Conway was not strong enough to go to the farm that day, but he sent Norine’s missive by a messenger, with a kindly note from himself, telling of her aunt’s visit to the farm. “I have not seen the will yet,” he wrote, “but I congratulate you heartily on your good fortune.” And he signed it “Your brother Lester,” and he even underscored the “brother” to give it emphasis. But Lester Conway only saw in this sudden fortune for his friends another and higher wall between his love and himself. Norine’s letter was almost as brief as his. It said: “MY DEAR NORINE: You wrote me a very kindly letter once, and I, in my foolish obstinacy, disregarded it. I have visited you since then, though perhaps you do not know it, and I write you now to beg your forgiveness. You will get this when I am gone, perhaps to meet my brother, and I warn you by my own sufferings not to disregard my request. “I have laid very few restrictions on you, but those few I demand that you will sacredly comply with. This sad quarrel has lasted through two generations. Let us end it now, resume your father’s name, take my wealth, and may you be happy. “Your aunt, MARY DARLING.” “Jim,” said Norine, when he came in from his work, “we have got an answer from Aunt Mary at last,” and she handed him the letter. Jim read it over several times. “I can’t understand it,” he said. “I did not know that she had any wealth. How could she have visited us without our knowing it?” Norine reluctantly gave him the letter from Conway. “This will explain it,” she said. Jim read Conway’s account of the visit. But when he spoke again his words had no reference to either the visit or their unexpected fortune. “Your _brother_ Lester,” he said. “What does that mean, Norry?” Norine’s head sank lower and her face flushed, but she made no reply. “Norry,” said Jim sadly, “has Lester asked you to marry him?” Norine nodded without looking up. “And you refused him?” “Yes, Jim; I refused him.” Jim walked the floor for a moment without speaking. “I am very sorry,” he said at last. “I had rather know that you were Lester Conway’s wife than to be the richest man in America.” And leaving his sister in tears, Jim marched indignantly out of the house. CHAPTER XVII. A VIGOROUS ASSAULT. The home of Patrick Morain was in one of the many small lumbering towns that line the eastern shore of Lake Michigan. It was--or rather is, for it has grown very little in the meantime--a very small town, scarcely more than a village, in fact; but, with the ambitious energy characterizing the pioneer, it had already assumed the name and some of the graces of a city. There was nothing attractive about the place. It might be described as a city of sand and sawdust, for you never succeeded in getting out of the one without finding yourself floundering through the other.