“You wished to see me, sir,” and then he stopped, for the grave face before him gave his heart a chill. “Yes, lad; sit down.” Tom Cooper slid into the chair, a strange feeling coming over him. “Have you done anything to offend Mr. Benson?” “No.” “Are you sure?” “Perfectly.” “Something has happened then, for I have this in the morning mail.” Tom took the paper mechanically in his fingers, and there before him was an order to take his position from him, and only yesterday his benefactor had been so pleasant. While he held the letter in his hand he could not help but think that George Benson had been instrumental in his downfall. He went from the bank to the mansion, only to find that he was barred from there, and Mr. Benson refused to see him, and as he left the steps for the last time in his life a face watched him from an upper window. “So you are going to throw over my scheme, are you, Tom Cooper? Well, I don’t think so. Now go and starve with my pretty cousin, and do not forget that when you hold a good position it might slip from your fingers before you are aware of it.” From that day on Tom Cooper could find nothing to do, and he haunted the places of his friends until at last one day he met an old chum upon the street. “Nothing yet, Cooper?” asked the stranger. “No, and I am thinking of going to sea for a while. I can take a position and go around the world, and be gone three months, and maybe by that time something will open for me.” “Sorry,” sympathized the other, “for you had the best prospects of any of the fellows graduating in your class.” “Well, I haven’t now,” bitterly answered Cooper, “and good-bye, old fellow. When I return I’ll let you know my success.” After this it was smooth sailing for George Benson. Tom out of the way, and his cousin not to be found, and his uncle sick in bed afflicted with paralysis. What more could a man want than a fortune at his fingers’ end, and nothing in the way but an old man, with one foot in the grave, and the doctor gave but little hope of his living long. One morning George Benson had gone out when the doctor arrived, and the good man ran up the stairs and looked into the old man’s chamber without being announced. There were tears upon the wrinkled face. “Why, Mr. Benson, are you in such pain?” said the doctor in great sympathy. “No.” “Then what are you weeping for? Tell me; maybe I can help you.” “No one can do that, Johnson,” replied the millionaire; “I am weeping for my daughter.” “Your daughter? I did not know that you had one.” “Oh, yes I have, but I do not know where. She was a good little girl, but married against my will, and for a time I returned all of her letters, and she has since then refused to forgive me.” “Well, well; this is interesting. Tell me all about it.” It eased the poor, throbbing heart to tell the painful story. “And your child has refused to answer you in any way?” “Yes.” “You are sure that she got the message?”