upon taking his leave, he shyly slipped into our hero’s apartment,
and in less than two minutes reappeared with Mr. Brewster’s note in
his possession, thus depriving his victim of an important piece of
evidence.

Gerald, in laying his case before his lawyer, did not mention
Allison, or the fact that she had been present in the room during
any portion of his interview with her father.

He really believed that she had not entered in season to overhear
anything that had been said about the “doctored” accounts, and
even if he had known that such was the case, it is doubtful if
he could have brought himself to call upon her as a witness for
him. The thought of dragging her into a criminal court, to have
her name bandied about by newspaper reporters, was very repugnant
to him. Besides, she had not shown the slightest interest in him,
or sympathy for him in his trouble. He reasoned that she could
not fail to know of it, since it had been widely chronicled in
the papers, and her apparent indifference cut him to the quick,
wounding his pride as well as his love, and thus a certain
obstinacy took possession of him, and made him secretly vow that he
would not appeal to her, even if he knew that her evidence would
save him from serving a sentence in State prison.

The real facts of the case were, that during the first few days
after her father’s death, Allison had been so prostrated with grief
that it had been comparatively easy for John Hubbard to keep all
newspapers from her, which he had taken special pains to do, as he
did not care to have her know anything of Gerald’s trouble until
it was too late for her to interest herself for him. He believed
that he had played his cards so cleverly that his conviction was
inevitable, and, once behind prison-bars, he believed the fair girl
would never give him another thought.

The case was finally called on the Tuesday following Mr. Brewster’s
burial. John Hubbard appeared against Gerald armed and equipped
with the falsified books, the casket of jewels, and the other box,
which had been carefully relocked, for the wily plotter had no
intention of having its secrets disclosed at present--those he was
reserving for later schemes in connection with Allison.

The evidence for the prosecution was presented, with all the
eloquence and cunning of which the expert was master, and to every
listener in the room the fate of Gerald appeared settled before he
concluded.

There were very few witnesses for the prisoner. The servant who
had admitted him to the Brewster mansion on the Saturday previous
to his master’s death, swore to the fact, thus proving that he
had been there, and Professor Emerson, on taking the stand, spoke
eloquently and in the highest terms of his pupil, and emphatically
asserted that he believed him to be above doing a mean or dishonest
act. But, of course, all this proved nothing.

Gerald was then allowed to go upon the stand, and tell his own
story, and the moment that he turned his frank, handsome face
to the audience, when he met those critical, searching glances
with his clear, honest eyes, and manly bearing, it was evident
that he made a favorable impression upon every person in the
room--excepting his sworn enemy. When he finally concluded, Hubbard
demanded the production of the note from Mr. Brewster relating to
“a special commission.”

“It cannot be found,” Mr. Arnold gravely responded. “Mr. Winchester
left it in a pocket of his business-suit on Sunday, when he went
to the bank to execute his employer’s commission. He has not been
in his room since; but when I was authorized to go to his room to
secure this note, it had mysteriously disappeared. Nevertheless,
the fact that he went to Mr. Brewster’s residence on the date
stated, and was admitted to the man’s presence, proves conclusively
that he was sent for.”

“Not at all,” retorted the prosecuting-attorney, “any one might
have called at the banker’s residence, requested an audience, and
been admitted to his presence without a previous appointment. We
are not asking opinions, your honor, we want evidence. You assert,”
he added, turning to Gerald, “that Mr. Brewster gave you the keys
to the bank and his private drawer in the vault. Will you state
where he took them from before handing them to you?”

“From a drawer in the table beside him.”

“Exactly. Where any one could easily have secured them in the
event of Mr. Brewster’s back being turned for a moment,” retorted
the expert laconically. “Now, with reference to these falsified
accounts,” said Hubbard, touching the books before him, his white
teeth gleaming viciously for a moment beneath his mustache, “you
claim, I believe, that they are none of your work--that some
one else has changed your figures. We would like to have your
statements proven, young man.”

“I never knowingly made a false entry in my life,” Gerald proudly
returned, but flushing hotly beneath the man’s insolent manner; “my
own figures were all correct when entered, but my ‘ones’ have been
made over into fours, nines, sevens, zeros, and so forth----”

“But the proof, young man--the proof!” interposed his tormentor.

“If any one will add the columns, calling such figures as I should
point out, ‘ones,’ the balance would be found correct in every
instance,” Gerald replied.

“Possibly, but we want evidence to prove that those ‘ones’ have
been changed.”

“You can have it, sir,” said Mr. Arnold, in a brisk, businesslike
tone, that made John Hubbard prick up his ears, and, at a signal,
another witness now came forward.

He was a small, olive-complexioned man, with straight black hair,
small, sharp features, with a pair of keen, black eyes, which were
shaded by steel-bowed spectacles.

His manner was abrupt, and there was a decisive air about him which
indicated strong personality, while he rejoiced in the sobriquet of
Plum--Mr. Thomas Plum.

“Mr. Plum,” courteously observed Mr. Arnold, “will you tell the
court what you have discovered with reference to those ‘doctored
accounts’?”

“Yes, sir, yes, sir,” responded the brisk little man, taking out
some tablets, “I find no less than eighty instances where the
figure ‘one’ has been skilfully changed to some other figure,
in those accounts, and covering a period of from sixteen, to
eighteen months. If the figures were added as ones, which they
were originally, the balance would, in every instance, be correct;
but, according to the changes made, there seems to be a deficit of
several hundreds of dollars.”

John Hubbard suddenly sat erect, an alert spark glittering in his
cold, gray eyes.

“So you assert, under oath, Mr. Plum, that those figures have
all been changed since the original balances were made up?” he
observed, in a metallic tone.

“Yes, sir,” briefly but positively.

“You are willing to swear that the work was all square and right
when the clerk left it under the dates there recorded?”

“Exactly, sir.”

“Prove it, if you please.”

“That I am prepared to do,” said the expert cheerfully, but
flashing a look at his questioner which sent a sudden chill through
him. “In the first place, Mr. Winchester’s figures were all entered
with the same ink, and with a fine-pointed steel pen. The figures
that have been tampered with show a different ink, and were
evidently changed with a gold, and, probably, a fountain-pen.”

“How can you detect between the work of a gold and a steel pen?”
queried Hubbard, with a skeptical smile.

An answering smile curved the lips of Mr. Plum.

“With the utmost ease, sir, as you would soon discover were you
to study the subject with the aid of a powerful microscope. The
ink flows very differently from a gold and from a steel pen. My
examination has proved to me that Mr. Winchester was not guilty of
any of the changes referred to--his figures all being very decided,
especially in their angles, while the work of the real culprit,
although very cleverly done, shows a certain individuality of
roundness about the angles that appears nowhere in Mr. Winchester’s
figures. Your honor will observe by the aid of this powerful glass
the peculiarities of which I have spoken,” Mr. Plum concluded,
as he passed a small case up to the judge, who, after making a
careful examination of certain figures, pointed out to him, gravely
observed:

“I do so observe; it is evident that the changes were not made by
the prisoner.”

Gerald’s face lighted with pleasure at this remark, but his joy was
short-lived, for the matter of the doctored accounts was dropped
then and the charge of theft taken up.

There followed a long, sharp contest, during which his counsel
fought nobly every inch of ground for him; but the burden of proof
was all against him, and when the case was finally summed up the
outlook was certainly very discouraging.

The judge had been strongly attracted toward Gerald by his frank,
honest face, his manly bearing, and his straightforward story;
but he was reluctantly compelled to admit that the evidence was
decidedly against the prisoner, and he rose to address the jury
and summarize the testimony, but before he could utter a word the
door of the court-room was thrown open, and a slender, black-robed
figure darted inside, and walked, with a quick, firm tread directly
toward him.

The intruder was Allison Brewster.

CHAPTER IX.

AN IMPORTANT WITNESS.

The fair girl looked wan, thin, and sad, her recent bereavement
having worn heavily upon her. But there was a spot of scarlet upon
each cheek, called there by the excitement of the moment, while
there was also a gleam of mingled indignation and determination in
her beautiful blue eyes, which bespoke some high purpose in view.

Gerald half-started from his seat as he saw her enter the
court-room, then a swift, hot flush mounted to his forehead, and
he sank back with averted face and painfully compressed lips. As
Allison went swiftly across the room her eyes met those of John
Hubbard, who sprang to his feet, repressing an oath, and hurried
forward to meet her, while the judge paused in surprise at the
strange interruption.

“Are you Gerald’s counsel?” Allison questioned excitedly, as her
guardian came to her side.

“No,” he said briefly, then added, in a tone of displeasure, “but
why are you here? This is no place for you.”

“Who is his lawyer, then?” she demanded, without heeding his
objection to her presence.

“No one whom you know; but the case is almost concluded--the judge
is about to address the jury. Come, let me take you out.”

“Will Gerald be acquitted?” queried Allison, anxiously.

“I--I cannot say,” the man faltered, his glance wavering before
her. “But, come now.”

“No, not until I know how this case is going,” said Allison
sharply. “Oh, why did you not tell me about it? I never knew a word
of it until an hour ago, when I went to the bank to get something
that belonged to papa, which I wanted very much, and Mr. Whipple
told me what was going on here.”

The truth was that Allison so yearned to see Gerald that she had
made an errand to the bank for that very purpose, when, upon
inquiring for him, she had learned the truth, and then, nearly wild
with grief, hastened to the courthouse with the hope of being able
to help him in some way.

“Order!” some one now called out, for the judge was still waiting
for the prosecuting-attorney to return to his seat.

“Who brought this charge against Gerald?” Allison questioned
eagerly, but lowering her voice.

“I did,” returned her companion, now white with anger, as he
realized that she would not yield to him, and had some definite
purpose in view.

“You? Why did you do it?” Allison demanded, with blazing eyes.

“Because I caught him in the act of stealing from the vault of the
bank.”

“Never! Gerald could not be guilty of theft,” whispered the girl
hoarsely.

“Unfortunately, his guilt has been proven. Now will you come?” And
the man laid an authoritative hand upon her arm.

She drew herself haughtily away from him, and, turning, bent her
gaze upon Gerald, who was responding to some question just put to
him by his counsel.

“Order!” again called the voice; but Allison, all unmindful of the
fact that she was becoming conspicuous, glided straight to the side
of Albert Arnold.

“Are you Mr. Winchester’s lawyer?” she inquired, at the same time
bestowing a tremulous smile upon Gerald.

“Yes,” he replied, smiling encouragement upon her, for he began to
see a gleam of hope for his client, as Gerald had just told him who
she was.

“Then I have something to tell you,” she said, eagerly; “I would
have come before, but I did not know anything about this--this
trouble until within an hour. Am I too late to help Gerald?”

“I hope not, my dear young lady, although, to use a slang
expression, it is a pretty close shave. Your honor,” turning to the
judge, with fresh energy, “this young lady is Miss Brewster, and
she informs me that she has some evidence to give in favor of my
client.”

“Do you know the nature of it?” inquired his honor.

“I do not; had I known that she was qualified to testify, I should
have called her as a witness long before this.”

“She may take the stand,” said the judge, resuming his seat with a
feeling of secret satisfaction.

“I object, your honor,” John Hubbard here interposed. “Miss
Brewster is my ward--she can know nothing of the affair, and this
is no place for her. The case is almost concluded--the evidence has
been submitted, and----”

“Mr. Hubbard, the young lady has voluntarily come here to give
evidence for the prisoner, and her testimony will be received,”
interposed the judge, with considerable sternness, adding,
peremptorily: “Officer, swear the witness.”

After Allison was sworn, he courteously remarked:

“Now, Miss Brewster, you may proceed.”

“I am told,” the fair witness began, but now very pale, “that Mr.
Winchester is being tried for the crime of robbery. I know that he
is guiltless, for I have heard my father say, many times, that he
was the most trustworthy young man he ever met. I have heard him
say that he was ‘almost morbidly honest.’ I have learned today that
this supposed robbery was committed on Sunday, the--the morning
after my father died.” Allison’s voice wavered slightly here. “But
I am sure there was no theft--no intent to steal; I believe that he
was sent to the bank to get the articles found in his possession.
I know he came to see papa on Saturday--the day before--for I went
into the room while he was there. I am sure, too, that he must have
come by appointment, for my father denied himself to all visitors,
and seldom saw any one outside the family except on necessary
business. If Mr. Winchester says that he gave him the keys to the
bank to enable him to perform this errand, I know he must have done
so, for he is incapable of falsehood.”

The court-room might have been empty, it was so still. There was
not a sound save that sweet, young voice, which was like music
to at least one pair of eager ears, as it bravely rehearsed the
sterling qualities of her persecuted lover.

The audience listened spellbound--even the judge betrayed, by his
eager attitude, how intensely interested he was, while John Hubbard
was as white as the handkerchief with which, from time to time, he
wiped the moisture from his forehead.

“Neither my father nor Mr. Winchester was aware of my presence in
the room until a minute or two after I entered,” Allison resumed,
after a momentary pause, “and as I stepped inside the portiéres I
heard Gerald say, ‘I have never made a false entry in one of your
books.’ ‘I am sure you have not, Gerald,’ papa replied. ‘I would
stake my fortune upon your integrity, and your faithfulness to my
interests. I will look into this matter as soon as I am able.’ Then
I made it known that I was in the room, and, a few minutes later,
Mr. Winchester went away.”

Allison heaved a sigh of relief as she concluded, although she
would have been willing to talk on indefinitely if she could have
given conclusive proof of Gerald’s innocence. But the little
that she had told tallied so exactly with his own account of his
conversation with Mr. Brewster that it proved a great deal for him.

“Do you think it would have been possible for Mr. Winchester to get
possession of your father’s keys without his knowledge?” Gerald’s
counsel inquired, a ring of triumph in his tones.

“Certainly not,” Allison replied confidently; “papa always kept
them in a small drawer of a table in his room. He was sitting close
beside it when I entered the room, and Mr. Winchester was on the
opposite side of the table, and there is no drawer on that side.”

There was a little burst of applause at this latter statement,
which plainly betrayed the sympathy of those who had listened to
the evidence.

Mr. Arnold said he had no further questions to ask, and John
Hubbard refusing, with frigid dignity, to catechise his ward,
Allison was allowed to leave the stand.

The judge then remarked that, in view of the evidence just given,
the aspect of the whole case was reversed, and it was self-evident
that the prisoner was innocent of all wrong. The jury announced a
verdict of acquittal without leaving their seats.

The moment the court was adjourned, and before her guardian could
intercept her, she darted to Gerald’s side and cordially shook
hands with him, after which he formally introduced her to his
lawyer, who commended her most heartily for the step she had taken,
and the timely aid she had given his client.

“Gerald,” she asked, with a look of reproach, “why didn’t you call
upon me as a witness?”

He flushed at the question.

“I could not,” he replied, with evident embarrassment; “I could
not endure the thought of your coming to such a place, and,
besides, I did not know how much or how little you had heard of my
conversation with Mr. Brewster.”

“But, at least, you might have let me know that you were in
trouble,” Allison returned, with a flash of resentment, while hot
tears of wounded feeling rushed to her eyes.

“I supposed, of course, you knew,” he faltered, flushing
sensitively, “the newspapers were full of the affair.”

“But I didn’t see the papers.” Then, with a searching look into his
face, she added: “If you believed I was aware of your trouble, you
must have thought me very--very unfriendly and indifferent--not to
send you some word of sympathy, nor come near you.”

Again Gerald flushed.

“I am afraid I haven’t been quite just to you,” he confessed.

“Well?” questioned the girl, somewhat sharply, as a hand was at
that moment laid upon her arm, and she turned to find her guardian
at her side.

“I have come to take you home,” he briefly remarked.

“Thank you, Mr. Hubbard,” she coldly returned, “but I am not going
home at present, and I will not detain you. The carriage is waiting
for me, and I have several errands to attend to before dinner.”

“Very well, then, I will escort you to your carriage before I go,”
the man responded, white in his lips with inward rage over his
defeat.

She gave her head a little independent toss, but she did not quite
dare to defy him further, for his tone had been authoritative, and
she knew she must go. But first she turned to Gerald and extended
her hand.

“Good-by, Gerald,” she said. “I am so glad that all has ended well
for you.” Then she added, in a hurried whisper, “Come and tell me
about it--come to-morrow afternoon.”

Gerald thanked her, and telegraphed his assent to her request by a
nod and a significant pressure of the hand he held.

Then, after bidding Mr. Arnold good-by, she signified to Mr.
Hubbard her readiness to go, and so passed out of the court-room
with him, but with a frigid manner and haughty bearing which warned
him that it might not be to his advantage to presume too much
upon his office as guardian of this spirited young lady; that the
employment of tact might be more effectual.

Upon reaching the carriage, Allison sprang in, before he could put
forth a hand to assist her, and she did not even offer to take him
along, and drop him at the bank on her way up-town.

She was inwardly boiling with rage and resentment toward him,
because he had been instrumental in bringing Gerald into such
trouble and disgrace, and she told herself that she should hate him
for it as long as she lived.

He was secretly chafed by her attitude, and yet there was something
of amusement and admiration, as well as of anger, in the look with
which he regarded her, as he closed the door of the vehicle.

She was very pretty--“deucedly pretty,” as he mentally expressed
it--with that spirited air, that defiant flash in her beautiful
eyes, and the angry scarlet in her cheeks.

He had never seen her in such a mood before, but it only added to
her charms, and he thought he rather liked it--unless it should
become too emphatic--unless she should defy all curbing by “taking
the bit in those dainty white teeth of hers.”

He bent forward through the open window and intercepted her glance
with a smiling, indulgent look.

“I seem to have incurred your displeasure in some way, Miss
Allison,” he remarked, in a friendly tone. “Don’t you think you
are a trifle unjust to me? I am certainly ignorant of any wilful
offense against you.”

“But you said you caused Gerald’s arrest,” Allison began, excitedly.

“And so I did,” he quietly interposed.

“How could you? how could you?” she burst forth angrily; “it was an
outrage, for there isn’t a more honest fellow living than Gerald
Winchester, and papa----”

“Softly, Allison, softly!” her companion interrupted, a cruel
spark leaping into his eyes. “Don’t allow your personal regard for
the young man to run away with your judgment. My fidelity to my
employer’s interests demands that if I find a burglar in the act of
robbing his bank I must guard them to the extent of the law, even
though its clutch falls upon a confidential clerk.”

“But you might have given Gerald the benefit of the doubt, when he
had the keys--when you knew he had never been guilty of a mean or
dishonorable act since he came into papa’s employ,” the fair girl
persisted, adding tremulously. “Oh, it would have been too dreadful
if I had not found out about it!”

“Yes, doubtless Winchester would have had a three years’ sentence
to serve,” John Hubbard returned, indifferently. “But,” he added,
assuming a blandness he was far from feeling, “I will not keep you
here discussing the matter further, even though I should be glad to
convince you of my fidelity to your father, and to assure you that
I shall continue to labor as faithfully for your interests.”

Allison gave a little shrug of impatience at this latter remark,
thus plainly indicating that it would have pleased her better if
she could have had some one more congenial to guard her interests.

The lawyer’s white teeth gleamed at her for an instant from beneath
his mustache; then he remarked, in a matter-of-fact tone:

“By the way, you said you had some errands to attend to. Have you
plenty of money for your purpose?”

“I have my check-book, thank you, and do not need any money,”
Allison coldly returned, drawing her coat more closely about her as
a hint that she did not care to be detained longer.

The man looked a trifle surprised at her reply.

“Very well, good-day,” he said, as he lifted his hat and stepped
back, whereupon Allison was driven away.

CHAPTER X.

A THRILLING ADVENTURE.

“Humph! So the little minx has her check-book!” mused John Hubbard,
as he bent his steps toward the bank after Allison’s departure, an
ugly gleam in his cold blue eyes. “That old dotard, her father,
must have had considerable confidence in her financial ability to
trust her to that extent! However, the game is pretty well in my
hands, and I haven’t much anxiety about the result. I’ll win her if
I can; I’ll drive her if need be--but I’ll crush her if she defies
me!”

Musing thus, the wily schemer proceeded on his way; but, always
intolerant of opposition, he was in no amiable frame of mind when
he finally reached his office, and settled down to a pile of
accumulated work that had been neglected for the outside demands
upon his time during the week just passed.

As he sat down to his desk he opened one of the books which he had
produced in court to show that Gerald had been guilty of falsifying
his accounts, and began to study it intently.

“Humph!” he ejaculated. “I could have sworn that there is not a
man living who could detect any change in those figures! That glass
must have been wonderfully powerful, and that expert a keen hand at
his business. He has made a study of chirography to some purpose! I
wonder where they found him? I never heard of him before, although
Judge Haight seemed to recognize him. A man needs to have his wits
about him nowadays, if he intends to do crooked work.” With which
sage reflection Mr. Hubbard closed the book with an impatient bang,
and, turning to his papers, was soon absorbed in his work.

An hour later Gerald walked into the bank, when he was most
cordially greeted and congratulated by his fellow clerks, with whom
he had worked so long. He then went directly to Mr. Brewster’s
private office, where he found John Hubbard occupying the late
banker’s chair and desk.

The man looked up with a scowl as he entered.

“Well,” he remarked frigidly, “did you think you could come back to
your old place?”

“Certainly not, Mr. Hubbard. There is no Mr. Brewster to require a
confidential clerk,” Gerald gravely returned. “I have simply come
to take away what few things belong to me.”

“Very well; be as expeditious as possible about it,” was the
caustic rejoinder, as the man turned his back upon him.

Gerald quietly gathered up his personal belongings and made them
into a neat package, put the desk where he had labored so long in
perfect order, then left the room and the bank, nodding a friendly
adieu to the other clerks as he went, but with a very heavy heart,
for without a position and with no influential friends to back him,
the outlook was very dark for him.

That evening he called upon Professor Emerson, with whom he had a
long talk relative to his prospects.

“There is nothing like a good education to begin life with,” he
said. “You are still young, and two years at Harvard are just what
you need. Have you anything ahead, Gerald?”

“Yes, sir; I have managed to save five or six hundred dollars since
I have been with Mr. Brewster.”

“Have you? Well, that is pretty well for a young man in your
position,” said his friend, in a gratified tone; “and now I’m sure
I do not see what is to hinder you from going to Harvard.”

“Why to Harvard? Why not to Yale?” questioned Gerald, who would
have preferred the latter college, because he would be nearer to
New York and Allison.

“Well, Yale is all right; but I have a friend who has a Harvard
scholarship to give away, and I am very sure I could get it for
you.”

“You are very kind, sir,” the young man replied, flushing with
emotion, “and I want a thorough education more than I can tell you;
but, really, I do not feel as if I could spare the time to spend
two years in college, and then study for a profession afterward. I
would like to be working myself up in some business, and keep on
with you as I have been doing.”

“I take it that you are ambitious to get rich, my young friend,”
said Professor Emerson, with a smile.

“Yes, sir, I am,” Gerald frankly admitted, flushing consciously as
he realized why he was so eager to acquire a competence.

“Well, of course, you must judge for yourself; but I should be
sorry to have you let so fine an opportunity slip away from you. I
advise you to take a little time to think it over before deciding
definitely,” said his friend earnestly.

“I will--thank you,” Gerald responded; adding heartily: “But I
trust, whether I accept your offer or not, you will feel that I am
truly grateful for all your kindness and interest--both past and
present.”

It was after ten o’clock when he left the house, and there were
indications of a storm. Gerald buttoned his coat close up to his
chin, and started briskly on his way.

After passing three or four blocks he turned into a small park, and
observed, as he did so, a gentleman some distance in advance of
him. He paid no especial attention to the individual until he was
on the point of passing out at the opposite gate, when he caught
sight of another figure shadowing the first by skulking behind the
trunks of trees to keep out of sight.

Gerald felt sure that this latter person had some malicious design
against the other, and he quickened his own steps that he might be
on hand if assistance was needed; but both had passed out of the
gate before he had half-crossed the park.

As he drew near the exit he heard voices in angry conversation,
and, peering around a post, he saw the two in conversation, and,
peering around a post, he saw the two men standing not a dozen
paces away. One was a tall, fine-looking man, handsomely clad. The
other was a disreputable-appearing fellow, wearing a rough ulster
and a slouch-hat, and Gerald also observed that there was not
another person in sight.

“I have told you never to appeal to me again,” Gerald heard the
gentleman remark, in sternly resolute tones, “and I shall give you
no more money to spend upon drink and gambling.”

“Oh, come, now don’t be hard on a fellow,” pleaded his companion,
as he moved a step or two nearer, while Gerald saw him slip his
right hand into the pocket of his ulster. “You’re just rolling in
wealth, and I am starving. Give me a ‘V.’”

“Not a dime, you rascal! You have played no end of tricks upon me,
and I am done with you forever,” was the reply.

“But I’m hungry, I tell you. I haven’t had a decent meal for a
week,” persisted the beggar; and now Gerald saw him cautiously
withdraw his hand from his pocket with an object in it that made
his heart leap into his throat.

“Heavens! It is a sand-bag!” he breathed.

“Well, if you are hungry, go to the nearest station-house, where
you will get a night’s lodging, with a supper and breakfast, and
to-morrow morning you can work to pay for it,” said the gentleman.

“Work!” snarled the tramp. “Do you think I am going to dig ice from
the gutters? Not if I know myself!”

“Very well, then, you may go hungry,” replied his companion, as he
turned to proceed on his way.

With an angry oath the tramp raised his arm aloft, and, in a moment
more, would have accomplished his deadly work had not Gerald, quick
as a flash, sprung from his place of concealment, dashed upon the
would-be murderer, and, wrenched the weapon from his grasp.

The wretch was so taken aback that he was utterly unable to
defend himself from this rear attack, and an instant later he lay
sprawling and stunned upon the pavement, Gerald having dexterously
tripped him.

“Now, sir, lend a hand, if you please,” he said, glancing over his
shoulder at the astonished man whom he had probably saved from a
violent death.

“Certainly, certainly,” he replied, quickly recovering himself,
and, darting forward, he planted a powerful knee upon the breast
of his fallen assailant. “I am sure I had not a suspicion that
he would dare do me any violence,” he added. “What was he up to,
anyway?”

For answer Gerald held the sand-bag up before him.

“Good heavens! what a wretch!” said the gentleman, in a startled
tone. “He is a distant relative--a worthless fellow--and has been
a leech upon me for years. But I reckon this business will settle
his fate for a while. Now, if you will go to the corner and call a
policeman I will manage him while you are gone. Take care, there!”
he added sternly, as the prostrate villain began to squirm and
struggle, and he enforced his command by a powerful grip upon his
throat.

Gerald darted away, and five minutes later came hurrying back with
a guardian of the peace, who immediately took the highwayman into
custody.

Then he learned that the name of the man whose life he had
doubtless saved was Richard Morgan Lyttleton, a noted lawyer, of
New York.

The officer demanded his name and address also, telling him that
his presence would be required in court on the morrow to testify
against the culprit.

Gerald smiled to himself as he thought of appearing so soon again
in a criminal-court, and he observed, when he gave his name, that
Mr. Lyttleton started slightly, and glanced keenly at him.

Then the policeman marched his prisoner off, when Mr. Lyttleton
turned to our hero and cordially extended his hand.

“My young friend, you have rendered me an inestimable service
to-night, and I am deeply grateful to you,” he said earnestly;
then added: “But, more of this when I see you again, as we shall
doubtless meet to-morrow. As it is late and cold, I will not keep
you longer. Good night.”

Gerald responded to his adieu, and they separated, each going his
own way.

Early the next morning Gerald received a summons to appear at the
court-house at eleven o’clock, and, upon arriving at the place, he
found his acquaintance of the previous night awaiting him, and who
regarded him with curious intentness as he greeted him.

“Can it be possible that you are the Gerald Winchester whose case
was before the court yesterday?” he asked.

“Yes, I am sorry to be obliged to confess that I am,” he replied
flushing, and a look of pain clouding his fine eyes.

“It was rather a peculiar affair--I was quite interested in it,”
said the lawyer.

“Indeed!” Gerald briefly observed.

“Yes, it was really romantic, and you came off with flying colors,”
said his companion, smiling. “As I told you last night, I am a
lawyer myself, and I confess, up to the moment of the appearance
of that young lady upon the scene, I did not see a vestige of hope
for you. Young man, you are to be congratulated upon having had so
stanch a friend in the charming Miss Brewster. If I am not greatly
mistaken, that John Hubbard is a scamp.”

Gerald lifted a glance of surprise to the gentleman’s face.

“What makes you think that?” he questioned.

“Well, I am something of a physiognomist, and, to me, he shows
treachery in every glance of his shifty eyes.” Mr. Lyttleton’s
expression plainly indicated a decided repugnance to the man under
discussion.

“Lyttleton versus Ruggles,” was here shouted by the court-crier,
and the conversation of the two gentlemen was interrupted. It did
not take very long to settle the case, however, for, in the light
of the indisputable evidence brought to bear upon it, the prisoner
was found guilty of assault with intent to kill, and sentenced
to seven years at Sing Sing. As soon as they were released, Mr.
Lyttleton turned to Gerald.

“Come,” he said; “you must come and have lunch with me; I want to
talk more with you.”

In a neighboring restaurant they took a secluded table, and over
the coffee Mr. Lyttleton astonished Gerald by remarking:

“Mr. Winchester, I happen, just at this time, to be very much in
need of a private-secretary. The poor fellow who has served me for
five years died last week, and I have, as yet, found no one to fill
his place. How would you like the position?”

Gerald lifted a look of bland surprise at the speaker.

“You think I am rather premature in making such a proposal to you
upon so short an acquaintance,” Mr. Lyttleton observed, smiling;
“but I have told you that I am pretty well versed in character
reading, and so, if you are willing to take the place on trial, I
am ready to give it to you. I like your looks--your manner; while
that girl’s testimony yesterday proved that Adam Brewster had the
most implicit confidence in you. That, of itself, is recommendation
enough for me. A week from to-morrow, I sail for Europe, to
investigate a complicated case which involves a large estate,
and which I hope to bring to trial within a couple of months. My
partner will manage the business here during my absence, which will
probably be six months or more, as I intend to combine pleasure
with duty, and see something of the old world before my return.
Your salary will be eight hundred and all expenses, for the first
year; more after that if we find ourselves mutually congenial.
There, you have my proposition--what do you say to it?” the lawyer
concluded, as he sat back in his chair and watched the expressive
face opposite him.

CHAPTER XI.

“I DID NOT MEAN TO BETRAY MYSELF.”

Gerald’s breath was almost taken away by this unexpected proposal.
He had heard of the firm of “Lyttleton & Rand,” both members of
which were registered as eminent lawyers in New York. He instantly
recognized the fact that it would be a great thing for him to
become associated with them, while eight hundred dollars, over and
above all living expenses, would be quite a leap beyond fifteen
dollars a week, and finding himself. Then, too, the prospect of
travel and sightseeing was very alluring.

He was dazzled, almost paralyzed, for a moment, by such unexpected
good fortune, coming to him just at this time, when he had seemed
to be under such a cloud; but he managed to inquire with a good
degree of outward composure:

“What will my duties be?”

“Well, I should say something like what they were with Mr.
Brewster,” Mr. Lyttleton responded; “the writing of letters, both
confidential and ordinary; the keeping of my private accounts;
in fact, whatever of a clerical nature would naturally fall to a
lawyer’s secretary, and--perfect loyalty and integrity. I warn you,
also, that I shall have plenty of work for you to do.”

“I do not mind work,” said Gerald eagerly. “In fact, I like to
be a little crowded. I think it keeps up one’s enthusiasm. The
position is very tempting, Mr. Lyttleton, but----”

“But what?” demanded the gentleman, eying him sharply.

“I am wondering if it would be quite honest in me to accept it when
you really know nothing of me or my qualifications; and going out
of the country, too, it might be quite awkward for you if I should
not fill the bill.”

Mr. Lyttleton gave vent to a little laugh.

“Now I begin to understand what Adam Brewster meant when he said
you were ‘morbidly honest,’” he replied. “But, in case you do not
fill the bill, as you express it, I suppose I could ship you back
home again. However, if you are willing to come with me, upon so
short an acquaintance, I will assume the responsibility of your
ability, and we’ll settle the matter here and now. Is it a bargain?”

“Yes, sir, and thank you very much,” Gerald heartily replied.

“Oh, you needn’t feel under any obligation, for I am going to
make you earn your money,” retorted his companion, with a roguish
twinkle in his eyes, but in a very satisfied tone. “Will you have a
glass of wine with your dessert?”

“Thank you--no; I never take wine--just a cup of coffee, if you
please.”

“Coffee for two,” briefly ordered the lawyer; but the look which he
bestowed upon his new clerk was one of unqualified approbation.

“Do you disapprove of wines?” he questioned, as the waiter
disappeared.

“I disapprove of the abuse of them,” said Gerald, flushing; “and if
one does not use them at all one can never be guilty of excess.”

“That is a self-evident fact, surely,” said his companion. “How
about smoking?”

“I do not smoke.”

“H’m! you are what might be termed a ‘model young man,’” his
employer dryly observed.

“I am nothing of the kind, if, by that, you mean to imply that I
assume to have no faults,” Gerald retorted, with a little flash in
his eyes, for he began to suspect that he was being quizzed; “but I
have always claimed that I would never become a slave to any habit.”

“And you are right, Winchester--I wish there were more young men
in the world who possessed just that spirit of independence,” said
Mr. Lyttleton, in a friendly tone. “Wines and liquors I shun, but
I smoke--my cigar I cannot do without; I wish I could. Now,” he
added, as he pushed back his chair, “I have an engagement, and
must hurry away; but I would like to have you come to my office
to-morrow morning at nine, sharp, when I shall want to talk with
you further about your duties.”

“Very well, sir. I will be on time,” Gerald returned, and then the
two shook hands cordially, and separated.

It was a little after two when they left the restaurant, and Gerald
thought he might as well go directly up-town to call upon Allison,
and inform her of his flattering prospects.

But he sighed when he remembered that the ocean would soon roll
between them, and it would be many months before he could see her
again.

A servant admitted him, and conducted him to the drawing-room, and
a few moments later, Allison came running down-stairs, with an
eager elasticity in her steps that set her lover’s pulses leaping
with secret joy.

As she entered the room, she sprang to meet him with outstretched
hands and smiling lips, although the brilliant flush upon her
cheeks and the shy drooping of her golden-fringed lids betrayed
that she was not quite at ease.

“I am glad to see you, Gerald,” she said, cordially; “it is so long
since you were here; and, oh! I can hardly realize all that has
happened since that day,” she went on, with starting tears. “It
breaks my heart, too, to think how you have been shut up in that
dreadful place. Why didn’t you send me word, you bad, bad boy?”

“I did not like to trouble you, Allison--I thought you had enough
to bear without adding to your burdens.”

“But it would have helped me to bear mine--it would have given me
something else to think of,” said the fair girl; “and then I could
have told what I knew, and you would have been set free.”

“No, that could not have been accomplished, for there was no
one who would become my bondsman, and the affair had to come to
trial; and, besides, Allison, I really did not think that you had
overheard anything of importance that would make your testimony of
any value,” Gerald explained.

“Well, you might at least have allowed me to prove my friendship
for you, and show a little sympathy. I think it was just dreadful,
Gerald, and I nearly cried my eyes out yesterday after I came home
and had time to realize what you must have suffered. Now do tell
me all about it, for I only heard a brief account of the case when
I went to the bank. Mr. Phillips said that you were arrested for
being found in the vault, with some valuables belonging to papa,
and some jewels that were mama’s, besides doing something that I do
not understand to some books. He said you were then on trial, and
so I hurried away--remembering what I had heard papa say about your
honesty--to see if I couldn’t help you.”

“You saved me, Allison--I should have had to serve a term in
State’s prison but for you,” said the young man tremulously.

“Well, I want you to begin at the beginning and tell me all,”
Allison commanded, as she seated herself upon the sofa beside her
guest, and prepared to listen to his story.

Gerald began with the note which he had received from Mr. Brewster,
and related all that had occurred in connection with his trouble,
up to the time of the trial, while Allison hung almost breathless
upon his words.

“And John Hubbard was the one who found you in the vault, and had
you arrested, in spite of the fact that you had papa’s keys, and
told him that he had sent you there to perform an errand for him?”
she exclaimed excitedly, when he concluded.

“Yes.”

“Why, he must have known that you had been sent there?”

“He did know it, Allison; but he asserted, as you know, that I
stole the keys from the drawer in the table, while I was here that
Saturday afternoon.”

“But I proved that you did not,” cried Allison exultantly, “and he
didn’t seem to be very well pleased about it, either.”

“No,” said Gerald gravely; “he had reasons of his own for wanting
to ruin my reputation.”

“What reasons?”

“He has long hated me--he has been scheming for nearly two years
to get me discharged from the bank, and I am confident that it was
he who tampered with the books, to make them show that I had been
dishonest, although, of course, I cannot prove this.”

“It was a bright idea of getting that expert,” said Allison.

“Yes, that was Professor Emerson’s idea, and it worked well. The
professor returned from Washington only two days before the trial,
and, upon learning the charges, immediately said he knew a man who,
he thought, would help me. He looked him up, then the two demanded
the books for examination, and it did not take Mr. Plum very long
to decide that some very crooked work had been done by somebody
whose name was not Winchester,” Gerald explained. “I watched
Hubbard while he was making his statements,” he added, “and I knew
by the look in his eyes that he had been balked in a game which he
had felt pretty sure of winning.”

“And yet papa trusted him,” said Allison musingly.

“Surely, Allison, you do not think I doctored those books? You
cannot believe that I would be guilty of defrauding your father
after all his kindness to me?” he cried, in a wounded tone.

“Oh, no! I did not mean to imply that, Gerald,” she returned
earnestly. “I would not have hurt you like that for all the world!
No, indeed, Gerald, if all the world said you were guilty, I would
never have believed it.”

“Could you have trusted me to such an extent, Allison?” he
breathed, bending to look into her eyes, his face lighting with
sudden joy.

“You know I could--nothing could ever make me lose faith in you.
What I did mean, when I said that papa trusted Mr. Hubbard, was, it
seemed strange to me that so shrewd a business man as my father was
should have been so deceived in any one.”

“Allison, I do not believe that he was deceived; I imagine he knew
he was not to be trusted implicitly,” said Gerald thoughtfully. “I
used to fear, sometimes, that John Hubbard had managed to draw Mr.
Brewster into some transactions that were beginning to complicate
his business, and so made it necessary for him to retain the man.”

“Oh, I hate him with all my heart!” Allison suddenly burst forth,
with startling vehemence; “and, Gerald, I am going to tell you
something--I must tell somebody: that man asked me the other day
to--don’t look at me so, please,” she interposed, averting her
scarlet face--“he asked me to marry him.”

“Allison!” exclaimed Gerald, in breathless astonishment, and
turning deathly pale; “has he dared--has he presumed upon the
position he occupies toward you to do such a thing? Oh, he is a
bigger rascal than I thought him. Allison, you will not let him
either coax or force you to ruin your life in that way.”

“Why, of course not--I told him I couldn’t marry him; you know I
could not, Gerald,” the ingenuous girl replied, and involuntarily
moving a little nearer his companion, with a confiding air that
thrilled him with joy, and yet what she had told him made him very
uneasy.

“I cannot understand why papa should have given him authority over
me for so many years,” she said.

“I cannot, either--it seems very strange to me,” Gerald observed
thoughtfully. He then told her of Mr. Lyttleton’s proposition, and
his contemplated tour abroad; but before he was through Allison
dropped her face upon her hands and burst into tears.

“Oh, Gerald, don’t go!--I cannot spare you!” she sobbed.

A shock of joy went quivering through the young man at her words,
although his own heart was almost rent in twain in view of the
approaching separation. Yet he felt that he had no right to betray
the great love he entertained for her. She was young--she was alone
in the world, and he felt that it would not be quite honorable to
take advantage of either her youth or loneliness to make her commit
herself. But, oh! he longed, mightily, to gather her in his arms,
tell her all, and ask her to wait until he could win a position
worthy of her acceptance, when he would lay himself and all he
possessed at her feet.

He was silent so long, thinking of this, and trying to control his
yearning, that she finally lifted a wondering glance to him, and
thus caught him unawares--reading all that was in his heart through
the loving eyes which but too plainly told its story.

The next moment her golden head lay upon his breast, and his
trembling arms enfolded her.

“My darling! my darling! I did not mean to betray myself; but you
caught me napping,” he breathed, laying his cheek against her
shining hair.

Allison lifted her head and flashed him a roguish look through her
tears.

“You betrayed yourself a long time ago,” she whispered, a happy
smile wreathing her red lips; “have you forgotten that night at
Lakeview?”

“No, dear, but I half-hoped that you had, and I have had many a
guilty twinge since, recalling it. I really had no right to betray
my love for you, nor abuse the confidence and hospitality of your
father in any such way; but it was done before I was hardly aware
of it. But, Allison, now that the veil has been entirely rent
asunder, I must tell you that I began to love you when I first came
to your father, and every year has only served to strengthen my
affection. But I am not going to ask you to bind yourself to me by
any promise, even now. I feel it would not be fair to you. You are
not yet through school, and after you graduate you will want to see
something of the world; so I am going to leave you free to choose
for yourself, in case you should ever meet any one else whom you
might love more than you love me; I could better bear to lose you
than to have you make a lifelong mistake.”

Allison here sat up and looked her lover full in the eye.

“Gerald, do you think it could be possible that you have made a
mistake in what you have just told me?” she questioned.

“No, I am sure it would not be possible for me ever to love any one
but you,” he earnestly returned.

“And do you think man capable of greater fidelity than woman?”

“N-o, perhaps not; still I will not exact any promise from you
at present, Allison,” he gravely replied; “by and by, when you
have completed your studies--when you have been out in society a
while--when I have won my spurs, as the knights of old used to
say--if you are then free, and of the same mind, I shall feel that
I have a right to ask you to give yourself to me.”

“Oh, what a complicated and indefinite proposition!” said Allison,
laughing, but with an impatient shrug of her graceful shoulders;
“but what do you mean by ‘when you have won your spurs?’”

“Why, when I have made money enough to raise me above the suspicion
of being a fortune-hunter,” was the smiling response.

“But suppose you do not achieve success by the time you have
indicated?” queried Allison demurely.

“Then I suppose I must wait until I do,” with a sigh.

“Ah! I thought so,” she retorted saucily; “you are far too proud,
my Gerald. Perhaps I am lacking in that quality, and I am very sure
that I am not ‘morbidly conscientious,’ so I am going to make you
promise me something, here and now.”

He smiled fondly down at her. She was so sweet and lovable, so
charmingly frank, to let him see how dear he was to her, and yet
not in the least unmaidenly about it.

“Very well; I will promise anything you ask,” he said tenderly;
“but first, since I have confessed so much, let me hear you say
that you love me.”

She leaned toward him with parted lips and gleaming eyes; she
clasped her small, white hands, and laid them upon his breast.

“Gerald,” she breathed softly, “you know that I love you with all
my heart.”

Again he folded her close, his face luminous with happiness.

“Bless you, my darling!” he said, with passionate earnestness.
“Now you may ask me whatever you will.”

CHAPTER XII.

ALLISON AND HER GUARDIAN.

“Well, then, Gerald,” said Allison, regarding her lover earnestly,
“you know, of course, that papa left me a lot of money.”

“Yes, I know that Mr. Brewster was supposed to be a very rich man,”
the young man responded, with a regretful sigh.

“And one little body, like me, couldn’t begin to spend it
all--especially when she is cooped up in a boarding school, and
has an ogre of a guardian to hold her in check,” the young girl
continued, with a mock, injured air.

“Well?” said Gerald, smiling at her mood, yet not suspecting toward
what it was tending.

“You say that you--love me very much, Gerald?”

“Ah, my darling, I have no words to tell you all there is in my
heart.”

“And you know that I--I am every bit as fond of you?” This with a
shy look and blush that were almost bewildering.

“I trust so, dearest.”

“Then nothing should ever be allowed to come between us as a
barrier.”

“No, indeed! Nothing ever shall come between us--at least, if I can
prevent it,” rashly asserted this unsuspicious wooer.

A happy little laugh rippled over Allison’s scarlet lips at this
assurance, and, laying her hands upon his shoulders, she looked
straight into his eyes, while a gleam of triumph shone in her own.

“There!” she said, drawing a long breath; “now I have you just
where I want you, and you must promise me that, when I have
completed my studies, and you get back from Europe and are nicely
established in your position--whether you have made a lot of money
or not--you will take me just as I am. I shall have plenty, and
there will be no reason why we should not share it together.”

“But, Allison----” Gerald began, looking flushed and embarrassed
as, at least, he comprehended her meaning.

She playfully laid her slender fingers upon his lips; but he
captured her hand, though with a very tender look into the lovely
eyes upraised to his.

“You must let me finish what I was going to say, dear,” he said
resolutely. “You must know that no man could respect himself to ask
a woman to marry him if he could not give her a comfortable home
and feel that he was, in every sense of the word, her protector. I
never could be dependent upon your fortune, Allison,” he concluded,
with an air of pride and decision which convinced her that there
would be no use in discussing that point further.

She secretly admired him for the stand he had taken; but,
womanlike, she wanted the last word.

“You said you would promise me anything I asked,” she said, with a
pretty pout.

“But I did not think you would be guilty of taking such an unfair
advantage of me,” Gerald retorted, laughing. “I cannot swear away
my self-respect, to please even you,” and bending, he softly kissed
the white brow that was resting against his shoulder.

“Well, but what has passed between us to-day makes you belong to
me, does it not?” Allison questioned.

“Forever.”

“I don’t see, then, but that you have sworn yourself away,” she
retorted slyly.

“Yes, I believe I have. What a lawyer you would have made,
sweetheart!” Gerald responded, laughing again.

“Very well; it is a poor rule that will not work both ways,”
Allison gravely observed; “I will not receive more than I am
willing to give, and so, Gerald, our mutual watchword shall be
‘forever.’”

“My darling!” whispered the young lover, tears of emotion springing
to his eyes, “surely such a spirit of loyalty should nerve my heart
to any endeavor.”

“How can I let you go away across the ocean!” Allison broke forth,
after a moment of silence, and in a voice of keen regret.

“Yes, it does seem a little hard that I must go,” Gerald returned;
“but I am hoping a great deal from this coming year of experience
with Mr. Lyttleton--I am impressed that it will be a stepping-stone
toward the goal I wish to reach. Besides, I should not see much of
you during the next six months, as, of course, you will soon return
to school.”

“Yes; I am to go back on Saturday; but we will write to each other
often.”

“Yes, I am sure there is no reason why we should not,” Gerald
assented; “but, perhaps, it will be just as well that Mr. Hubbard
should not know of our correspondence.”

“He will never learn of it from me,” said Allison spiritedly, and
adding, with a sigh:

“Oh, I wish papa had not made him my guardian.”

“I can echo that wish most heartily,” her companion responded
fervently; “and I cannot understand his doing so--allowing him
such unlimited power over you, and making him sole executor of his
will also; it does not seem at all like Mr. Brewster’s habitual
shrewdness. By the way, has he given you your jewels, and the other
box?”

“What other box? I have mama’s jewels--at least, they are in the
safe in the library; Mr. Hubbard brought them directly here after
the trial; but I know nothing about any other box.”

“Well, there were two boxes which I was to bring to your father;
but possibly one of them contained things which do not concern you,
papers, perhaps, relating to Mr. Brewster’s business. Still, I am
impressed that he did not wish any one to know anything of it or
its contents, and that was why he enjoined me to secrecy regarding
my errand that Sunday.”

“I will ask Mr. Hubbard about it,” said Allison thoughtfully.

“Yes, I think I would,” her lover replied, “although I do not
believe you will get any satisfaction from him; but it will at
least let him know that you are aware of its existence and have
some curiosity regarding the matter. But I must go now, dear,” he
added, rising. “I have a good many things to do for myself during
the week, and doubtless Mr. Lyttleton will require me at his office
some of the time.”

“But you will come often between now and Saturday?” Allison
pleaded, as she clasped both hands about his arms, as if loath to
let him go.

“I will come as often as you like,” he answered, smiling.

“Then I shall look for you every evening; only I hope that Mr.
Hubbard will not pop in upon us, and spoil everything.”

“Then every evening I will come,” Gerald replied, as he took a fond
farewell of her, and went away with a very happy heart.

The remaining few days passed very swiftly to these young lovers,
who spent their evenings together, without exciting the suspicions
of John Hubbard, who, however, made some errand to call upon
Allison almost every day.

Upon one occasion she questioned him about the box of which Gerald
had spoken, asking what it contained.

“It is locked, and, as yet, I have found no key to it,” the man
told her evasively, but with a quickly averted glance, which did
not escape the fair girl’s watchful eyes. “Indeed, I have been too
busy to think much about it,” he added; “but I imagine there is
nothing in it but business papers.”

So Allison was none the wiser, as Gerald had prophesied, and on
Saturday returned to her school, where, becoming absorbed in her
studies, she soon forgot all about it for the time.

Gerald sailed for Europe the following Monday, and John Hubbard,
upon learning of the fact, experienced a feeling of intense relief.

“Good riddance to him,” he muttered. “Now I need have no fear, for
I shall have a clear field to myself.”

After Allison’s departure, Mr. Hubbard decided that it would
be useless expense to keep the Brewster establishment running;
consequently, he advertised it for rental, furnished, and it was
taken almost immediately by a Philadelphia family, who, bringing
their own servants with them, did not require any of the help who
had served there so long; and thus, all the servants, with Mrs.
Pollard, who had become exceedingly fond of Allison, and who felt
that she was being driven from her home, were obliged to find
situations elsewhere.

The house at Yonkers was disposed of in the same way; consequently,
at the end of six months, when Allison had completed her education,
she found herself practically homeless, until she could arrange to
go to Newport for the summer, and so was obliged to take up her
residence with her guardian, whose family consisted of only himself
and his mother, with their servants.

They were not to go to Newport until the middle of July, as Mr.
Hubbard had been so busy he had been unable to attend to the
opening of the cottage; but he managed to make his own home so
pleasant, and Allison so heartily welcome, while she found Mrs.
Hubbard such a dear old lady, she was wholly content to remain with
them.

He did not once refer to his previous proposal of marriage; he
continued her the same liberal allowance which her father had made
her, and gratified her every wish, making himself so agreeable and
entertaining that all would probably have gone well but for an
incident that occurred during the second week after her return.

Gerald returned about that time, and, feeling that Mr. Hubbard
would not favor his calling upon her, she arranged to meet him
at a certain point on Broadway, one day, when they were to go to
Delmonico’s for lunch, and to talk over their experiences of the
last half-year.

They had hardly met and greeted each other when, they were suddenly
confronted by John Hubbard.

“Well, Allison, whither are you bound?” he inquired, stepping
directly in her path, but without deigning Gerald even a glance of
recognition.

The young girl paused aghast and flushed with mingled embarrassment
and astonishment.

Then, recovering herself, her beautiful eyes began to blaze with
indignation at the slight in her companion.

“Mr. Hubbard,” she said, glancing from him to Gerald, “do you not
recognize Mr. Winchester?”

“I have no acquaintance with Mr. Winchester,” the man frigidly, but
very unwisely, responded. “I was, however, just on my way home to
get you to go with me to see that new painting at the Academy of
Design.”

“I thank you, Mr. Hubbard,” Allison retorted, just as icily, “but
I was on my way to lunch at Delmonico’s with Mr. Winchester. Come,
Gerald.”

Whereupon Miss Brewster haughtily passed her guardian, and
proceeded on her way, attended by her lover, who, although he bowed
coldly to the man, found it difficult to restrain his anger at his
insolence.

“But, Allison----” authoritatively began John Hubbard, looking back
after the graceful, but proudly erect figure of his ward.

He might as well have addressed the paving-stones, for the
independent little lady paid not the slightest heed to him.

“Gerald, I could almost strangle him for being so rude to you,” she
remarked, when they were beyond hearing of the man.

“Never mind me, dear,” he replied, smiling, but regarding her with
an admiring look. “I believe it would be worth while being snubbed
occasionally for the sake of seeing you look so pretty in your
righteous indignation over it.”

“He has been very good to me of late, and I had begun to like
them--almost,” Allison explained; “but I believe this has made
him more hateful to me than ever. However,” tossing her shining
head defiantly, “I am not going to let it spoil our little visit
together.”

They had their lunch, and a quietly jolly time over it, and then
Allison insisted that Gerald himself should take her to see the
painting of which Mr. Hubbard had spoken. They passed a couple of
hours thus very pleasant, and then reluctantly separated.

But they decided that, in future, they would have to be more
wary about their meetings; and, as Gerald was very busy, it was
doubtful about their seeing much of each other before Allison went
to Newport, and now the fair girl began to chafe sorely over the
fact that her fate was so closely allied with the man who was so
obnoxious to her.

When she reached home on this afternoon, she found John Hubbard
there before her, and wearing a very injured air.

But she paid very little attention to him until, galled by her
coolness toward him, he opened fire upon her.

“I was very sorry to meet you with that disreputable fellow today,”
he began, when the indignant girl whirled around upon him like a
small tornado.

“Mr. John Hubbard, you will be kind enough never to speak of my
friend, Mr. Winchester, in that way again,” she cried, with flaming
cheeks and blazing eyes; “and I will further say that I regard your
rudeness to him to-day as a personal insult to me, also.”

The man gazed at her in astonishment. He was dumfounded by such
an exhibition of temper. Her manner was usually characterized by
a sweetness and quietness that gave one the impression that she
could not be aroused to an exhibition of passion, although the
determination and obstinacy which she had shown at Gerald’s trial
had betrayed a strong will.

“Really, Allison,” he began, after a moment, and realizing that it
would not be wise to antagonize her still further, “I meant no
disrespect to you--you know that I have only the tenderest regard
for you; but I was so taken aback upon seeing you upon the street
with that--with young Winchester, I was hardly responsible for what
I did or said. I have never changed my opinion regarding the young
man, however, and it hurt me deeply to meet you with him.”

Allison opened her lips as if about to retort sharply to him again;
but she suddenly checked herself, and turning from him, left the
room without deigning him any reply.

But the man’s suspicions having been aroused, he resolved to watch
his ward closely.

The result of his prying was the discovery of Gerald’s photograph,
which he found in a box in one of Allison’s bureau-drawers, and
with it his last letter from Europe, together with a couple of
recent notes which told him a great deal regarding their relations
to each other--enough to drive him into a white heat of rage, and
arouse all his native villainy and cunning.

He had observed that Gerald had improved greatly during his absence
abroad; he had grown more manly, while there was a prosperous look
about him which betokened success and progression.

This was true, for Gerald had proved himself so congenial to his
employer, and so thoroughly in earnest and determined to do his
very best, that the two had at once become the best of friends, and
at the end of three months Mr. Lyttleton raised his salary to a
thousand a year. More than this, he had found his mental grasp so
keen and forceful, that he had persuaded him to begin the study of
law, under his supervision, and thus the young man found himself
working out the very plan which his friend, Professor Emerson, had
once suggested to him.

John Hubbard congratulated himself that he was so soon to get
Allison away from New York, and he hurried his own work in order to
prevent any delay in his plans.

But the afternoon previous to her departure the lovers had an
enjoyable drive in Central Park, and on her return from this
excursion, Allison met with an adventure which, although, at the
time, it seemed unimportant in itself, was destined to result in
great things later on.

As she had a few errands to attend to before going home, Gerald
left her at one of the large stores on Broadway, after bidding her
a reluctant farewell. She had completed her purchase, and had just
left a fashionable millinery establishment, where she had bought “a
love of a hat,” that was destined to do duty at the seaside, and
was standing upon the curbing, waiting for an uptown car, when she
observed a young girl, about fourteen years of age, leaning against
a lamp-post, and crying bitterly.

She was poorly clad, was very pale, and wore a dejected, suffering
air, which at once appealed to the tender heart of the young
heiress, who also observed that a heavy bundle lay upon the
sidewalk at her feet.

Stepping quietly to her side, Allison gently laid her hand upon her
arm to attract her attention.

“Why are you crying?” she questioned in an earnest tone; “has
anything happened to you?”

The girl turned her tear-stained face upon the speaker, and Allison
saw that it was almost convulsed with pain.

With her right hand she pointed to her left arm, which, her
companion now saw, hung limp and useless--broken--by her side.

The next moment the sufferer dropped senseless at her feet.

CHAPTER XIII.

“BREAD CAST UPON THE WATERS.”

Allison’s first impulse was to scream for help. But she quickly
conquered it, for she had a horror of becoming the center of a
curious, gaping crowd upon a public thoroughfare.

Almost at the same moment she espied a policeman across the street,
and beckoned him to come to her assistance; then, stooping over
the senseless girl at her feet, tried to move her into a more
comfortable position.

“What has happened?” queried the officer, as he appeared upon the
spot. “A drunk, I reckon--eh?”

“No,” said Allison, flushing with indignation at his indifferent
tone; “the girl’s arm is broken, and she has fainted.”

“Humph! then it’s a case for the hospital. I’ll ring up an
ambulance,” was the perfunctory response.

Allison caught her breath sharply, for, like many others who are
ignorant regarding such institutions, she had a perfect horror of a
hospital.

“No,” she said quickly and decidedly, while she glanced up at a
sign over a window in the next block, “Doctor Ashmore’s office is
quite near--take her there.”

“She doesn’t look as if she could afford to pay a swell surgeon
like Doctor Ashmore--she’s a better subject for the hospital,
miss,” said the man slightingly.

“Well, but I am not going to allow her to be put into an ambulance
and driven a long way over these rough pavements to any hospital,”
Allison asserted decidedly. “I know Doctor Ashmore--he is a
first-class surgeon, and I will be responsible for his charge.
Now, pray do as I ask you, and do not let this poor thing lie here
upon the hard sidewalk a moment longer” she concluded, somewhat
impatiently, for people were beginning to gather about them.

“All right, miss; if you choose to look out for her, it’s no affair
of mine,” said the policeman, and, calling another man to his aid,
the two lifted the still unconscious girl and bore her into the
noted surgeon’s office, Allison swiftly leading the way thither.

“I have brought you a patient, Doctor Ashmore,” she observed, as he
entered, and the gentleman came forward to greet her, whereupon he
ordered the men to deposit their burden upon a couch, and at once
proceeded to make an examination of the case.

“The arm is broken above the elbow,” he observed, after ripping up
the sleeve of the girl’s dress. “Who is this protégée of yours,
Miss Brewster?”

“I do not know,” Allison replied; “I found her leaning against a
lamp-post crying, and asked her what the trouble was, when she
merely pointed to her arm, and then fainted away.”

“Well, we will soon have her comfortably fixed. Perhaps you would
like to go into another room while I set the bone,” said Doctor
Ashmore, after calling his assistant, and ordering him to bring
splints, bandages, and other necessary appliances.

“No, thank you; the poor thing will perhaps feel better if she
comes to herself and finds me here, and I will try not to mind the
operation,” replied Allison, in a spirit of true self-abnegation,
yet not feeling nearly so brave as her words had sounded.

Nothing more was said, and the surgeon proceeded at once about
his task, without attempting to revive his patient, who was still
unconscious.

But as his skilful fingers put the fractured bone into position, a
low, shuddering moan plainly told that the shock and pain of the
setting had resulted in restoring suspended animation.

But the girl made no other sound, no resistance; she lay white
and motionless while the splints were adjusted, and the bandages
arranged, and when all was over she raised herself to a sitting
posture, and looked curiously about her.

“Where am I?” she inquired of Allison, as another patient entered,
and claimed the surgeon’s attention.

“In the office of Doctor Ashmore. I asked a policeman to bring
you here, so that your injury could be attended to immediately,”
Allison explained; “and,” she added, smiling encouragingly into the
pale, pinched face before her, “I am sure the worst is over.”

“Perhaps you think so--but that is all you know about it,” returned
the girl grimly.

“But I have always heard that after a broken bone is once set,
there is very little discomfort experienced while the fracture is
mending.”

“Oh, the arm will do well enough,” said the girl, glancing at the
bandaged member indifferently; “I wasn’t thinking about that at
all.”

“What were you thinking about?” inquired Allison, with surprise.

“Of the money I’ve lost and the scoldings and abuse I shall get
because I sha’n’t be able to do any work for the next few weeks,”
returned the patient, with an anxious frown. “But where’s my
bundle?” she questioned, with a sudden start, and glancing around
the room with a troubled air.

“Over there behind that chair,” said Allison, pointing it out. Then
she asked: “Now will you tell me your name, and how you happened to
get hurt?”

“My name is Ellen Carson,” the girl replied; “I had been to Cohen
& Isaacs, to carry back a lot of work, and get some more, and the
pay for the last. I live with my aunt, or my uncle’s wife, and I do
the housework, while she and Anna--my cousin--make boys’ jackets
for a living. I help on them, too, after the drudgery is done, and
I always have to fetch and carry the bundles. I had the pay for the
last lot--three dollars--in one hand, and was hurrying home, when
an ugly-looking fellow gave me a rough push, knocking me against
that lamp-post, then snatched the purse, and made off with it,
before I hardly knew what had happened. At first I was so wild over
losing the money, and what I should catch when I got home, I didn’t
know that I was hurt; but, after a minute or two, the pain got so
sharp it took my breath away, and then I found my arm was broken.
Oh, dear! Aunt Lu will just about kill me for letting that money be
stolen,” Ellen concluded, with a sob, great tears chasing over her
hollow cheeks.

“Hush! Do not cry! I will make the money part of it all right,”
said Allison kindly, a great pity for the unfortunate girl surging
through her heart. “I am sure your aunt cannot be very kind to you
if she will mind the loss of three dollars more than your accident.”

“Kind! huh!” exclaimed Ellen, with a mirthless laugh, “and she’ll
mind the broken arm enough, too, but not in the way you mean; she
and Anna will have to do the housework now for a while, and I shall
get plenty of kicks and cuffs for being in the way and ‘not earning
my salt.’ I sha’n’t get much but salt, either, I imagine, to pay
for losing that money.”

“Oh, I cannot imagine any one being so cruel,” said Allison,
looking deeply troubled. “Your aunt must be very poor, as well as
unkind.”

“You bet she is; but it wasn’t always so bad as it is now,”
Ellen observed, and, growing confidential. “When Uncle Alan--he
was my mother’s brother, and his name was Brown--was alive, I
used to go to school, and we lived in a better part of the city.
Anna graduated from the high school more’n four years ago; she’s
handsome, too--or would be if she could have pretty clothes like
yours”--this with an appreciative glance at Allison’s dainty
costume. “After Uncle Alan died, Aunt Lu at first threatened to
send me to an orphans’ home; but when she found how handy I was in
the kitchen, and to run on errands, she got over that, though she
doesn’t mind twitting me about being a beggar every day of my life.”

“But does she not pay you something for doing the work and helping
upon the jackets?” questioned Allison, with almost a sense of guilt
as she compared the ideal life which she had always led with the
miserable existence of this poor, abused child.

“Pay me! Good land! Uncle Alan has been dead going on four years,
and I haven’t had a dime of my own to spend at one time since.
Sometimes I’ve got so desperate I’ve thought I’d run away and leave
Aunt Lu and Anna to shift for themselves, and become a cash-girl in
some store, but I haven’t a decent dress or a whole pair of shoes
or stockings to my name, and nobody’d hire me looking like this,”
the girl concluded, as she glanced ruefully down at her faded
dress, and the clumsy, defaced shoes upon her feet.

Tears involuntarily rushed to Allison’s eyes, as they fell upon
her costly, well-filled purse, and she realized for the first
time in her life that she had never known the meaning of the word
“poverty.” Again a sense of guilt swept over her as she thought of
the dainty ten-dollar boots and the silken stockings that encased
her feet--of the expensive hat upon her head, and the many other
accessories of her toilet, the price of one of which would have
seemed like a small fortune to this destitute girl.

“I suppose you thought you were doing a good thing when you had me
brought in here?” Ellen resumed, after a moment of silence, and
glancing around the luxurious room they were in; “but Aunt Lu
will never pay Doctor Ashmore for setting my arm--he’s one of your
swell, high-priced doctors; you would have done better if you’d
sent me to some hospital.”

“I couldn’t,” said Allison; “somehow, I have a prejudice against a
hospital; but you need not worry about Doctor Ashmore’s fee--I am
going to pay him myself.”

“H’m! that’s very good of you, and you must have lots of spare
cash to be able to sling it about in that way,” Ellen observed,
with a wistful glance at the silver-tipped pocketbook in Allison’s
daintily gloved hand. “But,” starting to her feet, “I must be
getting along home, though goodness knows how I am going to carry
that bundle with only one hand, and--and my knees have a queer,
shaky feeling in them, too,” she concluded, growing pale and
sinking back upon the couch again.

“Where do you live?” Allison questioned, in a voice that was
somewhat husky.

“Down on Greenwich Street.”

“Oh!” breathed the petted child of fortune, with a shiver of
repulsion; and then she abruptly crossed the room to speak to the
surgeon’s assistant. She asked him if he would call a carriage for
her, after which she went thoughtfully back to her protégée.

“I am going to send you and your bundle home in a carriage,” she
said to her; “and now tell me, please, was it exactly three dollars
that was stolen from you this morning?”

“Yes, just the price of a dozen jackets.”

“What! you do not mean that you only get that amount for making a
dozen jackets?” exclaimed Allison, aghast.

“That is all--just twenty-five cents apiece,” said the girl, with a
confirmative nod.

Allison opened her purse, and took from it three dollars.

“Ellen,” she said, in a very winning tone, “I am going to give you
that much to take to your aunt, so that she cannot blame you for
the loss.”

“My! but ain’t you good!” breathed the girl, with a long, grateful
sigh, as she reached eagerly for the money.

“Wait,” said Allison; “I will get an envelope from Doctor Ashmore
to put it in--it will be safer so,” and going to the surgeon, who
was now writing at his desk, she asked him to give her two.

She placed the three dollars in one, then returned to Ellen, to
whom she gave it, and who hastily thrust it into the bosom of her
dress.

“Now,” continued Allison, “I am sorry that I cannot know how you
will get on with your arm, for I am going to leave the city for the
summer to-morrow morning. But, of course, you will have to come
to Doctor Ashmore occasionally, and I shall learn from him how
you are, when I return, and perhaps then I can help you to find
something to do in a pleasanter home----”

“Oh, would you?--will you?” cried the girl, with pathetic
eagerness. “I should love you with all my heart for it.”

Allison was almost ready to weep as she met the wistful eyes
uplifted to hers.

“I will try, if you will leave your address with Doctor Ashmore,”
she replied, as she quietly slipped a ten-dollar bill into the
other envelope; “and now I am going to give you this for your very
own,” she continued, as she tucked her gift into Ellen’s hand; “you
can do whatever you like with it.”

“For me! Oh! do you mean that you have given me all that? Ten
dollars!” gasped the astonished girl, whose quick eyes had detected
the denomination of the bill. “Have you a right to give away so
much money? What will your father and mother say? Why, I can’t
believe it!”

Her voice shook from intense excitement and the hand that held the
coveted sum trembled visibly.

“Yes, Ellen, I have the right to give away what I like, and I have
no father nor mother, I regret to say, to question my pleasure
in that respect. You need not say anything about it to your aunt
unless you choose.”

“I guess I sha’n’t tell either Aunt Lu or Anna a word about it,”
Ellen hastily interposed. “I shouldn’t have it long if I did. I
shall keep very mum, and when my arm gets well, I will make a good
use of it,” she added, with a gleam of triumph in her eyes that
Allison never forgot. Then, with something very like a sob, she
continued: “Why, miss, I think I must feel something like the slave
I read about not long ago, when his master gave him his liberty: ‘I
’clar to goodness,’ he said, ‘dis am a new world to me!’ This money
means freedom to me and a new world to live in. How I love you for
being so kind to me! I--I hope you do not mind my saying it”--in
an apologetic tone--“I know I’m of no account, but I haven’t had
anybody to love since my mother died, seven years ago.”

Allison was deeply touched by the girl’s emotion, and the pathos of
this last remark.

“Indeed, Ellen, you are of a great deal of account,” she returned,
with a winning smile; “and when I come back to the city, in the
fall, I will try to see you again, and I hope I shall find you well
and happier than you are to-day. Ah, I think the carriage has come
for you,” she concluded, as Doctor Ashmore’s attendant at that
moment returned, accompanied by the coachman, who had come for the
bundle.

The surgeon then came forward, gave his patient some directions,
making an appointment for her to come to him again in a few days,
after which Allison bade her a kind good-by, paid the hackman his
fare, and charged him to “be sure and carry the bundle into the
house for Ellen when she reached home.”

Then Allison turned to Doctor Ashmore and requested him to name his
charge for setting the broken arm.

He smiled into her beautiful, earnest face.

“Are you in the habit of picking up disabled protégées in the
streets of New York, Miss Allison?” he questioned.

“No; I am ashamed to say that this is my first experience of
anything of the kind,” Allison gravely replied; “but it would have
been inhuman to have left her lying there upon the pavement, or to
have allowed her to be carried away to a hospital, when help was so
near. I knew, too, that she could not fall into better hands than
yours.”

“Thank you for your tribute and confidence,” said the surgeon, in a
gratified tone, “but there will be no charge for what I have done.”

“Oh, but I never should have presumed to bring her here if I had
not expected to be responsible for her fee,” Allison exclaimed, and
flushing sensitively.

“I understand; but I think you have already done your share for
that poor, forsaken-looking child,” the man kindly responded. “I
like to do a good deed once in a while myself, so we will not talk
any more about the fee.”

He had not been unmindful of what had occurred between the two
girls, notwithstanding he had appeared to be absorbed in other
things.

Allison thanked him heartily for his personal interest in the case,
and then, after a few moments of friendly chatting, bade him good
afternoon, and went home, having received a vivid object lesson
upon human poverty and suffering which she felt she should never
forget, and little thinking how the “bread which had that day been
cast upon the waters” would be returned to her after many days.

CHAPTER XIV.

A TERRIBLE REVELATION.

The next morning after her adventure with Ellen Carson, Allison
left New York for Newport, where the Brewster villa was reopened,
with John Hubbard to play the part of proprietor and host, and
mature his plans for the capture of the beautiful heiress for whom
and whose money he had so long been scheming.

To Allison the thought of spending the entire summer in the same
house with the man whom she so disliked seemed intolerable, and she
became very restless and rebellious in view of the prospect before
her ere a week had passed.

“What shall I do with myself during all the years that will
intervene before his authority over me or my fortune will expire?”
she asked herself, with a feeling of excessive impatience, one day
during the second week of their sojourn at Newport.

Yet the man was unwearied in his attentions, unvarying in his
kindness to her. He spared no trouble to give her pleasure, he
grumbled at no expense if he could but see her smiling and happy,
and be allowed to bask in her presence.

“I cannot live an idle, aimless life,” she mused, “while I am
waiting for Gerald to make his fortune. Oh, what a proud, obstinate
boy! But why doesn’t he write to me? I have not heard from him once
since coming to Newport,” she sighed, with a troubled expression.
“I would like to teach,” she went on, after a moment of thought;
“but it hardly seems right for me, with my fortune, to apply for a
position which would otherwise be filled by a girl who must support
herself. But something I must do to break away from this bondage.
Oh, I know!” with an eager start. “It will be just the most
delightful plan! I will have a chaperon, and I will travel. It will
be such a blessed relief to get away from--him!”

And, much elated with what she considered a very clever plan, she
sought her guardian and made known her wish to go abroad.

The man glanced sharply at her the moment he comprehended her
purpose; then sat quietly listening to her until she concluded the
rehearsal of her plan, which was, in the main, that she wished to
have at least a couple of years of foreign travel before making her
début in New York society--which it would not be etiquette for her
to do until her season of mourning was over.

When she was through he changed his seat to one beside her, and
remarked, with a confidential look and smile:

“Really, Allison, I think it rather singular that you and I both
should have the same project in view.”

She glanced up at him in surprise.

“Why, have you been planning such a trip for me?” she questioned,
with a momentary twinge of conscience, lest she had been more
unjust toward him than he merited.

“Yes,” he replied, in a tone which he could not make quite steady,
for the proposal he was about to make was a very momentous one to
him. “You are now through school, and it is but right that you
should see something of the world. I have had this in mind for
some time, and have been trying to arrange for it. I now have my
business in such shape that I can leave it indefinitely, and we
will have a long holiday, Allison; we will spare neither time nor
money, and you shall go wherever your sweet will inclines.”

The girl shot one quick, startled look at her companion; then a
burning flush suffused her neck, cheek and brow, for his tone
had grown suspiciously tender and tremulous, and she dreaded
inexpressibly what she feared was to come.

“Oh, but I did not once think of--of taking you from your business
to go with me,” she hastened to say. “I can have a chaperon, you
know; there is Miss Wilber, my teacher in history, who has often
attended young ladies abroad during summer vacations. She is out of
health, and will not teach the coming year, and I am sure she would
be glad to go with me; she would be a delightful companion, too,
for she is so well posted in history, and has been about so much
she is a perfect encyclopedia of facts, legends and traditions. I
should feel perfectly safe, and be very happy with her, also.”

“Ah, yes; no doubt it would be a very good arrangement, both for
yourself and the lady,” rejoined John Hubbard, when Allison paused,
although a frown swept over his face at her evident eagerness
to substitute her own plan for his; “but, my dear child, I could
never consent to let you go away to Europe like that; I should
never know one moment of peace during your absence. Allison,” with
sudden and vehement earnestness, “do you remember what I told you
only a few months ago--that I have loved you ever since you were a
little girl, and that, during all those years, I have had only one
aim in life--that of eventually winning you for my wife? Think of
it, Allison! I have lived nearly eleven years with this one hope
to feed upon and cheer me. I know that I am somewhat older than
you, but my affection is none the less strong and true--indeed,
having nursed my hopes so long, my love is far more intense than it
could have been at the age when a man usually chooses his wife. My
darling, I adore you; my life is bound up in you; I must win you,
or the world will henceforth be a blank to me, and during the last
six months I have yearned for this moment more than I can express.
Allison, you will marry me; you will be my wife, and we will go
abroad for our honeymoon. I will live only to make you happy, and
you shall go where you like if you will but give me the right to go
with you.”

He had spoken so rapidly that Allison could not have interrupted
him if she had wished; he had poured out his passionate avowal with
such resistless vehemence that she was stricken dumb, and sat with
averted face, an almost sickening sense of repugnance, even fear,
oppressing her.

As he concluded he leaned forward, laying his hand upon hers,
which were tensely clasped upon her lap, and tried to look into her
downcast eyes.

His touch broke the spell upon her.

Almost involuntarily she shrank from him, snatching her hands from
his, a visible shiver creeping over her, and driving every particle
of color from her face.

“Oh,” she gasped, as if oppressed by some terrible weight upon her
chest, “why will you say such things to me? No, no; it cannot be!”

The man’s countenance changed, as if he had been smitten a sharp
and sudden blow.

“Do not tell me that,” he breathed, in a hoarse, unnatural voice.
“I cannot bear it. I have lived too long with only this one hope to
sustain me, to have it ruthlessly wrested from me at this late day.”

Something in the man’s tone--a sort of despairing, appealing
note--sent a wave of pity coursing through Allison’s heart.

“I am sorry if I have pained you,” she faltered; “but--I cannot
love you, Mr. Hubbard, and so I must not marry you.”

“I will make you love me, Allison,” he returned, with almost
pathetic earnestness. “Out of the superabundance of my own
affection I will nourish yours until your heart will turn to me as
naturally as a flower turns to the sun.”

But Allison only shrank farther from him.

“It is impossible; it can never be,” she said, so decidedly there
was no mistaking her determination to settle the matter for all
time.

“Why?” he demanded, sharply, but with quivering lips. “Why can you
never love me? How is it that you are so positive?”

“I do not know that I can tell you why; it is not easy to analyze
one’s feelings,” Allison responded constrainedly. “I only know that
I do not love you and that it would be a great sin to become your
wife without loving you.”

“Then it must be because some one stands between us,” said John
Hubbard, with jealous bitterness. “Tell me! Is is so? Do you love
some one else?”

There was now a note of impatient authority in his tone that
aroused Allison’s antagonism and a spirit of recklessness. Then,
too, his love-making was so repulsive to her she felt that she
could not endure it a moment longer. Perhaps, she thought, if she
should confess the truth to him it would put an end to his hopes
and emancipate her from all persecutions of this nature in the
future.

“Yes,” she admitted, after a moment of hesitation, a vivid flush
suffusing her face, “that is the reason.”

“Aha!” he breathed, hoarsely, the veins upon his temples standing
out hard and full. “So you confess it! Who is he? Who is he?”

His tone was almost savage, his aspect so vindictive that Allison
was aroused in proportion.

She turned upon him with a haughty air, and met his lowering eyes
with a clear, cold glance.

“That is my own secret,” she frigidly returned.

“Ha, ha! So you fondly believe it is a secret, do you?” he
mockingly retorted. “You imagine that no one has eyes or
perceptions to discern the signs of the times? My haughty little
lady, your ‘secret’ is no secret; I have read your heart, like an
open book, for many a long year.”

“Very well, then; if you are so well versed in mind reading there
is no need of your asking information regarding what you already
know,” said the fair girl, with quiet sarcasm.

“Perhaps not; but I wish to have my suspicions corroborated by
the testimony of your own lips. I want to be sure that my fate is
irrevocably sealed before I bow to it. So, tell me, is it Gerald
Winchester whom you love? Is he the rival upon whom you expect to
bestow your peerless self and your enviable fortune?”

Again Allison flushed a deep and conscious crimson. The man’s
manner had grown so coarse and repulsive, while his mocking
reference to Gerald set all her pulses tingling with indignation
and defiance, and a desire to stand up in defense of her lover.

“And suppose you are right in your surmise--what then?” she
demanded, proudly, a dangerous gleam in her eyes.

“In that case, I tell you that you are doomed to be terribly
disappointed, for I swear that you shall never marry that upstart!
He shall never have the privilege of handling one dollar of Adam
Brewster’s fortune!” snarled the man, but so beside himself with
rage his voice was hardly audible.

Allison was now thoroughly angry and disgusted.

She sprang to her feet and confronted her companion with haughty
mien and blazing eyes.

“You are exceedingly presuming,” she began scornfully. “You are
overstepping the bounds of your authority as my guardian, for I
certainly have and shall exercise the right to choose for myself
whom I will marry, and----”

“And what, Allison?” questioned John Hubbard, growing very white as
she suddenly paused. “This is a matter that must be settled, here
and now, so you may as well express yourself freely.”

“I was simply going to observe that my choice would certainly not
fall upon yourself, even were I heart-whole,” she retorted, with
startling candor, and driven to utter defiance by his arbitrary
tone and manner.

The man flushed scarlet beneath the scathing words; then a lurid
light sprang into his eyes.

“I am afraid you do not realize what you are doing, Miss Brewster,
by so scornfully rejecting my suit,” he said, with an evident
effort for self-control.

“You have driven me to plain speaking, sir,” Allison replied more
calmly. “You would not accept my courteous rejection of your
proposals, and you have made me very angry by your slighting
remarks about Mr. Winchester, whom you have always appeared to
hate, and whom you have also shamefully persecuted.”

“Yes, I have hated and do still hate him, the insufferable upstart,
with his assumption of high-toned airs, which are entirely at
variance with the beggardly position he has always occupied,” Mr.
Hubbard almost hissed, a cold glitter in his eyes, and with the old
vicious gleam of his white teeth beneath his mustache. “More than
that,” he resumed cruelly, “I swore long ago that he should never
marry you, as I plainly saw he was aiming to do by worming himself
into the confidence of your father and making love to you on the
sly----”

“If you please, Mr. Hubbard, I think we have discussed this subject
sufficiently, and I would like to change it,” Allison here icily
interposed. “I have decided that I will spend the next two years
traveling; therefore, I shall write to Miss Wilber this evening
to----”

“Not quite so fast, my young lady, if you please,” her guardian
rudely interrupted. “You appear to forget or ignore the fact that
you are under my authority, and are not free to arrange your
movements exactly as you like without my consent.”

“I am more than eighteen years of age, Mr. Hubbard,” said Allison,
proudly, “and I am capable of thinking and acting for myself in
all ways except the management of my fortune. Business I do not
understand, and I bow to the decree of my father’s will that you
shall act as my agent financially; but I am no longer a child, to
be told that I cannot go here or there, provided I am properly
attended, and I shall arrange to go abroad immediately, with Miss
Wilber as my chaperon.”

“Excuse me, Miss Brewster, but you will not go abroad this
summer, unless you go under my protection, and as my wife,” John
Hubbard observed, with a peculiar smile, that was exceedingly
exasperating, and which also sent a strange chill to the heart
of his listener. “You’d better be sensible and listen to reason,
Allison,” he continued more gently, after a moment of silence. “If
you will accede to my proposal, your future may be one long idyl
of happiness; your every wish shall be gratified; you shall be a
queen--I your slave. But,” sternly, as the girl made an impatient
gesture, “if you defy me, I----”

“Well, what if I defy you?” she cried, turning upon him with the
air of a princess.

“I have it in my power to crush you.”

A light, scornful laugh rippled over Allison’s red lips.

The idea of a man like John Hubbard, whom, all her life, she had
instinctively regarded as her inferior, being able to “crush” her,
Adam Brewster’s daughter, and heiress to a million or more, seemed
ludicrous in the extreme.

“You appear to be skeptical regarding my powers, Miss Brewster,”
the man observed, with a crafty smile, but with a face that was
ghastly white from his intense anger.

“Well, yes, I am,” she dryly responded, as she drew forth her watch
and glanced at the time. “Excuse me,” she added coldly, “but I have
an engagement to drive at four.”

She was about to turn away and leave the room when her companion
seized her hand in a vise-like grip, and, bending before her, gazed
straight into her eyes with a look that sent a cold chill running
down her back.

“Once more, and for the last time--and think well before you answer
me--will you marry me, Allison?” he questioned, through his tightly
locked teeth.

“No! a thousand times, no!” she cried, in a ringing tone; “and if
you ever broach the subject again I will appeal to be set free from
your guardianship. I will not submit to such persecution.”

“Ha, ha! You will not need to appeal to be freed from my
authority!” he retorted, with an almost fiendish leer.

“Ah! you are going to resign your position, perhaps?” said Allison,
with an eagerness which but too plainly betrayed her delight at
such a prospect.

“You would be glad to have me do so, no doubt,” he sneered.

“Yes, I think I would,” the girl gravely returned, after a moment
of thought. “After what has occurred to-day I think it would be
unpleasant for both of us to continue our present relations.”

“Very well; you shall be gratified, for it is my purpose to resign
all authority over you,” said John Hubbard, with peculiar emphasis.
Then he added, with something between a sigh and a groan, “I would
have spared you this, Allison, and it is not too late even now
to--to save you, if you will but reconsider your rejection of
me----”

Allison checked him with an imperative gesture.

“I will have no more of that,” she said, haughtily. “But what do
you mean? From what is it not too late to save me? Why are you
about to resign your guardianship of me?”

“To answer your last question will be to reply to all--because I
was appointed as guardian to Adam Brewster’s daughter, but--you are
no child of the late banker!”

CHAPTER XV.

AN APPALLING SECRET.

Allison regarded her companion in silent astonishment for a full
minute after his astounding communication.

“I do not understand you,” she said, at last, and she looked as if
she had not in the least comprehended his statement.

“I have told you that you are not the daughter of Adam Brewster,”
John Hubbard stolidly reasserted.

An incredulous expression swept over the girl’s beautiful face.

“That is an assertion too absurd to be heeded,” she said, and
turning again, as if to leave the room.

The man placed himself in her path, thus intercepting her.

“I have told you only the truth,” he said, with cold
deliberateness. “There is not one drop of Adam Brewster’s blood
in your veins; you are of no kin to either him or the late Mrs.
Brewster--so called.”

“Who--am--I--then?” came slowly from Allison’s white lips, for at
last the arrow had struck home, although she did not appear to have
heeded the last two ambiguous words which the man had uttered.

“I do not know; no one knows,” he answered, with cruel
indifference.

“I do not believe it--I will not believe it! You will have to prove
it!” the girl cried, tremulously.

“I can prove it.”

“Then I demand proof, here and now--this instant!” with an
imperative stamp of her foot.

John Hubbard left the room without a word. In less than three
minutes he returned, carrying in his hands one of the boxes which
had been found in Gerald’s possession on that fatal Sunday morning
of the previous winter.

He set it upon a table, placed a chair before it, and motioned for
Allison to be seated.

“In that box you will find the proof of what I have told you,” he
said; then added, as if impelled by a twinge of remorse: “I would
have saved you this, Allison, had you been reasonable.”

“Reasonableness! Do you call it unreasonable for a girl to
refuse to be coerced into an uncongenial marriage?” she cried,
passionately, her face flaming scarlet, although she was trembling
from head to foot with mingled suspense and apprehension.

“Where is the key to this?” she demanded, sinking into the chair
before the table and without giving the man a chance to reply.

He took a ring of keys from his pocket, detached one from it, and
passed it to her without speaking.

Allison could not have been whiter if she had been carved from
marble as she inserted the tiny bit of brass in the lock, turned
it, and threw open the cover of the mysterious box.

A low, inarticulate cry broke from her as she caught sight of the
infant’s clothing within, and instantly surmised the truth; yet,
even in her amazement and horror over the terrible revelation, she
noted how exquisitely fine was the material from which the garments
had been made--how rich the various trimmings--how pure the tiny
diamond that gleamed in the small golden key that was pinned upon
the yoke of the little dress.

She removed the articles one by one, laying them upon the table,
until she emptied the box of all its contents save that brief note,
written by the unknown mother, and Mrs. Brewster’s confession to
her husband.

Allison unfolded the letter first, and read it through to the end
without making a sign of the suffering that nearly cleft her heart
in twain, as she realized how, in an instant of time, as it were,
she had been cut adrift from every human tie that had bound her to
her supposed parents.

Then she perused the other, studying every line and dot of the few
brief words which had doubtless been penned by the hand of her own
mother.

“Well,” she said, at last, in a hollow voice, “is this the extent
of your revelations upon this subject?”

“Is it not sufficient to prove that you are not Adam Brewster’s
child?” the man questioned.

“Yes,” said Allison, chocking back a sob; “there can be no doubt
that I was only an adopted child----”

“You were not even adopted,” John Hubbard interposed. “There was
no one living who knew the secret when Adam Brewster discovered it,
and he was far too shrewd a man to betray it by taking out papers
of adoption at that late day, and thus run the risk of having the
world learn the truth. Why he should have spoiled everything by
retaining these proofs is more than I can understand. If he had
burned them immediately after reading Mrs. Brewster’s confession no
one would ever have known that you were not his child.”

“How came you to have this box?” Allison questioned, after a
thoughtful silence.

“Why, having been Mr. Brewster’s attorney and your guardian, it
became my duty to examine everything connected with his affairs,
and this----”

“Aha!” exclaimed Allison, with a start. “I believe this was one
of the two boxes which my father sent Gerald to get that Sunday
when you found him in the bank vault. I understand, now, why he
did this,” she went on, breathlessly. “He knew that he could trust
Gerald implicitly, never to speak of his errand to any one--never
to mention the existence of anything which he wished to conceal,
and he intended, without doubt, to destroy the contents of this
box, and so blot out of existence every vestige of this secret.”

“Well, yes, I should say that you have analyzed the situation very
accurately,” her companion observed, as she paused, although he had
given an impatient shrug at her tribute to Gerald.

“Then if you knew--if you realized this, you have been false to
your trust,” Allison indignantly continued. “You have not carried
out my father’s wishes. Why could you not have respected them? Why
have you revealed this secret to me?”

“I have my reasons,” the man sullenly returned.

“Well,” said the girl, tremulously, “if you have done this
simply to be revenged upon me because I rejected your proposal
of marriage, you have at least succeeded in giving me a terrible
shock; you have, in a sense, robbed me of my birthright; but you
can never rob me of the knowledge that Mr. and Mrs. Brewster both
loved and cherished me with all the tenderness which an own father
and mother could experience for their child. He certainly proved
this by every act of his life, and by making me the sole heir to
his wealth. The one thing I cannot understand is his making you my
guardian and investing you with so much power over me. I rebelled
against it at the outset; I am more than ever unreconciled to it
to-day, and I will submit to it no longer. I know that I have the
right to appeal for a change of guardian, and I intend to avail
myself of it,” she concluded, with considerable warmth.

“Please allow me to remind you of what I have already stated--that
I am about to resign the honor which Mr. Brewster conferred upon
me,” John Hubbard returned, in a tone, and with a look so sinister
that Allison felt her flesh creep.

“I am very glad,” she replied, coldly. “It will at least save me
considerable trouble and worry.”

“Thank you,” he stiffly rejoined; “but possibly you may not feel
quite so elated when I tell you that the revelation which I have
just made was but to prepare you for another of a far more serious
nature.”

“More trouble! Oh, I can bear no more!” moaned Allison to herself,
although she made no visible sign, except to grasp the arms of her
chair convulsively and try to brace herself for what was to come.

She began to feel spent from the excitement which she had already
undergone, and it seemed as if she could not endure another blow
like that which had just fallen upon her.

“Yes, I am afraid there is more trouble for you,” said John
Hubbard, with a smile of cruel triumph over her suffering.

Now that he was convinced that he could never win her, he was
prepared to ruthlessly crush her, with all possible despatch, and
his plans had long been matured to this end.

“But,” he returned, after a slight pause, “I want you to understand
that you have brought judgment upon your own head. I would have
been glad to shield you from every pang. You need never have
learned this secret, or have been shorn of a single luxury. As
it is, however, it becomes my duty to tell you that you are no
longer the heiress you have supposed yourself to be. The rich Miss
Brewster, the belle, the beauty, will be dethroned--hurled from her
high position in the world into poverty and obscurity by one blow
from the ax of fate.”

The seeming absurdity of such a statement acted like an electric
shock to Allison.

“What do you mean?” she demanded, whirling haughtily around upon
the speaker. “I may not be Adam Brewster’s own child--that is a
fact which I am forced to admit; but that it deprives me of the
fortune which he left me, by will, or of the position in society to
which he reared me, I do not admit. Your authority as my guardian
is not powerful enough for that, and you know, as well as I, that
my father spent his life accumulating his money with the hope and
the intention that I should inherit it.”

“Your conclusions are well drawn, Miss Brewster, and I should not
presume, upon my own authority, to controvert them,” John Hubbard
returned, with an air of mock humility and a deprecatory glance;
“but, unfortunately, a power more potent than any which I possess
is at work against your interests.”

“I do not understand you,” said Allison, coldly, but with a sinking
heart, for the man’s manner was very ominous.

“Well, then, to bring the matter before you in a nutshell, a woman
calling herself Mrs. Adam Brewster has recently presented herself,
claiming to be the legal wife of your late father, so called, and
certain property rights. In fact, she proposes to dispute Mr.
Brewster’s will and your right of inheritance.”

“It is false! I do not believe it!” cried Allison, starting wildly
to her feet. “Who is this woman? Where is she? I pronounce her an
impostor!”

“Pray do not allow yourself to become excited, Miss Brewster,” said
her companion, with formal politeness. “I foresaw, of course, that
this would be a great trial to you, and I hoped that the matter
might be compromised quietly--to save scandal and your feelings,
you understand. It could have been so arranged if--if you had
consented to become my wife. You would then have retained your
proper position in life, and the loss of a part of your fortune
need never have been known. I would have paid Mrs. Brewster what
she demands, and the whole affair could have been hushed up, since
she cares more for money than for the notoriety of becoming known
as the late banker’s wife.”

“I do not believe one word of it! She is an impostor!” Allison
reiterated. “My father never made a second marriage. He loved my
mother far too well ever to put another in her place.”

“Ah, pardon me, Miss Brewster, but I fear that I have not even yet
made myself quite plain,” returned the villain, his white teeth
gleaming viciously under his mustache. “Mrs. Brewster does not
claim that she is the second wife; she asserts that she is the
first--the only wife----”

“What!” almost shrieked Allison, as she sank back, pale and
breathless, upon her chair. “What is this that you dare tell me?
Oh, you do not know what you are saying! You are making my lovely
precious mother no wife at all!”

“Exactly; that is just what the aspirant for the Brewster fortune
claims,” began the wily expert.

“It is not true! There is not a word of truth in the dreadful
story!” interposed the unhappy girl, in heart-broken tones, a
shudder of repugnance shaking her from head to foot.

“No doubt it seems hard, and there are a good many hard things in
the world. I have found it so in my own experience,” her companion
replied, with significant emphasis; “but, unfortunately for you,
the lady brings proofs which appear incontestible.”

“I will not listen to them! I will have them refuted! I will engage
the best counsel in New York, and leave no stone unturned to defend
the reputation of my dear father and mother,” Allison wildly
declared.

Her companion looked somewhat disconcerted in view of her threat;
but, after a moment, leaned toward her and said, in low, stern,
rapid tones:

“All vehement denial and denunciation can do your cause no good. I
have seen this woman who claims to be Mrs. Brewster. I have seen
and read letters and documents which prove her statement that she
was married to Adam Brewster some three years prior to his marriage
to the lady whom you called mother. She says they only lived
together a very short time; a violent quarrel and the discovery
that they were not congenial resulted in a separation, she going
to a distant city in the West to reside, and where, out of motives
of revenge, she caused a notice of her death to be inserted in a
newspaper and sent to her husband. A few years afterward she saw
an announcement of Mr. Brewster’s marriage to a Miss Porter, of
Massachusetts.”

“Horrible! But if all this is true, why did she not make her claim
upon him at that time? Why wait all these years before claiming her
rights?” Allison demanded, as Mr. Hubbard paused.

“That is easily explained,” he returned. “Mr. Brewster took his
bride immediately abroad. She did not know when he returned, and
could learn nothing regarding him until after the death of the
second Mrs. Brewster. She says that later she did seek him, and
demanded recognition as his wife. Of course, it was a terrible blow
to him to learn how she had deceived him, but he would have nothing
to say to her; he repudiated her utterly. The only thing he would
agree to was to pay her a certain amount annually, as hush money,
for she threatened to expose the facts of the case unless he would
make some arrangement with her.”

“I do not believe it,” Allison again stoutly affirmed. “It was not
like my father to pay ‘hush money’ to any one. He was always open
and aboveboard in all his dealings; besides, he never appeared to
have any trouble or burden upon his mind, as he must have had if he
had stood in constant fear of a public scandal.”

“All the same, Miss Brewster, your father was married--it was a
secret marriage, too--three years previous to his union with Miss
Porter. It occurred during the last year of his college course in
New Haven. Mrs. Brewster can produce prima facie evidence of the
fact in the form of old letters and a certificate, and I have also
seen the record of the marriage license in the city archives.”

“Why, then, did not this woman come forward at the time of papa’s
death, and contest his will? Why has she waited all these months?”
questioned Allison, with white, quivering lips.

“Simply because I have not allowed her to do so; because I have
been striving to protect your interests--trying to temporize with
her,” said Mr. Hubbard, with a would-be effective sigh. “She would
have been content with half, and I could then have saved the other
half for you, if you had been reasonable and listened to my suit.
I could thus have protected you from every ill; indeed, I never
would have wounded you by allowing you to suspect anything of what
has been revealed to you to-day. You perceive what you have brought
upon yourself by defying me.”

Allison lifted a death-white face to the speaker, but there was a
gleam in her eyes that made him quail before her.

“Mr. John Hubbard, I would rather be a beggar in the streets--I
would rather be a street sweeper, earning a penny at a time,
than be the wife of such a man as you,” she said with deliberate
scorn. “You are cold, cruel, unprincipled, or you would never have
conducted yourself as you have to-day; you would never have sought
to be revenged upon one who was helplessly consigned to your power
because, not loving you, she refused to marry you.”

“Very well. You have sealed your own doom. Henceforth I shall act
in the interests of Mr. Brewster’s legal wife and daughter.”

CHAPTER XVI.

DO YOUR WORST.

“Daughter!” gasped Allison, a feeling of utter despair at her
heart, as John Hubbard gave utterance, in a tone of fiendish
triumph, to that last word. “Do you mean to tell me that papa has
an own daughter living?”

“Yes--Miss Anna Brewster, who is a young lady a few years your
senior. A fine-looking girl she is, too--a brilliant brunette,
resembling her mother, who must also have been a handsome woman
when she was young,” John Hubbard responded, as he covertly watched
his companion.

Allison sat silently thinking for several moments, but at last she
looked up at the man, meeting his eyes with a steadfast look.

“In spite of all you say, I do not believe it,” she said, with a
quiet positiveness. “If that woman was his wife, there might have
been some good reason for his repudiation of her; but he never
would have denied the child that was his own flesh and blood. He
was too honorable not to wish to do what was right and honest, and
he would certainly have made generous provision for her. No, I will
not credit such a story.”

“Suppose I should show you the certificate of his marriage to
this woman, also some letters which he wrote to her before their
marriage?” questioned her companion, a light of evil triumph in his
eyes.

“If you have such proofs, of course you will show them to me,”
Allison haughtily returned. “You cannot suppose that I am going to
take all that you have told me for granted, and yield my position
and fortune without a struggle. Produce your evidence, if you have
it; it is my right to demand it.”

“Very well; I will produce it,” said the man, with an ugly frown
upon his brow; and, slipping his hand inside the breast pocket of
his coat, he drew forth a large envelope and a small package of
time-yellowed letters that were tied together with a faded blue
ribbon.

Drawing a paper from the envelope, he unfolded and spread it out
upon the table before Allison.

It was a marriage-certificate, dated more than twenty-four years
previous.

It certified that on the 10th of April, of 18--, Adam Brewster
had been united in marriage to Louisa M. Simpson, of New Haven,
Connecticut, by the Reverend Albert Ackerman.

The document was faded and creased with time, and it had every
appearance of being a genuine certificate. Allison read it
carefully, then pushed it one side, and held out her hand for the
letters.

As she untied the narrow ribbon that bound them, and the various
missives dropped apart, a low cry of pain escaped her, for she
instantly recognized her father’s handwriting upon their envelopes.

Opening several of these, she saw that they were affectionately
addressed to “My Dearest,” “Sweetheart,” “_Ma Belle_,” etc., and
signed “Ever yours,” or “Your own Ad.”

There could not be the slightest doubt that those letters had been
written by Adam Brewster, although Allison did not have the heart
to read any of them, and gradually the conviction was forced upon
her that the story which John Hubbard had told her must be true.

What then, was to be her fate?

Mrs. Brewster’s confession of her secret adoption had, at first,
cut her to the heart, for it had seemed to alienate her from the
dear ones whom, all her life, she had regarded as her parents; but,
in the light of this later revelation, she now felt a thrill of
thankfulness in knowing that she had not been their child, since
such a birth would seem to entail disgrace upon her; and, like a
drowning person clutching at a straw of hope, she now clung to that
assurance contained in the young mother’s note that the child whom
she had been forced to desert was “well and honorably born.”

And yet she knew that Adam Brewster had loved her as he loved no
other being on earth; that all his hopes had been centered in her;
that he had constantly toiled and accumulated for her alone, and
gloried in the fact that she would be his sole heiress.

She could not understand why, if he really had an own child, he
should have repudiated her; why he had not made handsome provision
for her. Possibly he had done so, unknown to any one save this
woman and her daughter; and they, now becoming greedy for more,
were taking this way to get possession of the heritage willed to
her.

“Yes,” she sighed, at last, as she gathered up and retied the
letters together, “I am afraid it is all true.”

A sinister, avaricious light sprang into the eyes of her companion
as she made this admission.

“Still,” she thoughtfully resumed, “I do not see how it can very
materially affect my position. I was reared as my father’s own
child; all the world knows it; and the will which he made, naming
me as his heiress, must stand.”

“Mrs. Brewster and her daughter will contest that will,” briefly
observed John Hubbard.

“How can they? Was it not legally drawn? If it was not, then you
are responsible for its invalidity,” sharply retorted Allison.

“Certainly it was legally drawn; there is no flaw in it,” was
the dignified response, although the man flushed guiltily as he
recalled that Sunday morning which he had spent in the bank the
previous winter. “But, according to certain laws, a man has no
right to make a will ignoring any of his heirs, and if, either
by oversight or design, he does so, the will can be broken.
Consequently, Mrs. Brewster has informed me that she should bring a
suit against her late husband’s estate, and demand recognition of
her position and rights.”

“And, in view of that threat, have not you, as my guardian, done
anything to protect my interests?” demanded Allison, with some
warmth.

“Certainly, Miss Brewster; I have done a great deal. I have staved
off proceedings, for one thing, hoping that we might compromise
matters, and so settle everything quietly, without a trial and a
scandal. This could have been done if--if my plans had worked,”
said the crafty man, with a reproachful look and sigh. “But now I
think Mrs. Brewster will press her claims. She will try to break
the will, asserting that you have no right to anything, while she,
being the legal wife, and her child, the only legitimate heir, are
justly entitled to everything.”

“Oh, will poor, dear mama’s name have to be dragged before the
public? Will this claimant try to prove that mama was never legally
married to papa?” exclaimed Allison, in deep distress, her face
crimsoning with shame at the thought of having that lovely and
sainted woman’s reputation so trailed in the dust.

“Yes, I fear she does not intend to spare her rival, unless we can
hit upon some plan of settling the matter quietly,” said the crafty
villain.

“Can it be quietly settled?” eagerly questioned the distressed girl.

“Possibly it might be,” the man admitted, with averted eyes.

“How?”

“Well, I suppose if you would resign everything----”

“Everything! Do you tell me that I am expected to relinquish all
right and title to everything that my dear father left me?” cried
Allison, the hot color mounting to her forehead in indignant
protest against such wholesale robbery.

“Ahem!” said John Hubbard, moving uneasily upon his chair. “I
think that will be the only way to get out of it quietly. You see,
you are not really entitled to a penny, since there is no Brewster
blood in your veins.”

“But do not the love and wishes of my father, as expressed in his
will, count for anything?”

“From a sentimental point of view, they might count for a great
deal; but there is no sentiment in law, Miss Brewster,” sneered the
attorney.

“No, nor any other principle but greed!” sharply retorted Allison,
a ring of keen pain in her tones.

It seemed as if she was an entirely different being from what she
had been two hours previous, as if some terrible metamorphosis
had taken place in her, destroying her identity and making her a
stranger to even herself.

She was no longer Allison Brewster, the heiress to a vast fortune;
she had no longer any right to the position she had always
occupied. She did not know who she was, or--if this strange woman,
who called herself Adam Brewster’s widow, demanded the uttermost
farthing--how she was to live in the future, or find a home to
shelter her.

“Oh, it is all a cruel mystery, and I do not know how to meet
it!” the perplexed girl sighed, almost unconsciously voicing her
thoughts.

“Yes, the events connected with your association with the Brewster
family are mysterious, and it is doubtful if they will ever be
solved,” responded her companion, a gleam of cruel satisfaction in
his eyes in view of the evident suffering of his victim. “And,”
he added, pressing the thorn yet more deeply into the wound, “it
must seem hard to one reared as luxuriously as you have been to be
reduced from affluence to abject poverty by a single blow.”

His cruelty stung her to the quick.

“It shall not be! I will not be so robbed!” she exclaimed
excitedly. “I will claim that I have a right to at least some
portion of the fortune which my father willed me. Surely no judge
or jury would ever decree that that woman and her daughter are
entitled to the whole. And I cannot quite understand your attitude
in connection with their claims, Mr. Hubbard,” she added, with
sudden thought. “Considering your position as my guardian, one
would naturally suppose you would make a brave fight for me, rather
than advocate their cause so earnestly.”

“I have already fought to the finish for you. I have spared no
effort to win,” the man retorted significantly: “but, as I have
already told you, you have sealed your own doom. I could have
braved everything for my wife, and I would have won the victory;
but when a girl tells a man that she loves a fellow he hates, and
that she would rather be a beggar or a street-sweeper than marry
him, her scorn has a tendency to produce a strong revulsion in
his feelings. And now, my proud little beggar--for such you will
be--you may go and starve, for all I care!” he concluded, with
intense bitterness.

“I will not starve! I will defy you to the very end,” Allison
cried spiritedly, as she again sprang to her feet and confronted
her sworn foe with flashing eyes. “Oh, I am almost inclined to
believe that this is some deep-laid plot to ruin me--some vile
scheme of your own to drive me into a hateful marriage with you,
or into poverty and obscurity as my only alternative. I have never
trusted you, Mr. John Hubbard, and have wondered how papa could
have put faith in you. I have long believed you to be tricky and
capable of double-dealing. I have always felt that you had a hand
in bringing that trouble upon Gerald. But truth and the right
triumphed in his case, and you will be foiled in this. I am only a
lonely girl. I know nothing about the quirks and quibbles of law;
but I am inclined to doubt this story of yours regarding the woman
whom you call Mrs. Brewster, in spite of the ‘proofs’ which you
have shown me; and now I am going to prove to you that, even though
I may have no Brewster blood in my veins, I have a spirit of which
Adam Brewster need not be ashamed in the girl whom he reared as his
daughter. Now, do your worst, Mr. Hubbard, and I will seek the best
counsel in New York to fight against you!”

She was gloriously beautiful as she stood proudly facing her enemy.
Her pose was proud and fearless, her cheeks were scarlet, and her
beautiful eyes blazed with a fire which bespoke dauntless courage.

She seemed to have suddenly developed from a quiet, clinging,
dependent schoolgirl into a strong, self-reliant woman, who was
determined to do and dare all things to maintain her rights and
preserve her heritage.

John Hubbard gazed upon her wonderingly.

He had not dreamed of arousing such a sleeping lioness; he had
believed that she would be so overwhelmed by the proofs and the
power which he held in his hands that she would tamely submit to
the inevitable, and relinquish all right or title to the Brewster
estate, whereupon he would come without an effort into possession
of her fortune, which he had so long coveted.

“And whom will you choose as your attorney to contest this case,
Miss Brewster?” he inquired, in a harsh, rasping voice, after
recovering a little from his surprise at the stand she had taken.

“I do not know yet, and I should not tell you if I did,” she coldly
responded. Then she added thoughtlessly: “Gerald will advise me.
Perhaps Mr. Lyttleton----”

A vicious, sibilant oath here interrupted her as she uttered these
names.

“Neither is in New York. They sailed again for Europe a week ago
to-day,” John Hubbard added, in a tone of vindictive triumph.

Allison started violently, then flushed a wounded crimson.
This explained why she had not heard from Gerald, she thought.
Doubtless his employer had been suddenly recalled to England upon
some business connected with “the complicated case” that he was
conducting there.

And yet she felt, with a terrible sense of loss and pain, that
Gerald might at least have found time to drop her a line, telling
her of his unexpected flitting. It was very strange, and she was
deeply wounded, but she did not once suspect foul play--that John
Hubbard might have been tampering with her correspondence.

Such was the case, however. No letter of hers had been allowed to
reach Gerald; while, at that very moment, two tender epistles from
her lover, one of them telling her that he and his employer had
been summoned abroad again, and giving her his London address, were
tucked snugly away in the villain’s wallet.

“Very well,” she proudly returned, on recovering herself a little;
“there are other talented lawyers. I shall find some one to help
me.”

“But where will you get the money necessary to conduct your case,