“Thus Adela was forced to refuse the offer. She taught school; her people moved West; and she has experienced many strange vicissitudes of fortune, yet she vowed in my presence and in the sight of Heaven that the one indiscretion named was the last of her life--that her eyes were opened, her life saddened, and ever since the day her husband put her aside she has lived in the one hope that the time would come when she might redeem herself in his eyes. She has not lived in vain. Whenever the yellow fever raged in the South, there Adela could be found nursing the sick. She was the angel of light in Jacksonville when the dread scourge wasted Florida’s metropolis. Only for her own illness she would have been in Brunswick this summer. Her life is nearly spent--she has consumption now--and it is the prayer of her last days that before she goes he may forgive her; that some opportunity may yet arise whereby she can win that pardon. “Now about her boy. Once she found him, but dared not make herself known, on account of the past. He suddenly disappeared from the city where he was attending a military academy, nor could she trace him again; but at the town photographer’s she found a picture of him which she has carried ever since, no doubt to cry over in her lonely hours, poor woman.” Aleck hands over a card photograph. It is not a stylish picture, such as our artists of to-day produce, but faithful to the life. It represents a young fellow of about fifteen, a handsome, independent-looking chap, with something of a Southern air about him, which is heightened by the cadet suit of gray he wears. “This settles all doubt,” remarks Wycherley; “it’s the young miner from Colorado, whom we saw with Dorothy--her brother; and at the same time I can see the poor lady I helped out of the Hotel des Vagabonde fire.” “You had your room in that tenement, Claude?” “Yes,” reddening a trifle. “And all your books, your bachelor trophies, your many comforts were lost?” “Everything. My luxurious divan, my chair, the like of which could not be found in a Vanderbilt mansion, the wonderful oil paintings, gems of art, the original collection of curios which a Sypher might not despise--all went. But, Aleck, my boy, my entire loss didn’t exceed five dollars, I assure you. What is that to a man who has won a million.” “Ah! your speculation then was a success?” smiling. “A stupendous one. Wiped out all past debts and have a million ahead. No time to figure it up yet; may be a couple of hundred thousand either way, but that is a matter of small importance.” Craig never ceases to be amused at the strange idiosyncracies of his queer companion. He realizes by this time--perhaps from the enormous dinner Wycherley is making--that the other has no means, and it is really ridiculous to see a man without a dollar in his pocket declaring so carelessly that a quarter of a million one way or the other is a matter of little importance.