Seattle and civilization in very truth came next. How the city had grown, and what a pleasure there was in its bustle, the roar of traffic, and the throngs of well-dressed, busy men and women in its streets. Here they stopped only long enough to replenish their wardrobes, bettered already somewhat by the “slop chest” of the Maisie Adams, but still far from what they should be, and to send two telegrams to the people at home. They followed the messages on the first train for the east, and now let us leave them, flying across country as fast as steam can carry them, and see how matters stand at Quincy Point. Like Captain Nickerson, Mr. Desmond had grown grayer in the years that had passed. To take up the débris of a broken fortune and out of it build a new one is no easy task. He had toiled faithfully, yet only a very slender success had thus far rewarded him. There was depression in his line of business, and the limited capital which the downfall of the house had left him made it uphill work. Yet it was not so much the business cares as anxiety as to the fate of his only son that weighed most upon him. He had never for a moment given him up for lost, yet when the first summer passed without news of the absent ones the stoop came into his shoulders again, and the lines of care deepened on his face. More and more he had come to depend on the simple, cheery faith of Mrs. Desmond, whose hope and trust in the watchful care of Divine Providence had never for a moment seemed to waver. What it had cost her to keep up this cheery calm, no one but a wife and mother can tell. It is upon the good women of the world that these burdens come, and right nobly do they bear them. It was on a bright day at the last of August that Mr. Desmond received that telegram at his office, gave the clerks a half holiday as a slight token of thanksgiving, and came down on the noon train. Mrs. Desmond met him at the door. “What is it, Frank?” she said. “Aren’t you well?” “Why, yes,” replied Mr. Desmond, casting about for a way to break the good news to her gently; as if news could be broken, or good news ever needed it! “Why, yes, I’m more than well, I”—And then Mrs. Desmond took him by the shoulders and looked once in his face, and knew. “Who can deceive a lover?” said one of the wise ones of old, and these two were lovers still and always would be. The father had brought the happy story in his face, and when he clasped his wife in his arms and told it in words, it was the second telling.