Marge sold his house at auction, and, while wearily awaiting the circumlocution of “searching title” which necessarily preceded his getting full payment, he betook himself to Boston. To avoid speculation was impossible, it had been his life for years; and, as he found mining-shares were within his reach, he began again to operate, in a small way. The little he had seen of mines while on the fateful E. & W. excursion was so much more than the majority of those about him knew on the subject that he made a few lucky turns, and he finally interested some acquaintances in a promising silver property he had seen in the West. His acquaintances succeeded in getting the property “listed” at one of the New York exchanges, and Marge, with new hopes and a great deal of desperation, risked nearly all he had on the Brighthope mine. The scheme worked finely for some weeks. It was skilfully managed by the Bostonians interested; they even succeeded in getting a great deal about it into the newspapers of both cities. But--alas for the wickedness of human nature!--one day the company were horrified to learn that their title to the property was hopelessly defective. When this fact became indisputable, Brighthope stock tumbled farther than E. & W.,--tumbled utterly out of sight; and all the assets of the company, except the safe and two desks, were sold to a paper-stock dealer at a cent a pound. Then Marge thought seriously of suicide. He had but a thousand or two dollars left: how could he operate in anything on that small sum and support himself besides? He could add something to the sum by selling his horses and carriage, but such things always had to go at a sacrifice; besides, there would be a terrible bill to be paid for the maintenance of the animals during the two or three months in which he had been absent from New York. Still, the thought of suicide did not improve on acquaintance. While there was life there was hope. Why shouldn’t he go back to New York, brave everything, and start anew to the best of his ability? Other men had pocketed their pride; and, although his own pride was frightfully large to be submitted to such treatment, he did not know that the operation would give him any more discomfort than he was already enduring. The thought resolved itself into decision when one day he chanced to meet in Boston a New Yorker with whom he had a casual acquaintance. After a little chat the man, who had been away from the city for months, remarked,-- “You’re not married yet?” “No,” said Marge, with a grim smile. “I thought I had heard that you were engaged to Miss Tramlay; and I wanted to congratulate you. An iron-house traveller whom I met a short time ago told me that Tramlay was getting rich very fast.” “I supposed,” said Marge, with a dawn of interest, “that Miss Tramlay was to marry young Hayn.”