Neither Jack nor Margery felt inclined to remain in the West, where they had suffered so much, and where there would be constant reminders of the painful past, and it was finally decided that they should proceed at once to the farm which Jack still owned in New Jersey, and if Margery was pleased with the place they would settle there and spend the remainder of their lives upon it. The next morning they went to pay Farmer Bruce a visit, and inform him of the happy ending to all their trouble. The following day they went to San Francisco, where they drew Margery’s money from the bank, in which it had remained so long, and a snug little sum it was, too, having accumulated for so many years. A week later they all turned their backs upon the Pacific coast and set their faces toward the East. Geoffrey accompanied them as far as Cheyenne, Wyoming, where he took leave of them, as he was going southward into New Mexico again. But he promised to pay them an early visit when he should return to Brooklyn. * * * * * While these events were transpiring in the far West, an interesting incident occurred in the far East—in no other city than Boston—which has its bearing on our story and properly belongs here. On a bright, beautiful summer morning, in the month of July, a lady entered a handsome drug store on Washington street, and asked permission to look at a city directory. She was a finely formed, brilliant-looking woman, elegantly dressed, and bearing herself with the ease and self-possession of one accustomed to the most cultured circles of society. A portly gentleman, with a wealth of white hair crowning his shapely head, and wearing gold-bowed spectacles, stepped from behind his desk as the lady made her request, and politely laid the book before her. As he did so, and his keen glance fell upon her face, he started slightly, but was far too well-bred to betray his surprise at her appearance, if he experienced any, and immediately returned to his post at his desk. But he managed to place himself where he could see his visitor, without being himself observed. The woman turned to the D’s in the directory, and ran her neatly gloved finger slowly down the line, pausing here and there as a name appeared to attract her special attention. After carefully searching several pages, she turned back and began to go over the same ground again, while a faint line of perplexity and annoyance appeared between her finely-arched brows. This second search seemed to be as unsuccessful as the previous one had been, and for the third time she reviewed the list of names under the letter D. It was useless, however; the name she sought was not there. She stood musing for a few moments, then opening her pocket-book—an elegant affair of Russia leather with clasps of gold—she took from it a card to which she referred. “The name is surely not in the directory,” she murmured.