Stuart knelt on, while hot tears were stealing down his cheeks. A solemn trust was confided to his care--of what nature he knew now. The ne’er-do-well, the wandering nature, the truant from home, had not been alone all his life. The name of “wife” passed from his lips as death closed his eyes. Some tale of sadness, of disappointment, was to come, and with it was linked a name that had destroyed Stuart’s joy and youth--the name of “Margery.” A strange thrill ran through the young man’s frame when at last he rose from his knees. There was now a bond of sympathy stronger than had ever existed in life between himself and his dead cousin. * * * * * “It is not true! I will not believe it! The whole thing is a romance from beginning to end. Douglas Gerant always----” “Mother, do not forget you are speaking of a dead man,” broke in Stuart Crosbie, quietly and sternly. “I will not listen to such words.” Mrs. Crosbie turned and faced her son. Stuart was leaning against the mantelpiece in a room of a London hotel, his face pale, yet determined. Mrs. Crosbie, dressed in heavy black robes half-hidden with crape, was walking to and fro, vexed and wrathful. “Do you mean to say you will not dispute this iniquitous will?” she asked, sharply. “Certainly not. I have no right. It is a most just one.” “And you will let Beecham Park pass from your hands into the clutches of some low-born girl who has no more right to it than a beggar in the street?” “Except the right of a daughter.” “Daughter!” repeated Mrs. Crosbie, with scorn. “There was no marriage, and, even if such was the case, the girl is not to be found; he lost trace of the mother and child for sixteen years, and now has conjured up some romance about a likeness in a village wench.” “Mother, you are not just or temperate. Douglas Gerant has set forth in this letter the sorrow of his life. With his dying lips he claimed my promise to fulfill his wishes, and I shall do so.” “You are mad, Stuart!” declared his mother, coldly. “But,” she added, with a sneer, “I need not look very far for your motive; it is for the sake of this girl, this Margery Daw, that you are determined to sacrifice everything. Had Sir Douglas seen a resemblance in any other woman, the desire to carry out his wishes might not have been so strong. You have no pride, Stuart, not a----” “I have honor, mother,” Stuart interrupted, his brow clouded, his face stern. “You wrong me and insult me. The past is gone. Why bring it back? I shall do my duty for Douglas Gerant’s sake, for honor, justice, right and truth’s sake, and for nothing else. I shall seek out Margery Daw; I have pledged myself to the dead, and shall keep my word.” “And what will Vane say to this quixotic course?” “Vane is a true-hearted woman; she will say I am right. But, should she not, then I cannot help it--I am resolved.”