On Sunday, leaving his room for a walk, he cared nothing for the sights that another time and under different circumstances would have pleased and interested him. Attending morning service at church, his thoughts were far away, an eloquent discourse failing to arouse him from his abstraction. The service over, he sought his boarding-house, and was going directly to his room, when Mrs. Nash accosted him, and said: "Mr. Howard, you seem ill; can I do anything for you?" Halting to see whom she was addressing, he recalled his assumed name, and replied: "No, I am weary, that is all. Thank you for your interest in me." "But, sir, you do not look strong. Pardon me, but have you been ill?" "Yes, I have been very ill for many months, but am getting stronger now, and will soon be well again." The sigh that escaped him convinced the good woman his sufferings were mental. Observing the paleness overspreading his face, her heart was touched, but not wishing to appear impertinent, she said: "I have a son about your age, far away in a foreign clime, and you must forgive me, if I, a mother, take an interest in you. If I could only know the whereabouts of my own boy, I could close my eyes in peace instead of lying upon my pillow each night imagining him surrounded by all kinds of danger and temptations," and she raised her handkerchief to her eyes. "I pity any person in trouble," Alden said, "for I have had my share of sorrow and suffering." He would have said more, but at that moment the door-bell rang, and Mrs. Nash said: "If you are in trouble confide in me, and I will try and give you the consolation I hope some good person will give my own poor boy." George Howard--we must for the present call him by that name--passed on to his room, while the good woman went to answer the door-bell. At the supper table she spoke kindly to the new boarder, who ate but little, and soon re-entered his room. The following day, sending again to the post-office, the boy returned bearing in his hand a letter addressed to George Howard, Chicago, Ill. Seizing it with trembling hands, Alden hastily tore open the envelope, looked at the few lines it contained, and holding the sheet before his eyes, with a trembling voice read aloud: "CLEVERDALE, 187-. "SIR: On receipt of your letter, I immediately returned to Cleverdale. When I thought you an honest man, I respected and loved you, but your crime has aroused me from this dream. Never dare address me again, for I abhor a villain. BELLE HAMBLIN." He crushed the letter and tore it into shreds. As the pieces fell from his hand his pale face became suffused with scarlet, and large cords rose on his temples and brow as he said: "My God!--And she too believes it? I did not think that--Oh, my head is bursting--_I am dying--God, have mercy--I--I_--"