It was a small bar of metal. I examined it carefully, poised it in my hand—the color, weight, everything, announced that it really was gold. “You doubt its genuineness, perhaps,” continued the alchemist. “There are acids on yonder table—test it.” I confess that I DID doubt its genuineness; but after I had acted upon the old man’s suggestion, all further suspicion was rendered impossible. It was gold of the highest purity. I was astounded. Was then, after all, this man’s tale a truth? Was his daughter, that fair, angelic-looking creature, a demon of avarice, or a slave to worse passions? I felt bewildered. I had never met with anything so incomprehensible. I looked from father to daughter in the blankest amazement. I suppose that my countenance betrayed my astonishment, for the old man said: “I perceive that you are surprised. Well, that is natural. You had a right to think me mad until I proved myself sane.” “But, Mr. Blakelock,” I said, “I really cannot take this gold. I have no right to it. I cannot in justice charge so large a fee.” “Take it—take it,” he answered impatiently; “your fee will amount to that before I am well. Besides,” he added mysteriously, “I wish to secure your friendship. I wish that you should protect me from her,” and he pointed his poor, bandaged hand at Marion. My eyes followed his gesture, and I caught the glance that replied— a glance of horror, distrust, despair. The beautiful face was distorted into positive ugliness. “It’s all true,” I thought; “she is the demon that her father represents her.” I now rose to go. This domestic tragedy sickened me. This treachery of blood against blood was too horrible to witness. I wrote a prescription for the old man, left directions as to the renewal of the dressings upon his burns, and, bidding him good night, hastened toward the door. While I was fumbling on the dark, crazy landing for the staircase, I felt a hand laid on my arm. “Doctor,” whispered a voice that I recognized as Marion Blakelock’s, “Doctor, have you any compassion in your heart?” “I hope so,” I answered shortly, shaking off her hand; her touch filled me with loathing. “Hush! don’t talk so loud. If you have any pity in your nature, give me back, I entreat of you, that gold ingot which my father gave you this evening.” “Great heaven!” said I, “can it be possible that so fair a woman can be such a mercenary, shameless wretch?” “Ah! you know not—I cannot tell you! Do not judge me harshly. I call God to witness that I am not what you deem me. Some day or other you will know. But,” she added, interrupting herself, “the ingot—where is it? I must have it. My life depends on your giving it to me.” “Take it, impostor!” I cried, placing it in her hand, that closed on it with a horrible eagerness. “I never intended to keep it. Gold made under the same roof that covers such as you must be accursed.”