Geoffrey’s Victory;
                                  OR,
                         THE DOUBLE DECEPTION.

                                    BY

                          MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON,

                                AUTHOR OF

   “STELLA ROOSEVELT,” “TINA,” “EDRIE’S LEGACY,” “WITCH HAZEL,” “MAX,”
 “RUBY’S REWARD,” “VIRGIE’S INHERITANCE,” “TWO KEYS,” “THRICE WEDDED,” “A
    TRUE ARISTOCRAT,” “TRIXY,” “THAT DOWDY,” “SIBYL’S INFLUENCE,” ETC.

                               NEW YORK:
                      STREET & SMITH, Publishers,
                           81 Fulton Street.

        Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1888,
                           BY STREET & SMITH,
    In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D.C.

                                CONTENTS

       CHAPTER I. A STRANGE ADVENTURE.
       CHAPTER II. A MONSTROUS PROPOSITION.
       CHAPTER III. THE LITTLE STRANGER ADOPTED.
       CHAPTER IV. A CHANGE OF RESIDENCE AND AN ADVENTURE.
       CHAPTER V. A GRAVE CONSULTATION.
       CHAPTER VI. THE DEVELOPMENTS OF SEVERAL YEARS.
       CHAPTER VII. GEOFFREY ENTERS COLLEGE.
       CHAPTER VIII. THE HAZER HAZED.
       CHAPTER IX. A STRANGE ENCOUNTER.
       CHAPTER X. MRS. BREVORT’S RECEPTION.
       CHAPTER XI. MARGERY.
       CHAPTER XII. THE RECEPTION.
       CHAPTER XIII. “FIRST IN TIME, FIRST BY RIGHT!”
       CHAPTER XIV. A CONFESSION.
       CHAPTER XV. A DECLARATION.
       CHAPTER XVI. OUT OF COLLEGE AT LAST.
       CHAPTER XVII. A DISAPPOINTED LOVER.
       CHAPTER XVIII. A LONG AND INTERESTING CONVERSATION.
       CHAPTER XIX. EVERET MAPLESON RETURNS TO VUE DE L’EAU.
       CHAPTER XX. AN INTERESTING DWELLING.
       CHAPTER XXI. AN OCTOGENARIAN INTERVIEWED.
       CHAPTER XXII. A REMARKABLE DISCOVERY.
       CHAPTER XXIII. EVERET MAKES A NEW ACQUAINTANCE.
       CHAPTER XXIV. EVERET MAKES A STARTLING DISCOVERY.
       CHAPTER XXV. GEOFFREY PICKS UP A THREAD.
       CHAPTER XXVI. A THRILLING STORY.
       CHAPTER XXVII. JACK’S STORY CONTINUED.
       CHAPTER XXVIII. GEOFFREY VISITS THE SCENE OF THE TRAGEDY.
       CHAPTER XXIX. AN UNEXPECTED MEETING.
       CHAPTER XXX. A STARTLING RECOGNITION.
       CHAPTER XXXI. A RETROSPECTIVE GLANCE.
       CHAPTER XXXII. GEOFFREY FINDS A RELIC.
       CHAPTER XXXIII. A WEDDING IN PROSPECT.
       CHAPTER XXXIV. ROBERT DALE’S WILL BROUGHT TO LIGHT.
       CHAPTER XXXV. TWO LETTERS.
       CHAPTER XXXVI. “HE IS NOT NAMELESS.”
       CHAPTER XXXVII. A THREAT AND A WEDDING-RING.
       CHAPTER XXXVIII. THE WEDDING.
       CHAPTER XXXIX. WHAT BECAME OF GEOFFREY.
       CHAPTER XL. AN ACCIDENT REVEALS AN HEIR-LOOM.
       CHAPTER XLI. GEOFFREY LEARNS THE TRUTH AT LAST.
       CHAPTER XLII. FURTHER DEVELOPMENTS.
       CHAPTER XLIII. COLONEL MAPLESON’S STORY.
       CHAPTER XLIV. THE COLONEL’S STORY CONCLUDED.
       CHAPTER XLV. MRS. MAPLESON’S CONFESSION.
       CHAPTER XLVI. MRS. MAPLESON’S STORY CONCLUDED.
       CHAPTER XLVII. AN UNEXPECTED RETURN.
       CHAPTER XLVIII. PEACE AT LAST.

                          GEOFFREY’S VICTORY.

                               CHAPTER I.
                          A STRANGE ADVENTURE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                                                      A. PAYSON, Clerk.”

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

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

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

This thought decided him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mrs. Marston arose to receive him as he entered.

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

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

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

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

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

The maid obeyed, and then quietly withdrew.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dr. Turner regarded the woman with amazement.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                              CHAPTER II.
                        A MONSTROUS PROPOSITION.

Dr. Turner did not immediately reply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He believed even now that she was acting a part.

She saw it, and again her face flamed scarlet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is that?” she demanded, eagerly.

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

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

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

“Why so?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She selected a bill and extended it to him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another bow was his only reply to this.

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

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

And she again extended her hand to him in farewell.

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

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

                              CHAPTER III.
                      THE LITTLE STRANGER ADOPTED.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He turned again to Mrs. Marston.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                              CHAPTER IV.
                A CHANGE OF RESIDENCE AND AN ADVENTURE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it was only for a moment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Come here, boy, quick! quick!”

The lad needed no second bidding.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“M’ha! m’ha!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How old do you think he can be?”

John gave a long look at the young stranger.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                               CHAPTER V.
                         A GRAVE CONSULTATION.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mr. Huntress’ face lighted.

“Try something else,” he commanded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Drive home, John.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes; provided all went well.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

With this, the two men separated.

                              CHAPTER VI.
                   THE DEVELOPMENTS OF SEVERAL YEARS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jack struck Margery,” was the instant reply.

“Who is your papa, my boy?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jack who?” he asked.

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

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

“I’m Geoffrey, sir.”

“Geoffrey what?”

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

“Where is papa?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then a sudden smile broke over his face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                              CHAPTER VII.
                        GEOFFREY ENTERS COLLEGE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Afraid, Gladys?”

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

He bent and looked earnestly into her eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Geoffrey colored.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                             CHAPTER VIII.
                            THE HAZER HAZED.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                              CHAPTER IX.
                          A STRANGE ENCOUNTER.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thus the fall and winter passed.

Meantime Gladys was winning golden opinions for herself at Vassar.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                               CHAPTER X.
                       MRS. BREVORT’S RECEPTION.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was Geoffrey and yet he was not.

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

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

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

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

Gladys blushed slightly.

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

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

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

Everet Mapleson’s face darkened.

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

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

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

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

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

“Have you brothers and sisters?” she inquired.

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

“Do you resemble your father or mother?”

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

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

Everet Mapleson looked surprised.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                              CHAPTER XI.
                                MARGERY.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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