At the door he was met by Clara. “Why Tumult--Mr. Raynor!” the maiden exclaimed, “you are excited--what is wrong?” Tumult laid his hand upon the maiden’s head, and gazed into her eyes as though he were going to read her heart through. “And are you Clara Holmes?” he cried. “Yes; so mother--Mrs. Bryant--just told me, but--” “Have you no remembrance of your parents?” interrupted the scout. “I have none,” returned Clara, sadly. At this juncture, Mrs. Bryant made her appearance, and having overheard their conversation, said: “Clara was but two years old when her mother died, Mr. Raynor, consequently she could not be expected to remember much of her.” “But the father?” exclaimed the scout. “He parted from her mother a year before she died.” “Did you know him, Mrs. Bryant?” “I did not. I never saw him. He went to the Mexican war and never came back.” “What was his full name?” “Clement Holmes, so his wife told me.” “Clement Holmes!” burst from the scout’s lips; “then thank God! Clara, you are _my_ child! _I_ am Clement Holmes!” * * * * * Yes, Old Tumult, or Roll Raynor, proved himself to be the father of Clara--Clement Holmes! I will not attempt to describe the scenes of joy and happiness that followed this revelation, for they defy the power of this pen. The reader can imagine what they must have been. Following the reunion of father and daughter, came the news of Clara being the heiress to a vast fortune in Virginia, by what means is already known. I will not undertake to narrate the scenes and adventures through which Old Tumult passed after his separation from his wife, up to his meeting with his child; suffice it to say that they were many--wild and dangerous. Clara, as the wife of Townsend Farnesworth, returned with her husband to Virginia and proved her claim to The Golden Horn. She forgave him his love affair with Madge Taft, though he can not forgive himself for being made the dupe of the wicked enchantress. After much persuasion, Old Tumult was induced to leave the West with its wild adventure, and take up his home with his children in Virginia, among the quietudes of civilization. Still, there was scarcely a day during the remainder of his eventful life but what the voice of his heavy rifle, Vibrator, might have been heard rolling in prolonged reverberations through the mountains that formed the southern boundary of The Golden Horn. And after the day’s hunt was over, and the strong old hunter returned to the mansion, with his game-bag well filled, he was always met at the gate by a group of urchins, who welcomed him with their childish shouts of joy, and who called him “Grandpa.” And here, dear reader, I let drop the curtain over my imperfect--yet I hope interesting--drama, and lay down my pen. THE END. A MARVEL OF BEAUTY! _A New Series by the New Art!_ THE ILLUMINATED DIME POCKET NOVELS!