They lift the slight form out of its grim receptacle and bear her to the sexton's secluded cot where he lives alone, his wife having died a few months previous. They lay her down on his clean bed in the warm, cozy room; and still her strange, deep slumber is unbroken. "I will watch beside her," says Mr. Campbell. "You must go back, restore the empty coffin to the grave, and throw in the earth again." "You do not wish that this discovery shall ever be known, then?" the sexton asks, gravely. "No--at least not now," Mr. Campbell answers, after a pause of silent thought. A moment later he adds, wistfully: "My wife's grave--you will open that too? Who knows but that she, too, may be only sleeping?" "It is scarce probable, sir, but I will do it to satisfy you," the sexton answers, moving away. The dawn of a new day is breaking when he returns, having just finished his weary task. Lawrence Campbell starts up from his weary vigil by his daughter's silent form. "You promised to come for me, and I waited and waited!" he cries, reproachfully. "You did not do as I bade you." The old sexton's face is ashen gray as if with the memory of some recent horror. "Oh, sir, I swear to you, I kept my word," he cries, "but--but--oh, Mr. Campbell, I spared you in mercy that dreadful sight! You would not have known her, you could not have borne to see how death had effaced her beauty. You must remember her as she was--not as she is." Lawrence Campbell's despairing moan is echoed by a low and fainter one. Vera's dark eyes open slowly, her lips part in faint, shivering sighs. "Quick--the wine!" exclaims the sexton. "Pour a few drops between her lips." Lawrence Campbell obeys gladly, and Vera's lips part thirstily to receive the potent medicine. She lifts her white hand to her brow as if to clear away the shadows that cloud her brain. "I have been asleep, and my dreams were strange and wild," she murmurs. "I thought I had found my father. You, sir, look at me lovingly and kindly. Can it be----" "That I am your father--yes, my precious Vera," he answers, pressing a father's holy kiss on the sweet, wistful lips. Her dark, dreamy eyes look searchingly up into the handsome, noble face. "Ah, I am so glad," she murmurs, "and you are good and true and noble. I cannot understand why you went away from mamma, but I can tell by your face that you are not the bad and wicked wretch that woman pretended." "Mrs. Cleveland?" he asks, a spasm of rage and hatred distorting his pallid features. "Perhaps it will be best not to excite the young lady by talking to her just at first," the sexton interposes, anxiously and respectfully. "She must be very weak, having taken no nourishment for so long. I will go out and prepare a little warm broth for her."