS GATHERED UP

CHAPTER I.
AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR.

Three years passed, and nothing occurred to disturb the even tenor of Virgie’s life.

She had worked diligently during this time, gaining fresh laurels with every season. She had removed from the retired lodgings which she had taken at first upon coming to San Francisco, into a better locality, where she had a handsome suite of rooms in a well-known apartment-house.

These were bright and pleasant, tastefully furnished also, and Virgie thoroughly enjoyed the pretty home which she had won by the labor of her own hands.

When she had made the change she gave the contents of her other home to Chi Lu, who had married a thrifty woman of his own country, and together they were carrying on quite a flourishing laundry business, while, in place of the faithful Chinese, Virgie had taken a bright and capable Swedish woman.

One evening, after a dreary, rainy day, the bell under the name of “Alexander,” in the house of which we have been speaking, was pulled by a vigorous hand.

Virgie was in her chamber, putting her little girl to bed—a service which she enjoyed, for the child always expected a merry frolic and then some “pretty story before the dustman came.”

She heard the bell, and soon after voices in the pretty parlor leading from her chamber, and she wondered who could have chosen such a stormy night to call up her, for she seldom had visitors, even in pleasant weather.

Presently Mina, the Swede, came to her, and said that a gentleman was waiting to see her.

“Who is he? Did he give no name?” Virgie questioned, surprised.

“No, madam. I asked him, and he said there was no need to take his name, for you would know him when you saw him.”

Virgie’s heart beat more quickly at this, and a feeling of dread took possession of her.

Mr. Knight came to see her occasionally, and one or two of his clerks had been there a few times on business, but Mina knew them, so she was sure it was none of these, but someone who must have known her in the past.

She finished the story she was telling little Virgie, made some trifling changes in her toilet, and then went into the parlor.

A gentleman was seated by the table, with his back toward her, and though he had on a heavy overcoat, and his form was considerably bowed, and his hair very gray, there was something familiar about him that sent a sudden shock through Virgie’s frame.

As she went forward to greet him he suddenly arose and turned toward her, bending a pair of piercing black eyes searchingly upon her face.

Virgie stopped short as she met that glance, all the color leaving her face, while a startled cry escaped her lips.

The man flushed, and his eyes sank guiltily before hers as he said, in a low tone:

“You know me, then, Virgie?”

“Uncle Mark!” she gasped, and then sank weakly into a chair.

“Yes, I am your Uncle Mark,” the man returned, a touch of bitterness in his tone; “but I scarcely expected that you would acknowledge me as such. Where is your father?”

“Dead.”

Mark Alexander staggered as if some one had struck him a sudden blow.

“When did he—die?” he asked, with whitening lips.

“Six years ago last November.”

The man sank back into his chair, and bowed his head upon the table, with a groan.

Profound silence reigned in the room for several minutes, while each occupant was tortured by bitter thoughts.

Virgie could scarcely realize that at last the man who had wrought her father’s ruin was sitting in her presence. She had never seen him but once since that dreadful time when the thunderbolt had fallen to crush them all, and that had been when she had fled from him in the street more than three years previous. She wondered how he had found her now. She had hoped she should never meet him again; she feared him; she abhorred him for the crime and wrong he had committed.

Her heart was even now filled with great bitterness toward him, for, but for him her dear father might have been living, an honored and respected citizen of San Francisco, and she could only remember how he had suffered, how, believing his name forever dishonored, he had fled, as it were, into the wilderness, there to drag out a weary existence among strangers.

A heavy sigh at length aroused her from these unhappy musings, and she glanced at her companion.

She could see that he, too, was sadly changed.

Evidently the last twelve years had been far from happy ones with him. His bowed form, his haggard face and gray hair, all told of a mind ill at ease, of a heart tortured by fear, if not with remorse.

Apparently, too, he had been very ill; he might even be so still, for he was fearfully emaciated, his face was hueless, and he was trembling with either weakness, cold, or emotion, perhaps all three combined.

His coat was drenched in the heavy rain in which he had come, and he looked so utterly wretched and forlorn, that something of pity began to crowd the anger from her heart.

“Uncle Mark,” she said, trying to steady her trembling voice, “you have taken me so by surprise that I am forgetful of my duty. Remove your wet coat, and come nearer the fire, while I ring for a cup of tea and some supper for you.”

“Ah! then you will not turn me out again into the storm. Still you cannot have much but hatred for me in your heart,” he returned, lifting to her a face that was almost convulsed.

“I trust that nothing would make me unmindful of the duties of hospitality, especially toward one who is ill and suffering as you appear to be,” Virgie answered, as she arose and went out to confer a moment with Mina regarding the comfort of her unbidden guest.

“Where is Aunt Margaret?” she inquired, when she returned, a few moments later.

“Dead.”

“Ah! and Philip?”

“Dead—and little Bertha, too. All are gone—victims of cholera, while I have not known a well day since I had it,” the man answered, in a harsh, unnatural voice.

Virgie felt the tears rise to her eyes, and her heart softened still more. Surely his punishment had begun, and in no light manner, if death had so quickly robbed him of all his family, ruining his own health also.

“How did you know that I was here in San Francisco?” she asked, after another painful pause.

He started at her question.

“I saw you here more than three years ago. I was not quite sure it was you the first time I met you, and I followed you, hoping to learn where you lived; but you evaded me without knowing it, that time. The next day I haunted the place where I lost sight of you, and came upon you just as you turned the corner, you remember. You knew me, I was very sure, by the look of dismay that sprang to your eyes. I was more sure after your little strategy in that store. But I wanted to see you desperately, Virgie. Didn’t you see my advertisement among the personals?”

“Yes; but I—could not meet you. I—could not forget,” faltered Virgie.

The man shivered at her words.

“Well, I cannot blame you. But never mind that now. I meant to find you if I could; but I made up my mind after a while that you and Abbot had left San Francisco—I had not a thought that he was dead—and so I went elsewhere to hunt for you. I have spent the last three years in wandering about, but finally came back here to end my days. I was in at Knight’s bookstore a day or two since. There was a pile of new books on the counter, and as I stood looking at one of them a gentleman came for one, and said to a boy, ‘I want you to take one of Mrs. Alexander’s new books around to her.’ The name startled me. I turned to the title page, and saw ‘Virginia Alexander’ printed there, as the author. I bought a copy, and followed the boy here. I should have come to see you yesterday, but I was not able to get out; I had hardly strength sufficient to-day, but to-night despair drove me out in spite of the storm.”

“I am afraid you were imprudent. But what can I do for you, Uncle Mark?” Virgie asked, hardly knowing what to say to the returned fugitive.

“I will tell you that by and by. Can I—will you let me stay here to-night?” he humbly asked.

Virgie had but two beds, her own and her servant’s, but she had not the heart to send him forth again into the storm, he looked so ill and miserable; so she replied, with a look of pity:

“Yes, if you wish.”

The poor creature broke down and sobbed at her kindness, but he recovered himself after a moment, and turned away from her gaze.

“It is my nerves,” he explained; “I am a total wreck; I am utterly shattered.”

Mina now came in with a tempting little supper, and he was more composed and cheerful after he had eaten something and taken a cup of tea, and soon began to talk more freely of his past.

He had been in the East Indies, he told Virgie, engaged in the spice trade, most of the time since his flight from San Francisco. But he had never known a moment of peace since the day that he had fled with all the available funds of the bank, of which he had been the cashier, and his brother the president, for he had known well enough that the good name of the latter would have to suffer as well as his own.

“At first,” he said, “I tried traveling, throwing myself into every excitement, and took my family with me. But it would not do; the fortune which I had stolen and was trying to enjoy, was like a mill-stone about my neck; the word ‘thief’ was branded upon my heart with every beat of my pulse, until, in despair, I at last located at Batavia, on the island of Java, and threw myself, heart and brain, into business. I invested the most of my ill-gotten gains where they would be safe, and began to speculate with the rest. The Bible says that ‘the wicked shall not prosper;’ but I did—if you call it prospering to have money literally pouring in upon you and be nearly distracted with an accusing conscience at the same time. The richer I grew the more wretched I became. I had heard that your father had sacrificed all that he was worth toward wiping out my iniquity; but of course I knew that it could not begin to make my defalcation good, and that people would only scoff and sneer, and say it was all pretense—doubtless we were in league and would share equally in the spoils. I knew his high sense of honor, and how sensitive he was, and I believed the blow would crush him.”

“It did! it did!” cried Virgie, bursting into a passion of tears, as all the sad past came pressing upon her with this recital.

“Poor child! poor child!” returned her uncle, tremulously. “But you and your father were in a state of bliss compared with me. Then there came that terrible epidemic sweeping all whom I loved in three days from the face of the earth, and bringing me, also, very near to death’s door. When it was all over, and I knew that I was to live, I felt that there remained but one thing for me to do—to come back here and make an open confession of everything, and atone, as far as I was able, for the mischief I had wrought. If I could have found Abbot I should have done this long ago. Oh, my brother, I wish you had not died!”

Again he broke down, and Virgie felt herself fast melting toward him.

She could not but feel that his repentance had come far too late, but he was much too wretched not to appeal to her sympathies.

They talked for several hours, she telling him all that had occurred since his flight, though she touched but lightly upon her individual sorrows.

But he appeared so exhausted that she finally persuaded him to retire, giving up her own room to him, she and little Virgie occupying Mina’s, while the girl slept upon a lounge in their small dining-room.

When morning came Mr. Alexander was too ill to rise, and feared that he was going to have a relapse of his former illness.

He grew better, however, toward evening, and seemed to be so grateful for the care which his niece had given him, so repentant for the sorrow that he had brought upon her, that she was deeply touched.

After a few days he appeared much stronger, and seemed greatly interested in Virgie, her work, and particularly in her little one. Still, he did not seem to be quite at his ease.

“I did not mean to be such a burden upon you, Virgie,” he said, humbly, one afternoon, as she was performing some little service for him.

“I do not consider you a burden. I am glad if I can make you comfortable, Uncle Mark,” she returned, kindly.

“You shall not be a loser for your kindness to me,” he added, smiling.

Virgie turned upon him sharply, her face flushing crimson, her eyes blazing.

“Uncle Mark,” she retorted, in a clear, decided voice, “whatever I have done for you has been done from sympathy, and because I felt it my duty to minister to your needs; but I shall never receive any compensation from you—I could not. If you are as rich as you have hinted several times, I want you to right the wrong that you committed so long ago. There is much that still remains unpaid, even though the bank has long since resumed business. Many depositors lost heavily; there were several years that no interest was paid to them, and their funds were so locked up that they could not have what rightfully belonged to them, and much suffering was occasioned by it. All this—everything must be paid to the uttermost farthing.”

“It shall be done. I will do all that can be required of me. But, Virgie, you have been the heaviest loser of all through what your father paid out for me, and that will be one of the debts to be canceled with the rest. Don’t let your pride prevent my relieving my conscience of that obligation,” said the sick man, tremulously.

Virgie had not thought of the matter in that light before. Her chief desire had been to have a confession, and restitution made to the bank and all depositors, and thus clear her father from all imputation of wrong-doing. She had never reckoned herself among the number of the injured—never counted upon receiving a dollar in return for the sacrifice her father had made. To have his honor re-established, and then be able to bring his body back to rest beside her mother, would give her more joy than she ever expected to know again in this world.

“Papa’s good name is more to me than all else,” she said, tearfully.

“Dear child, it shall be fully restored; his honor vindicated. Oh, that he could have lived to know it! That it could not is the hardest part of my punishment. But after I have done that, you will not refuse to receive what I can offer you?” pleaded Mark Alexander, earnestly.

“Can you satisfy all claims upon the bank?” Virgie asked, in surprise, for she knew that the interest of all those years would amount to a great deal.

“I can do far more than that, and to-morrow I will make a beginning, if I have the strength. What I do must be done quickly, for my days are numbered.”

CHAPTER II.
VIRGIE RECEIVES A MYSTERIOUS PACKAGE.

Virgie, remembering her promise to Mr. Knight, to let him know if she ever met her uncle in San Francisco again, determined to consult with him regarding Mark Alexander’s intentions.

She knew that he would advise her rightly, and relieve her from all anxiety in the matter. She feared that her uncle might be arrested and tried for the crime that he had committed, in spite of the fact that he was willing and eager to make full restitution, and he was far too ill a man for any such excitement.

But she did not have to fear this long, for he was suddenly attacked with very alarming symptoms and his physician told him plainly that he would never leave his chamber again.

“It is far better so,” he said to Virgie, when he told her of the verdict, “for nothing can occur now to cause you any annoyance. I shall be glad to have ‘life’s fitful fever over,’ and can die content if you will assure me that you forgive me for all the unhappiness I have caused you.”

“Yes, I do, Uncle Mark,” she answered.

And she was sincere. She could freely forgive him for all she had suffered through his wrong-doing, but she could not quite forgive him for the shame and sorrow her father had endured on his account.

To be sure the truth would all come out now, restitution would be made, and the world would know that Mark Alexander alone had been guilty of the crime imputed to his brother as well; but her father was not there to experience the benefit of tardy justice, and, though grateful, she was only partially content.

She sent for Mr. Knight and confided the whole matter to him. He told her to leave it all with him, and he would see that full justice was done.

After a conference with the invalid a lawyer was sent for, a full confession of the crime was written out and signed in the presence of the required number of witnesses, after which he made his will, making Mr. Knight his executor, and bequeathing all that was necessary of his fortune to liquidate his indebtedness to the bank he had wronged, the remainder to go to his niece, Virginia Alexander, and her heirs forever.

After this important business was finished, the lawyer and witnesses gone, Mr. Alexander requested Virgie to bring him a package of papers she would find in the lower part of his trunk.

She complied, and then he asked her if she would assist him in looking them over, as he wished to destroy those that were of no value and leave some directions regarding the others.

There were a great many of them, and they were of various descriptions, therefore their examination required some time. But at last everything seemed to be arranged satisfactorily—all but one sealed package, which the invalid had laid aside from all the others.

This he now took up, remarking, as he viewed it thoughtfully:

“There is quite a romantic history connected with this, and it came into my hands in a remarkable way. I am going to tell you the story, and then give the package to you to keep for the owner, if you should ever be fortunate enough to find her.”

“Ah! It is something that some one has lost?” Virgie remarked, looking interested.

“Yes. I stopped in London for a few days on my way home from the East. But on the last day of my stay I gave up my room at the hotel several hours before I left, and went into the gentlemen’s reception-room to read my paper. I was far from well, and the noise and smoke there annoyed me exceedingly, so I stole into a small parlor devoted to ladies’ use, and seating myself behind some draperies in a bay-window, gave myself up to the enjoyment of solitude and the news of the day. I must, however, have soon fallen asleep, for I was not conscious that any one had entered the room until I heard the voices of two ladies almost beside me. How long they had been there I do not know, and my first impulse was to make my presence known and then leave the room. But this seemed an awkward thing to do, particularly as they might have been talking some time before I awoke, and they might consider me very ill-bred for having remained a listener to what had already been said. Then, I thought, I was an utter stranger to them; I was about leaving for another country, and whatever the nature of their conversation, it could make no difference to either them or me, if I did overhear it. It proved to be very harmless, however, until just as they were about to separate, one lady remarked to the other:

“‘By the way, as we are going to the Continent for a while, I want to ask you to take charge of a package for me. It would be valuable to no one excepting myself, and yet if it should chance to fall into other hands during my absence, it might occasion me a great deal of trouble. I know it will be safe with you, and if anything should happen to me while I am away, I want you to burn it.’

“‘Very well, I will do as you wish,’ returned her companion, as she appeared to receive something that the other handed to her.

“They conversed a few moments longer, and then arose and left the room. I judged that they had met there at the request of the lady who was going abroad, simply to take leave of each other, and I thought no more of the affair until I took my seat in the evening train for Edinburgh, whence I was to go to Glasgow to await the sailing of a steamer for home. A lady entered just after I was seated, and while giving some directions to the porter who brought in her luggage, her voice struck me as familiar. Still I could not place her—indeed I was very sure I had never seen her before, and being exceedingly wary I settled myself in a corner and was soon fast asleep. When I awoke it was very dark outside, though the coach lamps burned dimly above me, and I found myself alone in the compartment; my companion, whoever she might have been, had left the train.

“Judging from the cramped condition I was in, I must have slept a long time and very soundly. I arose to stretch myself and change my position, when my foot struck some object on the floor. I stooped and picked up the package. Taking it nearer to the light I found that its seal was stamped simply with a coat of arms, while there was written on the back of the wrapper, ‘To be destroyed, unopened, in the event of my death.’

“Instantly it flashed upon me that the lady of the familiar voice, who had been my companion, was one of the women who had been in the ladies’ parlor at the hotel that afternoon, and that this was the very package intrusted to her care by her friend. Of course I would not presume to open the package to ascertain to whom it belonged, and I had not the faintest idea what to do with it, for no names had been called during that interview to enlighten me as to the identity of the ladies.

“When the train stopped again I asked the guard at what station my companion had left. He did not know; he said the guards had been changed at Sheffield, and the lady must have got out before that, as I was alone in the compartment when he came on. I was both puzzled and annoyed. I did not like to intrust the package to any one connected with the train, for I judged from what the lady had said that it contained something of great importance—at least to her. I did not doubt that inquiries would be made for it, for doubtless the woman who had lost it would be in great anxiety about it. My time was not valuable, and I began to be considerably interested in my discovery, so I resolved to return to London, and wait to see if any inquiries were made regarding the lost package. Accordingly I took the next train back, and the following morning, I myself inserted a notice in some of the papers, describing what I had found and stating where it could be obtained. I remained in the city a fortnight, but no one ever came to claim the package, and though I closely examined the newspapers, no inquiry for it ever appeared. I felt that I had done my whole duty in the matter, so I again started for home, bringing my mysterious possession with me.

“It is just as I found it. I confess I have often felt a curiosity regarding its contents, but I have respected the owner’s evident desire that it should remain a sealed matter to every one save herself. I am going to give it to you now, Virgie. Of course, I know it is very doubtful whether you will ever meet the owner, but I do not like to destroy it, fearing there may be something of importance contained in it. Here it is, just as I found it, and if you should ever happen to hear any one mention having lost a sealed package on the Edinburgh train, this may prove to be the one. It can easily be identified by the crest upon the seal.”

Virgie took the mysterious thing and examined it with some curiosity.

It was of an oblong shape, nicely wrapped in thick white paper, sealed with red wax, upon which had been stamped a coat of arms.

“What a queer looking device,” Virgie said. “A shield bearing a cross that is doubled crossed.”

“Yet, it is what is called a patriarchal cross. I was curious about the crest, so I studied up a little on the subject of heraldry; and the motto is certainly an excellent one, ‘Droit et Loyal,’ meaning ‘Upright and Loyal,’” returned the sick man, with a sigh, as if the words were a stab at him.

Virgie turned the package over, and found written there, in an evidently disguised hand, the sentence, “To be destroyed unopened in the event of my death.”

“I feel almost as if I hold the fate of someone in my hands,” she said, a slight shiver disturbing her.

She was not naturally superstitious, but she experienced a very uncomfortable sensation in the possession of the mystic thing, and years after the words that she had just uttered returned to her mind with peculiar force; she did indeed hold the fate of a human being in her hands.

“If you do not like to keep it, if the knowledge of its possession becomes irksome or burdensome, then destroy it,” her uncle said, as he noticed that she was strangely affected.

“I will keep it for the present,” she answered. “There is no probability, however, that the owner and I will ever meet.”

“I do not know; stranger things than that have happened, our lives cross those of others in a marvelous way sometimes,” returned Mr. Alexander, dreamily. “I believe,” he added, arousing himself after a few moments, “that some power stronger than myself has influenced me to preserve that package, and to confide it now to you. I am impressed that it may even prove useful to you. Let me advise you to take good care of it, Virgie, keep it, say for twenty years, if you should live so long, and then, if nothing has come of it, do what you like with it; by that time it is doubtful if it could do the owner either harm or good.”

“Very well, I will do as you suggest, Uncle Mark,” Virgie answered, and saying this, she arose and locked it in a small drawer in her writing-desk.

Mark Alexander failed very rapidly after that. Disease and remorse had done their work pretty effectually, and in less than three weeks from that stormy evening when he had come to Virgie he was laid to his last, long rest in Lone Mountain Cemetery.

After this Mr. Knight lost no time in carrying out the instructions he had received, and instituted measures for making ample restitution for the crime that had been committed nearly twelve years previous.

The bank from which Mark Alexander had stolen so largely had been nearly ruined. All payments had been suspended for years, and the most strenuous exertions were made to turn to the best advantage the comparatively small assets left, and thus prevent a total loss to the depositors and stockholders. It had been but a little while since it had been able to resume business upon its former basis, and it will be readily understood that the accession of nearly half a million dollars—the sum returned to them by the former criminal—was most joyfully received by the directors.

A statement of the fact was published, together with an announcement that all depositors who had suffered from the defalcation would receive remuneration for all loss and annoyance in the past.

Abbot Alexander, the former president, was exonerated from all blame. Every taint, every doubt and suspicion were removed from his name, and justice was at last rendered to an honest man. A glowing tribute was paid to his nobility of character, to his rare talents as a business man, and to the spirit of self-sacrifice he had manifested at the time of the trouble, in giving up all his own wealth.

It was a day long to be remembered by Virgie, when all this was proclaimed to the world. The papers were full of it, and seemed to vie with each other in trying to atone for the wrong which Abbot Alexander had so patiently suffered, which had broken the heart of his gentle wife and driven his wife and his beautiful daughter into exile. It was tardy justice, but it was ample and complete.

But little was said of Mark Alexander and his wonderful prosperity since his defalcation, but that little, while it did not conceal or condone the crime that he had committed, commended most highly that last act of his life.

It was also hinted in these same papers, that the talented author of “Gleanings from the Heights,” and several other charming productions of the same character, was the daughter of the lamented bank president who had been so cruelly maligned.

“Oh, if my father could have but known of this!” Virgie exclaimed, when talking the matter over, afterward, with Mr. Knight.

“You may be very sure that he does know it,” he responded, gravely. “It is to be regretted that he could not have known it before his death; it would have helped to soothe his last days. But still, if anything can add to his joy in another world, the fact that his name is to-day held up as one of the most honored in San Francisco, must contribute to it, as also must the knowledge that his daughter will henceforth be relieved from all pecuniary care or anxiety. You are really quite a wealthy young woman, my friend,” the publisher concluded, smiling.

“Am I?” Virgie questioned, absently.

She was thinking of those weary years among the mountains when, day after day, her father came and went, to and from the mine, like a common laborer, toiling persistently and patiently, so that she might have a competence when he could care for her no longer. “And all for naught!” she mused, with a bitter pang, “for had not that also fallen into the hands of an adventurer?” It seemed to have been his fate to accumulate for others to spend.

“How indifferent you are! Have you no curiosity about the matter?” questioned Mr. Knight, archly.

“Yes, of course I have,” Virgie answered, rousing herself from her reverie. “Is the amount that remains to me finally determined?”

“Yes; there will be about a hundred and fifty thousand dollars—not much more than half what your father sacrificed for his brother, but sufficient to make you quite independent.”

“So much!” exclaimed Virgie, in surprise.

“It is quite a snug little fortune, and I am glad for you. There will be no longer any need for your working as you have done, and I am afraid I must lose my matchless designer.”

“Indeed you will not,” Virgie cried eagerly; “that is, if you will allow me to continue my work. I have become so accustomed to regular employment—I love my work so well, that I shall be far happier to continue it. I will not try to do quite so much,” she added, thoughtfully, “now that there is no actual necessity for it; I will perhaps give you one or two designs a year, but I could not think of living an idle life.”

“I shall be only too glad to get anything from your pen,” Mr. Knight returned. “But what do you think about removing to New York? I am contemplating giving up my business here and establishing myself in New York city. My partner, who, as you know, is a younger man than I, wants to branch out a little more than I care to at my age, so I have sold out to him. Still, I, too, am unwilling to be idle, so I think I will go East and do a little quiet business on my own account.”

“It matters very little to me where I am located,” Virgie said, with a sigh. It was a little hard, she thought, not to have any ties anywhere. “I should like to travel a portion of every year, and I may as well make my headquarters in New York as anywhere.”

And now it seemed as if a very peaceful, if not delightful future lay before her; yet, aside from the many advantages which her newly acquired wealth would enable her to give her child, its possession gave her but very little pleasure.

She did not believe that life would ever hold any special enjoyment for her again. Excepting her child, she had not a single object for which to live, nothing to look forward to. She cared little for society, indeed she shrank from meeting strangers; at least, those in her own position in life, although she went much among the poor, and spent money freely upon them.

When Mr. Knight went to New York she went also, making a quiet but elegant home for herself not far from his residence, where he and his sister kept bachelor’s and old maid’s hall, and there she lived her uneventful life, with nothing save a season of travel now and then, to vary its monotony.

Thus several years went by. She never heard one word either from or of Heathdale; she knew not whether Sir William was living or dead, prosperous or otherwise, though often her heart yearned for some tidings of him.

One summer, when little Virgie was nine years of age, they went for a week or two to Niagara Falls. Virgie had never visited the place, and she promised herself a rare treat in studying nature there in all its grandeur, and in making some sketches for the coming winter’s work.

She reached the village late in the day, and was driven directly to one of the principal hotels, where she ordered a couple of rooms—for she had a maid with her—and then stepped to the office to register.

After she had done so she carelessly glanced over some of the preceding pages to see who were guests in the house.

At the top of one of the pages, and under the date of a week previous, she saw three names that sent every drop of blood back upon her heart and turned her giddy and faint.

“William Heath and wife. Master Willie Heath and maid,” she read, and every letter seemed as if it had been branded in characters of fire upon her brain.

CHAPTER III.
VIRGIE SHALL YET HAVE HER INHERITANCE.

Could it be possible that the man who had been her husband had come again to this country, accompanied by the woman who had supplanted her?

They had a child too, it seemed, a young heir, and they were all underneath the same roof with her.

For a moment she was dazed with the knowledge; then she was tempted to dash the pen through her own name and fly to some other place.

But she did not like to make herself conspicuous; even now the clerk had noticed her emotion, and was asking her if she was faint and would like a glass of water. So she braced herself to face whatever might come, though she felt as if it would kill her to meet the man who had once called her wife.

She resolved to go to her rooms and remain in them, at least for a day or two, then she would quietly leave the hotel and go to some other.

She found her apartments very pleasant, overlooking the river and the rapids, while in the distance she could hear the never-ceasing roar of the falls. But there were no attractions in the place now for her; all interest had been swallowed up in the intense excitement that had taken possession of her.

She slept but little that night, and during all the next day she was wretched and almost ill. All her wrongs seemed to rise up afresh before her, and she wondered that Sir William had dared to cross the ocean lest her vengeance should overtake him. He was traveling, too, the same as he used to, as plain Mr. Heath. Oh, how supremely happy she had been in those lovely rooms in New York, when she had believed herself to be his honored wife, and was looking forward to a bright future as the mistress of Heathdale.

But now she believed another was reigning there. She wondered if she was fair and lovely; if she had ever suspected the wrong that her husband had done his first wife. She wondered, too, if Sir William had ever legalized that mock marriage after receiving the notice of his divorce from her.

All day she lay there, too miserable to rise, listening to every footfall that passed her door; she believed that she could recognize his step, even though a decade of years had passed since she had heard it.

When night came again she was nearly worn out, and, with little Virgie clasped close to her heart, she slept the sleep of exhaustion, and awoke the next morning feeling stronger and much refreshed, though still very unhappy.

She would not go down to breakfast, however, but had it served in her room. She had not courage to come face to face with the man who, she believed, had so wronged her; she shrank from him, but even more from the woman who, she supposed, occupied the position that belonged to her.

After breakfast she dressed her little daughter in the daintiest manner, and sent her out for a walk with her maid, telling the latter that she might keep Virgie out as long as desired, as she was not feeling well and wished to be quiet.

When they were gone she lay down again, and tried to think what was best for her to do. Should she go away immediately, and avoid all danger of being seen and recognized? Should she fly from the temptation that was fast laying hold of her to look once more upon the old-time lover—the father of her child?

She feared that it was not wise for her to linger there; indeed she knew that it would be far better for her peace of mind to turn resolutely away from all that pertained to the past, go elsewhere, and try to forget—if that were possible—that such a person as Sir William Heath had ever existed.

She fell asleep while musing thus, and was conscious of nothing more until someone knocked upon her door, and a childish voice called out:

“Mamma! mamma! oh, please let me in. I want to tell you something.”

Virgie aroused herself, and going to the door, unlocked and opened it, and was confronted by her little daughter, her face flushed and eager, her hat hanging from her neck by its blue ribbons, her golden curls floating in charming disarray about her shoulders, while she held by the hand a bright, dark-eyed little boy, perhaps a year younger than herself.

“Oh, mamma!” cried little Virgie, all excitement, “I have had such a lovely time down stairs on the veranda. There was the nicest lady and gentleman there, and this is their little boy. We played a long time with some beautiful white stones, and we had some caramels and taffy, the lady told us some pretty stories, and Willie’s papa sang us such a funny song; then they went away for a walk, and told Willie that he might come and play with me for a little while.”

Something made Virgie grow very pale and still while her child was talking; something in those dark eyes of the little stranger, lifted in wonder and inquiry to her beautiful, white face, made her shrink and tremble, a terrible suspicion in her heart.

She stooped quickly and looked closer into the small, upturned face.

“Your name is Willie,” she said, in a low, repressed tone—“Willie what?”

“Willie Heath,” he answered, regarding her earnestly.

“Yes, mamma, and he lives away over the sea, in England—away over that water where poor papa went and——”

“Yes, dear,” said Virgie, interrupting her, and though she had known well enough, the moment she saw him, who the child was, the sound of those two names smote her with such startling force that she reeled dizzily and was obliged to lay hold of the door for support.

“Poor mamma! your head is bad again, isn’t it?” said her little girl, taking her hand and lifting it tenderly to her lips, while she looked pitifully into her white face.

“Yes, darling, and I shall have to lie down again; but you and your little friend may come in if you like,” she forced herself to say, as she feebly made her way to a lounge, and almost fell upon it, a deadly faintness nearly overpowering her.

“No, mamma; we will go out into the hall and play,” Virgie replied, while the young stranger regarded the stricken woman with wide, grave eyes. “I am going to get that box of toys that you bought me yesterday, then Willie and I will go away, and we will not make any noise, so you can sleep. Does your mamma ever have such dreadful headaches?” she asked of the boy.

“No, but papa does sometimes; then he has to stay in a dark room, and everybody has to keep as still as mice,” he answered.

It seemed to the suffering woman as if she could not suppress a moan of agony to hear the child call that man “papa,” and she wondered if he ever knew what it was to have such a heartache as she was at that moment suffering.

Little Virgie secured her box of playthings, and then the two children tiptoed out of the room, softly shutting the door after them, while Virgie lay another hour trying to compose herself and rally her shattered nerves.

She arose at last with the fixed determination to have one look at the man and woman whom she believed had ruined her life—just one glance to see how life had dealt with them, and then she would fly from all danger and temptation.

She arrayed herself in a lovely dress of black lace, made over rich lavender silk, and looped here and there with glistening ribbons of the same color. She had coiled her abundant hair in a coronet about her shapely head and pinned it with a golden arrow, in which there gleamed a single diamond. Her ornaments were of dead rough gold, fashioned in some quaint design, and she fastened in her belt a cluster of white acacia blossoms, which made a lovely contrast against the black and lavender of her dress.

She was exquisitely beautiful, and she realized the fact as she finished her toilet, and she could not help wondering what she—that other woman was like—the woman who had won her husband from her.

She could hear the merry voices of the children, who were still at their play in the hall, and a bitter smile curled her lips as she thought how unconscious they were of each other’s identity, or of the torture she was suffering to have them thus together, two rivals, she believed, for the same name and inheritance.

After a little she went to her door and looked out at them. The children were both seated upon the floor, with Virgie’s toys between them, and were chatting gayly with all the unconscious freedom of childhood.

“Oh, mamma, you are better!” cried Virgie, catching sight of her mother, her face lighting with pleasure, “and how nice you look! Willie,” turning with an impressive air to her companion, “do you know I think my mamma is the prettiest mamma there is in the world; yours is very nice and grand, but I don’t think she is quite as lovely as mine.”

The boy fixed his eyes on Virgie, and looked gravely thoughtful for a moment, as if debating the point in his mind, and she was amused, in spite of her pain, by his evident desire to be guilty of no disloyalty, and yet not wound his new friend by contradicting her assertion, as he replied:

“Well, perhaps; but my papa is very handsome. Where is your papa?”

“Sh!” Virgie whispered, as her mother turned quickly away at the question and walked to the end of the corridor, where there was an alcove inclosed by rich draperies, “it makes mamma very sad to say anything about my papa. We lost him when I was a little baby.”

“Lost him!”

“Yes; he went away over the same sea that you had to cross and he never came back.”

“Oh! he was drownded!” whispered the little fellow, in an awe-stricken voice, and looking exceedingly shocked.

“What is your mamma’s name?” he asked, after a pause.

“Virginia—the same as mine. What is yours?”

“Margaret, and it means ‘a pearl.’ Papa sometimes calls her his ‘pearl of great price.’”

“Oh!” moaned Virgie from behind the draperies, as she caught these words, “a pearl of great price, indeed.”

Just then a door midway of the corridor opened and another lady came slowly down the lofty hall.

She was tall and commanding in figure; not so slight or graceful as Virgie, but possessing a sweet and gracious dignity that was exceedingly pleasing.

She was a perfect blonde, and her beautiful golden hair was gathered into a massive and graceful knot at the back of her head. Her eyes were blue, her cheeks delicately tinted with pink, and a rare, winning smile played about her sweet mouth.

She was dressed all in white. A robe of some soft clinging material was en traine, very artistically draped and elaborately trimmed with a profusion of white satin ribbons. She wore an elegant set of opals surrounded with diamonds, and was truly a beautiful and distinguished looking woman.

Her face gleamed with infinite tenderness as she drew near the children.

“Why, are you still playing together?” she asked, as she stopped beside them; “you seem inclined to be very friendly.”

“Yes, Virgie is a very nice girl to play with,” returned Master Heath, with the air of one paying a great compliment; “and see what she has given me, mamma,” he added, holding up a handful of toys.

“Do not let the little girl rob herself,” said his mother, in a voice of tender caution.

“No; she made me take them; and—oh, mamma! I have seen her mamma—she was here just now—such a lovely lady! And Virgie says she lost her papa when she was a little baby—he was drownded.”

“Drowned, you mean, Willie,” corrected the lady; “how sad! but perhaps you ought not to talk about it, dear,” she added tenderly, as she bent forward and softly stroked Virgie’s glossy hair with her jeweled hand.

There were tears in her eyes as she said it, and though Virgie, in her hiding place behind the draperies, could not see these, she could hear the slight tremulousness in her tones, and she knew that she was a tender-hearted, sympathetic woman.

She then began to talk about something else and thus led their minds away from the sad topic until in a few moments they were laughing in the merriest manner—the childish voices ringing out fresh and clear, that of the beautiful woman like a silver bell.

Virgie saw and heard all with the keenest pain in her heart and though a torturing jealousy filled her soul—a sense of wrong and humiliation—from the belief that another had supplanted her in the heart and home of the man she loved, yet she could but own the worth, the beauty, and the fascination of that sweet, womanly woman who seemed so unconscious of wrong, whose heart was so full of tenderness and sympathy for the sorrows of others.

Oh, if, as she stood behind those curtains peering out upon that merry, attractive group, she could have known how very near she was just then to happiness and an explanation of all the dark past, she never would have concealed herself as she did. She would have made herself known; she would have sought rather than shunned that beautiful woman in white, and learned the mistake that had so embittered the last ten years of her life.

But she could more resolutely have faced a wild beast than those pure, innocent eyes and that happy smile. At first she had thought that she would go down to dinner, she would assert herself and make her presence a living reproach to the guilty pair.

But now she knew she could not; her strength would fail her, and she only longed for an opportunity to steal away unobserved to her room and hide her wretchedness once more from every human eye.

She turned away from that pretty tableau where her darling was so happy, and gazed out upon the street beneath her; but she saw nothing, heard nothing, for the tumult within her heart and brain.

She was conscious of nothing else till a movement almost beside her caused her to turn suddenly, and she found herself face to face with William Heath’s wife.

“I beg your pardon,” said the latter, flushing slightly as she met the startled, surprised look that shot into Virgie’s eyes; “I did not know that any one was here. I came to find a book that I left here yesterday.”

Virgie bowed, and moved aside to see if she was hiding it; but her heart beat almost suffocatingly, and she was as white as that cluster of acacias in her belt.

Yes, there was a volume lying on the chair beside her, which Mrs. Heath recognized, remarking as she took possession of it:

“Ah, yes, this is it. Thank you; I am sorry to have intruded upon you.” Then, with an upward, admiring glance into the beautiful face, she added: “Pray, excuse me, but are not you the mother of the little girl who is playing with my son in the corridor? The resemblance between you is very striking.”

“Yes, Virgie is my daughter,” Virgie answered, laying an unconscious stress upon the pronoun.

“She is a dear little thing—so merry, yet so gentle and affectionate,” remarked Mrs. Heath, with a tender inflection which somewhat softened her listener, “and I believe she is the loveliest child I ever saw. How old is she?”

“She was nine in June.”

“And my boy is eight,” smiled the fond mother, with a proud, backward glance; “and he seems to have become really attached to Virgie during the little time they have played together. Have you been in Niagara long, Mrs. Alexander?”

Virgie started at being thus addressed by the woman who bore the name which had once been rightly her own.

“We arrived the day before yesterday,” she said, briefly.

“Ah! So recently?” replied her companion, wondering why the beautiful woman should be so reserved. “Then you have had no opportunity to see the attractions of the place, and it is wonderful here. I have never seen anything so grand in all Europe as these mighty falls and the rapids.”

She was so sweet and gracious, and evidently so desirous of pleasing, that Virgie was seized with an impulse to show her the better side of her character. She felt sure that they would meet again some day when, perhaps, their relative positions might be reversed, and something like a feeling of pity for the lovely woman prompted her to put aside her pain, her jealousy and bitterness, and exert herself to be agreeable.

She responded cordially to the remarks she had just made relative to the scenery of that locality, and thus, once launched, she talked as she had never talked before—of nature, of art, of literature, of men, and things generally; and when, half an hour later, the two women separated, Mrs. Heath was fascinated, almost enraptured.

“I have never met any one so brilliant or beautiful before,” she murmured to herself, as she went to call her boy from his play, remarking that he must bid his little friend “good-by, since papa had decided that they were to leave directly after dinner.”

Several hours later, as the twilight had begun to deepen, Virgie, weak and pale from the excitement of the day, sat upon the balcony opening from her room, eagerly watching a little scene below.

A carriage had just been driven to the door. Two large trunks were brought out from the hotel and strapped upon it, then a gentleman and a lady with a little boy and maid followed.

Virgie crouched down behind the railing and strained her eyes for a look at that tall, manly figure, firmly believing it to be Sir William Heath—her recreant husband.

He stood by the carriage door and assisted his wife to enter with affectionate care, seeing that she was perfectly comfortable before he attended to anything else; then he caught his boy in his arms, and with some playful remark, which the eager ear above could not catch, tossed him lightly in beside his mother. Then the maid was kindly assisted, after which he entered himself, and the travelers were driven away.

But Virgie, with all her anxiety to do so, had not been able to catch even one glimpse of that face. There was something familiar about the form, although it was somewhat stouter than Sir William had been ten years ago, while he had spoken so low that she could not tell whether it was the old loved voice or not; but as the carriage was whirled away in the growing dusk she felt a hundred-fold more desolate than ever before.

They were so happy, she so miserable! Why, oh, why must such things be?

Then a different mood took possession of her, and she grew hard and stern.

“It is coming—a day of retribution will surely come,” she said. “There may be a son to inherit the title, but, if he told me the truth, the eldest born inherits the bulk of the property, and Virgie shall yet have her inheritance.”

CHAPTER IV.
A STARTLING DISCOVERY.

It was a great relief to Virgie to know that the Heaths were gone, for now she would be perfectly free from all restraint and could go about as much as she desired without the fear of encountering them.

She remained a fortnight at the falls, visiting every place of interest in the vicinity, and making many beautiful sketches. Then she turned her face westward and northward, following the great lakes, intending to see much of the scenery of Michigan and Wisconsin before her season of travel should end.

She traveled very leisurely, never hurrying from place to place, for she strove to get all the enjoyment possible out of her tours, both for herself and her little girl, who was never happier than when journeying in this easy way.

But once they were obliged to ride all night. It was not often that Virgie would allow herself to do this, for they could not rest well upon the cars, but in this instance it seemed to be necessary in order to make connections.

She retired early for the sake of little Virgie, who was nervous at being on the train at night, they taking the lower berth of their section, while the maid occupied the upper one.

Virgie was very weary and soon dropped asleep without a thought of danger or of the terrible tragedy that was so soon to send a score of those thoughtless travelers into eternity, maim as many more for life, and stamp every memory with a never-to-be-forgotten horror.

Virgie did not know how long she had slept, when she became conscious of several heavy thuds against the bottom of the car she was in, accompanied by violent jerks and wrenches, and a swaying from side to side; then it seemed as if they were being thrown into space; there was one awful moment of horror and suspense, then a terrible crash, mingled with shrieks, and groans, and prayers; after that darkness and oblivion.