Very thin, and sad, and mournful looked the old man as he sat in his easy-chair, with his lonely thoughts fixed ever on the past. He was old and weary. Life held no charm for him now. One thought of the last lonely sheaf waiting for the reaper as he sat with his withered hands folded, and that look of patient grief on his thin, white, aged face. "Oh, my lost little Golden," he murmured aloud: "She tarries long. The quest for her mother is a weary one. Oh, that God would give me back the mother and child, both innocent and pure as when I lost them." A sudden shadow fell between him and the light. He looked up and saw a man standing before him, a man with a pale, worn, troubled face, and dark eyes that held the story of a tragedy in their somber depths. "Pardon," he said, "I have ventured unannounced into your presence. My name is Richard Leith." The old man stared at him with dim, unrecognizing eyes. That name conveyed no meaning to his mind. He had never heard it before. "You are a stranger," he said. "Yes," Richard Leith answered, and stood silent a moment. How should he tell Hugh Glenalvan that he was the man who had stolen his daughter from him and desolated his life? It was a hard task. His voice quivered and broke as he said: "I am a stranger, but I am also your son-in-law." "I have no son-in-law," the old man replied, gazing blankly at him. "Your daughter was my wife," said Richard Leith. "Little Golden?" said the old man, like one dazed. "Yes," answered the lawyer. "I stole her from you sixteen years ago, and made her my darling wife. Oh, sir, can you ever forgive me the sorrow I have caused you?" "A wife! She was a wife! Thank God for that," the old man murmured, with trembling delight. "And you have brought her back at last. Where is she, my darling little Golden?" "Oh, God!" murmured the conscience-smitten man before him. "Let me see her, my sweet child," cried Hugh Glenalvan, feebly rising. "It was cruel to keep the little one from me so long. Oh, Golden, Golden, come to me, my darling." Richard Leith put him back with gentle hands into his chair. He knelt down at his feet and told him all his sorrowful story, throwing all the blame on himself, and pleading humbly for pardon from the father whom he had robbed of his darling. "I loved her," he said. "She was dearer than my own life. I would have brought her back to you in time. I was only waiting for the fame and fortune that came to me soon. But treachery came between us. I lost her, and henceforth I have lived hand in hand with sorrow and despair." The soft wind sighing past the window seemed to echo that heavy word "despair." "At the door of John Glenalvan lies your sorrow and mine," continued Richard Leith, "I am come to call him to account." "Who are you that dares arraign John Glenalvan?" exclaimed a harsh, blatant voice, as the speaker strode rudely into their presence.