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struck him the more forcibly now they were starting on their way to England. He looked a middle-aged man, scarcely younger than his father. Would it be possible to mold him, even by little and little, by the slowest degrees, into anything like the form of an English gentleman? It was too late for that.

days Sophy had always been a trouble and perplexity to her, though the sadness and mystery of her fate had made her forget all these cares. Sophy's son was coming to be a still greater trouble and perplexity to her in her old age. By dint of casual questions asked of Margaret at odd times, Rachel drew to herself a picture of her great-nephew which filled her with dismay. A man who could neither read nor write, who went about in rags, bare-headed and barefooted—above all, a man who, if he prayed at all, prayed to images; such was the usurper who was about to seize Philip's birthright.

The evening of the day when Margaret and she arrived at Apley, Rachel set off to tell her brother of Sophy's fate. The little street, so familiar to her all her life, seemed to put on a strange aspect as she sometimes hurried, and sometimes lingered, along it, in the unusual tumult of her spirit, which was eager, yet afraid, to tell her news. At last, the small, low window of the shop, and the three hollowed stone steps leading to the door, were reached. The old journeyman, grown old and infirm in their service, was putting up the shutters, and the bell tinkled loudly as he went in and out through the half open door. She was just in time to enter and pass through the darkened shop unheard, to the kitchen behind it.

It looked very homelike and cozy to her, much more so than the grand rooms at the Hall. Though it was summer a clear fire was burning in the grate, and its dancing light flickered pleasantly on the polished oak of the dresser and the old clock, and on the brass candlesticks and pewter dishes, shining like silver, ranged on the dresser shelves. Andrew sat in a three-cornered chair inside the chimney nook, resting himself with an air of tranquil comfort now the shop was closed and the day's business done. He was a hale looking old man, with a good deal of strength in him still, though his hair, which had turned gray thirty years ago, was now of a silvery whiteness. In Rachel's eyes he looked little older, and far happier, than he had done thirty years ago.

"So you've come back again from foreign parts," said Andrew, greeting her cordially, after her sister Mary had kissed her again and again. "You're welcome back, Rachel; but it's been only a flying visit, not more than a week or so. I wonder the quality don't get worn out with flying about like that."

"It was business this time," she answered gravely, "not pleasure. You're quite well, Brother Andrew? You've got no rheumatism such weather as this?"

"Not a twinge of it," he said. "I never reckoned on being a strong old man like this. Thanks to the folks at the Hall, Mr. Martin, and Mr. Philip, and Mr. Hugh, and Miss Margaret most of all. If ever folks mended a broken heart, they've mended mine, God bless them!"

"Ay! God bless them," she echoed in a tremulous voice. "Brother Andrew, do you often think of Sophy now?"

"Often think of Sophy now!" he repeated; "ay! every day, every hour! When you came through the shop, I thought, 'Suppose that is my girl!' She may come home yet, Rachel. Some night, when all the shops are shut, and the neighbors safe indoors, she'll steal in and ask if she may come home again. If it wasn't for thinking she might do that, I'd have quitted the old house years ago; but I've stayed on for fear she might come back and find no home, and be ashamed of inquiring where we've gone to. I think of Sophy!" he murmured in a tone of wonder and reproach.

"She would be a gray-haired woman now, fifty years old," said Mary; "we should hardly know her."

"Then you don't give up the hopes of finding her?" asked Rachel.

"Never!" he answered. "I've asked Almighty God thousands and thousands of times to let me live till I knew what had become of her. And I've pleaded his promises with him, and I cannot think he'll disappoint me. I am sure I shall know before I die."

"But it might be best for you not to know," she suggested.

"But I chose to know it," he said, a gleam of almost insane excitement burning in his deep-set eyes, "I chose to know it. I did not leave it with God. I said, 'Let me know even if it kills me. Let me know if I go down to hell to find her.' I say so now. Rachel," he cried in a loud and agitated voice,

"have you come to tell me something? Have you found her? Do you know anything about my girl?"

He sprang up and seized her hands in his own. They were both old people, with but few years to live, yet at this moment they felt as if they were thirty years younger, and in the early prime of their days, when Sophy had disappeared, and the trouble first crushed them. If she had opened the door and entered among them with her pretty face and saucy manner, they would have seen her without a shadow or touch of surprise.

"Yes, I have heard of her," said Rachel breathlessly.

Andrew fell back in his chair, and his withered face went ashy pale. He only cried, as if to himself, "My God! my God!"

"But, Brother Andrew," continued Rachel in a forced, monotonous manner, "she is dead. Sophy died thirty years ago."

"Sophy died thirty years ago!" he repeated, gazing at her with dim eyes, from which all the light had faded.

"Very far away, in foreign parts," went on Rachel; "and before she died—the very day before she died—she wrote a letter to me, a long letter, that was never sent."

"Died thirty years ago," murmured Andrew, as if his brain could understand nothing more.

"Rachel," said Mary eagerly, "just sit down and tell us all about it. Have you brought the letter?

Was she married? Who did she run away with? Be quiet, and tell."

"First," answered Rachel, "I want to know if you can forgive the man who persuaded her to run away, Brother Andrew?"

"No! no!" he exclaimed.

"Not if he were a mere boy, like our Mr. Philip, who did not know the harm he did?" urged

Rachel.

"If he married her," he said hesitatingly.

"Oh, he married her," replied Rachel.

Andrew's white head sank into his hands, and the tears trickled slowly down his face. Sophy had been married. For the sting of his sorrow had been the dread that his child had lost her innocence. The tears he shed were tears of gladness and thankfulness. True, she was dead; but he, too, would soon die, and he would meet her with no shame upon her head. He was not afraid of dying now, for the secret he dreaded had been revealed to him. Rachel drew out of her pocket Sophy's letter, and laid it on the little round table, where a candle was lighted.

"But who did she run away with?" asked Mary. "If you know she was married, you know who she was married to."

"Yes," she answered, sighing heavily; "he was no older than Mr. Philip, a mere boy, with no thought of the harm he did. He'd been visiting at the Hall, and saw our Sophy, and he ran away with her and married her. It was Mr. Martin himself."

"Mr. Martin!" exclaimed both Andrew and Mary at the same moment.

Across Andrew's mind came the recollections of the last twenty-three years. Sidney had seen and known all their sorrow and bewilderment; he had seemed to share it; he had diligently aided them in their inquiries, and all the time he knew! At any moment he could have rolled the burden off their hearts. He, who had seemed their friend and benefactor, had been the very enemy they were seeking.

The gloomy and fierce light blazed again in Andrew's sunken eyes, and he raised his arm, trembling with excitement, and looked mournfully at it, as if he was stricken with palsy.

"Would to God my right arm was what it used to be!" he cried. "But I'm an old, worn-out, broken-down man, with no strength left. I've only strength to cry night and day upon God to avenge me. And he will avenge me."

"Hush! hush!" exclaimed Rachel. "In cursing him you curse those who are dear to us as Sophy was. You curse Philip and Hugh, and our own Miss Margaret. And you love them."

"Yes, I love them," he replied fiercely; "but not like my own girl. You don't know what it is to have given life to a child, and see her life destroyed by another man. It tugs at my very heartstrings.

Oh, my Sophy!"

He dropped his head again so that they could not see his face. But his shrunk and trembling hands were clenched till the sinews stood out white and rigid, and his bent shoulders heaved with deep and bitter sobs. It was the treachery of his idolized master which was burning his wrongs into his very soul.

"But he is punished more than you could punish him," said Rachel, "for Sophy left a child behind

her, a son, and my lady says he is heir in place of Mr. Philip."

"How can that be?" he asked, looking up with a puzzled gaze.

"Because Sophy was Mr. Martin's first wife," she continued, "before our Miss Margaret; and Sir John Martin's estates in Yorkshire are settled on his eldest son. Sophy's child is a man of thirty now, and my lady says he must be the squire when Mr. Martin dies."

"Sophy's son is my grandson," said Andrew, after a long pause.

"Yes," answered Mary.

"Then where is he?" he asked impatiently. "I want to see Sophy's son. I must see that he gets his rights. My grandson will be the squire some day. But I shall not live to see it, and then Mr. Martin will cheat him, as he has cheated me."

"No," said Rachel, "Mr. Martin owns him, and they are bringing him home from the far-off place where Mr. Philip found him. But, Brother Andrew, it would be best for him not to take Philip's place.

Think of it! You and me aren't fit to be the grandfather and the aunt of Mr. Martin's heir. We shall have nothing to do with him; he cannot come and visit us here in this little house, and we couldn't go and visit him at the Hall. We shall all be upset, and he will be no more than a stranger to us, though he is Sophy's son."

"But I shall be proud of him," answered Andrew. "I shall like to see him ride past the shop window, like Mr. Philip does. And when he lifts his hat and smiles at me, as Mr. Philip does, I shall say, 'That's Sophy's son, my grandson.' Ah! and Mr. Martin will be finely punished. What is his name, Rachel?"

"They christened him Martino," she replied; "he will be Martino Martin."

"Martino Martin," he repeated; "that is my grandson! He will be squire of Brackenburn, but I shall never see it. I shall be dead before then; we shall all be gone. But he will be a rich man—richer than Mr. Philip."

"You always said you loved Mr. Philip as if he was your own," said Rachel sadly.

"Ay! but this is different," he answered; "this one is really my own flesh and blood. He belongs to me, and I belong to him. I shall see Sophy again in him. Mr. Philip calls me 'Goldsmith,' but he will call me 'grandfather.' As soon as he comes home, and has a horse to suit him, I will make him such a saddle as the highest gentleman in the land might covet. I long to see him—as fine a gentleman as them all."

"But you forgive Mr. Martin?" asked Rachel.

"Forgive him!" he exclaimed. "Forgive a traitor like him! A man who pretends to be your friend, and comforts you for the sorrow he is making! Forgive him for stealing away my only child, and hiding my grandson away in foreign parts! Forgive him all these years of grief which almost broke my

heart! Why should I forgive him?"

"Because you pray to God to forgive you as you forgive others," she said.

"But I've never trespassed against God," he answered, "as this man has trespassed against me, God Himself being the judge. Let me be for a while. Perhaps some day, when I see my grandson riding by with gentlemen like himself, rich, and prosperous, and happy, and, maybe, a member of Parliament, then I may by chance forgive his father. But I cannot do it now—not now. I've a great deal to sum up and get over before I can forgive him."

Late on in the night Andrew Goldsmith was poring and brooding over every word in Sophy's letter. He lived over again the years of distraction, bordering upon insanity, which had intervened between Sophy's disappearance and the return of Colonel Cleveland to the Hall with his daughter Margaret and her husband Sidney Martin. He called back the memory of the singular fascination Mr.

Martin had exercised over him; and his old, troubled heart was very sore as he thought of all his loyal friendship to the man who had so deeply wronged him. "And he was my son-in-law all the time," he said to himself. If he had owned his marriage, and brought his son to his own house to be educated as his heir, Andrew would gladly have kept in the background, content with an occasional sight of his grandson. But now he would spread the story far and wide. Mr. Martin, who had been ashamed of his lowly marriage, should be more bitterly ashamed of his treacherous secrecy. His love for Margaret and her sons was swallowed up in his hatred of her husband, his own son-in-law.