Yours truly, JACOB RHONELAND.' Ned felt something bouncing about in a very queer manner directly under his ribs, as he read this note; but the sensation was not so painful as to prevent his obeying it with a speed that was perfectly marvellous; for to Rhoneland it seemed that the letter could scarcely have reached its destination before Ned was back with it in his hand. 'You got my note,' said he gravely, as Somers entered, his face flushed with the rapidity with which he had come. 'I have.' 'Don't go, Kate,' said he to his daughter, who with an inkling of what was to follow, was stealing away. 'What I have to say relates to both of you.' 'Some time since,' said he, rising, and standing in front of Ned, 'I wronged you, by making charges against you which I am now convinced were false. My mind was poisoned by one who has gone to his long account, and whose evil deeds may sleep with him. For this,' said he, extending his hand, 'I ask your pardon; much more frankly and freely than I did on the day when we met at Mr. Harson's.' Ned took the proffered hand; at the same time pouring out a confusion of words, the sum and substance of which was intended to be, that he had taken no offence; that he knew Jacob was misled by others; that he was not only perfectly willing, but very happy, to make up the matter, and say no more about it; which no doubt was very true, for within six feet of him stood Kate, with her soft eyes fixed on his face, and her little mouth dimpled with smiles, as she observed how swimmingly matters were going on. And could he be crusty and dogged? or could he cherish a grudge against _her_ father? The thing was impossible. The extended hand was grasped, and grasped warmly. 'Another thing I have to speak of,' said Rhoneland, relaxing somewhat at the cordial tone of Ned's feelings. 'It is but a short time since I learnt the full extent of my obligations to you, for the part you took in unmasking the character of Rust, and in obtaining from him a disavowal of charges against me, which, false as they were, were hard indeed to bear, and were breaking me down. I have not finished,' said he, raising his hand to prevent the interruption which Somers was endeavoring to make; 'let me complete what I have to say, and you may speak as much as you like, afterward. I will not thank you, for thanks are but words, and too often mean nothing. Is there any thing that I can _do_, to lessen my indebtedness to you?--or is there any way in which I can pay it off altogether?'