“Verna Dalrymple--Darling Dalrymple! How strange that she did not throw away the name with all the rest that it stood for--fickle heart! I suppose she had to keep it for the child’s sake, sweet little Jessie! Ah, how strange we never guessed she was coming! If we had known how different all might have been! I must have been more patient of her fretting, she more tender of my restlessness under misfortune! The dear little one coming must have held our hearts together--hearts now so terribly sundered!” And Leon Dalrymple bowed his fair head heavily while waves of memory swept across his heart. CHAPTER XV. FORGETFULNESS, THE GREAT PANACEA. A lonely life and much brooding inclines the mind to strange aspects. Leon Dalrymple’s thoughts dwelt persistently on the dead girl--his divorced wife’s adopted daughter as he believed. He felt a painful, almost jealous curiosity over her, wondering if she had usurped the love that belonged to Jessie as well as her place in her mother’s home. “I should like to look upon her face!” he repeated over and over to himself, and the desire grew at last into a bold determination. The early autumn twilight found him at the cemetery, whispering into the ear of the feeble old sexton who recoiled with surprise at his proposition: “No, sir, no, it would be as much as my place is worth! I can’t do it!” he protested, but the clink of gold made him change his opinion. “It is nothing, after all--only to give me one look at the dead girl’s face! What could they do to you even if they discovered the truth?” Dalrymple repeated impatiently, and he redoubled his bribe. The cupidity of the old man made him falter in his opposition, and as a result they entered the vault just as the darkness of night settled over the earth, the sexton carrying a dark lantern, whose glare he turned on the bank of flowers that surrounded the casket, blending their rich, rare odors with the noisome odors of mortality. The dead are in their silent graves, And the earth is cold above; And the living weep and sigh Over dust that once was love! They advanced toward the casket, but suddenly each recoiled and glared at the other. “What was that? It sounded like a stifled moan!” exclaimed Dalrymple, in alarm. “Nothing but the wind in the trees,” exclaimed the old sexton, recovering himself, and wrenching loose the lid of the casket, sending out gusts of rich fragrance from the covering of tuberoses. A moment more, and the casket was open, Dalrymple advancing with a quickened heartthrob to gaze on the silent sleeper. It was a startling scene.