“Clubs!” and Lawrence looked him fixedly in the face. “Who should write Lilian’s letters but herself? What would you insinuate?” “Nothing but what I know to be true,” returned Oliver. “Mildred Howell always wrote Lilian’s letters for her,—always. Lilian copied them, ’tis true, but the words were Mildred’s.” “Deceived me again,” Lawrence hoarsely whispered. “I forgave the first as a sudden impulse, but this systematic, long-continued deception, never. Oh, is there no faith in women?” “Yes, Lawrence. There is faith and truth in Mildred Howell;” and Oliver’s voice trembled as he said it, for he knew that of his own free will he was putting from him that which for the last few months had made the world seem brighter, had kindled a glow of ambition in his heart, and brought the semblance of health to his pale cheek. Mildred free was a source of greater happiness to him than Mildred married would be,—but not for this did he waver, and lest his resolution should give way, he told rapidly all that he knew of Lilian’s intercourse with Mildred,—all that he knew of Mr. Thornton’s visit to Beechwood,—of the promise wrung from Mildred by cruel insults, and by working upon her love for Lilian,—of Mildred’s hopeless anguish at first,—of her watching day by day for some word from Lawrence, until her starry eyes were dim with tears, which washed the roses from her cheek, and the hope from out her heart,—of her noble interference to save Mr. Thornton from ruin,—of her desolate condition now, and of the agony it would cause her to hear of Lawrence’s marrying another. For several minutes Lawrence seemed like one in a dream. It had come upon him so suddenly as to suspend his power to move, and he sat staring blankly at Oliver, who at last brought him back to reality by saying: “You will go to Beechwood at once?” “Yes, yes,” he answered; “this very day, if possible. Clubs, I owe you more than I can ever repay. You saved me once from a watery grave, and now you have made me the happiest of men. I can understand much which seemed mysterious in father’s manner. I always knew he was ambitious, but I did not think him equal to this cowardly act. Marry Lilian! Why, I wouldn’t marry her were there no other girl in the wide, wide world! God bless you, Clubs, as you deserve! I hear the whistle, and if I would see Mildred before I sleep, I must be off. Good-by!” and wringing Oliver’s hand, he hurried away. * * * * * The night train for Albany had just gone from the Mayfield depot, and Judge Howell, who had come down to see a friend, was buttoning his overcoat preparatory to returning home, when a hand was laid upon his shoulder, and a familiar voice called his name. “Lawrence Thornton! Thunder, boy!” he exclaimed. “Where did you drop from?” And remembering how he had set his heart against the _boy_, as he called him, he tried to frown.