"We are called upon to chronicle one of the saddest tragedies that ever occurred in this locality. The facts of the case are as follows: Last fall the Cleverdale Woollen Mill was destroyed by fire, and one of the bravest and noblest acts of the age was performed by George Alden, cashier of the Cleverdale National Bank. The immense factory employed seven hundred men, women, and children, and, as the flames burst forth, one hundred and fifty persons on the third floor were cut off from escape, except by the way of two doors only reached by running a gauntlet of fire. Poor Alden succeeded in relieving the captives, but his bravery nearly cost him his life; for several months he languished on a bed of suffering, and approached the door of eternity. Kind attention and skilful treatment brought him up, but the sad catastrophe left him weak in mind and body. His lifeless form was found on Friday last, in Reynolds Grove, a bullet-hole in the brain and a pistol lying at the side of the unfortunate man telling too plainly of his death by suicide." George Alden paused a moment to calm his agitation, and then proceeded: "The body was horribly decomposed, the face being unrecognizable, the clothing alone proving the identity of the poor fellow. "It was a sad ending of a noble life, and never did a community mourn for one of its citizens as the people of Cleverdale mourn for poor George Alden. Two women in this affliction are entitled to our deepest sympathy. His sister has lost the companion of her life, while the beautiful daughter of Senator Hamblin is utterly prostrated by the sad event. George Alden was an estimable young man, and the love and respect of the whole community was shown when all business was suspended to allow a public demonstration of sorrow at the grave of Cleverdale's hero." Alden dropped the paper and exclaimed, "Oh, my poor wife! how I have wronged you! But who are the villains who have done this? I have been the victim of a wicked conspiracy. To-night I will leave for Cleverdale. I must go at once, for I have deeply wronged my wife. But perhaps she is dead! Oh no, she _must_ be alive, and her father will not turn me off now." Making immediate preparations to leave Chicago, he presented his kind friend with a generous sum of money, promising to write her on his arrival at Cleverdale. That night he was on a train bound for the East. He remembered how full of sorrow he was when he arrived in the city, eighteen months previous. Now he was returning to his home and kindred, unconscious of the events going forward at Cleverdale to rob him of his wife. His first thought was to telegraph his friends, informing them of his coming, but he finally concluded to hasten on and verify his existence in the flesh by his own person and with his own lips. CHAPTER XXXII. THE WANDERER'S RETURN.