It was a day long to be remembered by Virgie, when all this was proclaimed to the world. The papers were full of it, and seemed to vie with each other in trying to atone for the wrong which Abbot Alexander had so patiently suffered, which had broken the heart of his gentle wife and driven his wife and his beautiful daughter into exile. It was tardy justice, but it was ample and complete. But little was said of Mark Alexander and his wonderful prosperity since his defalcation, but that little, while it did not conceal or condone the crime that he had committed, commended most highly that last act of his life. It was also hinted in these same papers, that the talented author of “Gleanings from the Heights,” and several other charming productions of the same character, was the daughter of the lamented bank president who had been so cruelly maligned. “Oh, if my father could have but known of this!” Virgie exclaimed, when talking the matter over, afterward, with Mr. Knight. “You may be very sure that he does know it,” he responded, gravely. “It is to be regretted that he could not have known it before his death; it would have helped to soothe his last days. But still, if anything can add to his joy in another world, the fact that his name is to-day held up as one of the most honored in San Francisco, must contribute to it, as also must the knowledge that his daughter will henceforth be relieved from all pecuniary care or anxiety. You are really quite a wealthy young woman, my friend,” the publisher concluded, smiling. “Am I?” Virgie questioned, absently. She was thinking of those weary years among the mountains when, day after day, her father came and went, to and from the mine, like a common laborer, toiling persistently and patiently, so that she might have a competence when he could care for her no longer. “And all for naught!” she mused, with a bitter pang, “for had not that also fallen into the hands of an adventurer?” It seemed to have been his fate to accumulate for others to spend. “How indifferent you are! Have you no curiosity about the matter?” questioned Mr. Knight, archly. “Yes, of course I have,” Virgie answered, rousing herself from her reverie. “Is the amount that remains to me finally determined?” “Yes; there will be about a hundred and fifty thousand dollars—not much more than half what your father sacrificed for his brother, but sufficient to make you quite independent.” “So much!” exclaimed Virgie, in surprise. “It is quite a snug little fortune, and I am glad for you. There will be no longer any need for your working as you have done, and I am afraid I must lose my matchless designer.”