Meanwhile, the object of her thoughts was still at the Brent cottage, at the now deserted Newport, valiantly fighting his way back to life from the very brink of eternity. He had had a close call, but his grand physique conquered, and death, which he so longed for, would not come to him then, and he was forced, against his most earnest desires, to take up the tangled thread of life again, and weave it out to the end. His friends, Hazard Ballou and Jerry Gaines, spent every available hour that they could with him, when it was possible to run up to Newport. It was they who first carried to him the news of the wonderful success of his book. To their surprise he turned his head wearily away, asking them to desist from the telling until another time, for he thought he could sleep. They looked at him, then at each other, in blank amazement. Did ever a man take wonderful tidings like this in such a manner before, they queried; and they could not help reproving him on his want of interest in his wonderful success, which would mean a fortune to him. John Dinsmore turned his head wearily on his pillow. “Success and wealth have come to me too late!” he said, bitterly. “A month ago I would have gone frantic, I think, at such intelligence; now--well, I can only repeat that, like my uncle’s fortune, it has come to me too late, boys--too late!” “Ah, by the way,” cried Jerry Gaines, “speaking of your uncle’s fortune reminds me of a letter I have in my pocket for you, which came to your New York address, and instead of forwarding it, waited and brought it, delaying the delivery of it but a day.” “If you will read it, and tell me the contents of it, I shall be obliged to you,” said John, wearily. “By George, now that I come to remember it, there were two letters for you which I slipped into my pocket, and now, as I live, I can find but one of them,” declared Jerry Gaines, much perturbed. “Do not trouble over it, Jerry,” said Dinsmore. “If it relates to anything of the least consequence, the writer will be sure to write again.” “You are kind to find pardon for me,” returned Gaines, adding, ruefully: “I shall never forgive myself for not taking better care of your mail, old fellow, if it turns out that I have mislaid something of importance to you.” The truth was, fate had taken charge of the letter in question, which was the one from Queenie Trevalyn, recalling him, by causing it to slip through the torn lining of the young reporter’s pocket, to be found protruding through the black lining of that self-same coat many a long day later. Jerry Gaines attended to the commission of opening the remaining letter mechanically, and as he drew the folded sheet of paper from the envelope, lo! a photograph rolled forth from it--the portrait of a very youthful, but a very lovely slip of a girl, and penciled in a scrawling, irregular, schoolgirl hand, was the name Jess, simply that and no more.