The thought struck McCabe while he was sauntering through the settlement. It was night, but not a dark one by any means. The moon was shining in all her glory, and not a cloud obscured the star-studded sky; and, as Jim McCabe seldom turned a deaf ear to the voice of his inclination, he was not long in determining to follow it on this occasion. The hour was late, and none of the inhabitants were out, save a few who sat in their doors, and they would suppose he was merely going out for a stroll in the moonlight. But, pshaw! even if they should see where he went, would they not think he had gone there to drop a silent tear on the sod that covered the remains of a noble man? He went. He told the man at the gate, as he passed out, that he would return in a few minutes, and then he walked slowly away into the shadows of the forest. He was musing on the events of the day as he wandered on; of the freezing coldness with which Isabel Moreland had met him; of the eccentric character, Jonathan Boggs, from Maine; and not a little of his cousin, the Irish boy, who had demanded money of him. Thus meditating, Jim McCabe arrived at his destination. Emerging from the darkness of the woods, he paused on the edge of the glade to contemplate the scene before him. Yes, there was the grave of the man he hated, in the very center of the open place—the small, grassy mound he had come to gloat over. He saw it now, and was satisfied; but why did the villain start back and stare, as his gleaming eyes alighted on the object he had come here to see? Why did he seem so surprised, and even alarmed? Well he might, for he saw at a glance that he was not the only person in that lonely spot. A man was there—a tall, finely-formed man, standing by the grave, with his head bowed upon his breast! He was motionless as a statue of stone. Who was this man—this mourner—this night visitor at the tomb of Russell Trafford? Jim McCabe asked himself this question over and over, gazing keenly at the stately figure before him for an answer. Had he not seen that tall, graceful form before? He thought at first that he had, but, as he called to mind every person of his acquaintance, and compared them with this one, he was compelled to admit that this one was a stranger to him. Just as he arrived at this conclusion the unknown moved. He turned half around, which gave the silent watcher a full view of his face. The moonlight fell on his bare head, revealing a noble forehead, a pair of brilliant eyes, and features of the handsomest mold. Good Heaven! _the man was Russell Trafford himself_!