taken the liberty of writing you this brief and incomplete _resume_ of the outrages perpetrated upon me and mine, and must refer you for disgraceful details to my agent, Mr. Peleg Peterson of Whitefield, ---- Co., ----. Hoping that you will not add to the injury you have already inflicted, by further complicity in this audacious scheme of fraud and blackmail, "I am, dear sir, respectfully An afflicted father, RENE LAURANCE. "P.S.--Should you desire to communicate with me, my address for several months will be, Care of the American Legation, Paris." How many men or women, with lives of average length and incident, have failed to recognize, nay to cower before the fact, that all along the highways and byways of the earthly pilgrimage they have been hounded by a dismal _cortege_ of retarded messages,--lost opportunities,--miscarried warnings,--procrastinated prayers,--dilatory deeds,--and laggard faces,--that howl for ever in their shuddering ears--"Too late." Had Dr. Hargrove received this letter only twenty-four hours earlier, the result of the interview on the previous night would probably have been very different; but unfortunately, while the army of belated facts--the fatal Grouchy corps--never accomplish their intended mission, they avenge they failure by a pertinacious presence ever after that is sometimes almost maddening. An uncomfortable consciousness of having been completely overreached did not soften the minister's feelings toward the new custodian of his tin box, and an utter revulsion of sentiment ensued, wherein sympathy for General Rene Laurance reigned supreme. Oh instability of human compassion! To-day at the tumultuous flood, we weep for Caesar slain; To-morrow in the ebb, we vote a monument to Brutus. Ere the sun had gone down behind the sombre frozen firs that fringed the hills of V---- Dr. Hargrove had written to Mr. Peleg Peterson, desiring to be furnished with some clue by which he could trace Minnie Merle, and Hannah had been despatched to the post office, to expedite the departure of the letter. Weeks and months passed, tearful April wept itself away in the flowery lap of blue-eyed May, and golden June roses died in the fiery embrace of July, but no answer came; no additional information drifted upon the waves of chance, and the slow stream of life at the parsonage once more crept silently and monotonously on. "Some griefs gnaw deep. Some woes are hard to bear. Who knows the Past? and who can judge us right?" CHAPTER III.