It was two days after we arrived home before I could steal away alone long enough to write him. I think the letter only increased the desire to talk with him, and I resolved to run away and return to him. I felt sure he would lose no time in making me his wife if he had but a chance, and I would be the gainer, for he was very wealthy, in fact, more so by far than Harry Caruthers ever would be, and, more than all, I knew we would be happy. I stole out into the darkness of the night after everybody had retired. I knew that the Limited stopped to take water just at the edge of town, about a mile from our house. Through the biting cold I forged my way, dodging from one alley to another, until the railroad tracks were reached, then a long line of green and red lights guided me to where I caught the train as it was pulling out, and I was soon speeding to my dear captain. The time seemed to drag so slowly, each day seeming longer than the one before, until I reached my destination. I took a carriage and went directly to the captain’s hotel. I asked for him, but no one seemed to be able to talk to me; everyone was excited beyond reason. I finally got the attention of the clerk long enough to learn that the chambermaid had just discovered Captain Elerding in his room, _dead_. In his strong, right hand was still clenched the deadly pistol. The ugly hole in his temple and the powder burns around it told the story. In front of him were two papers, one a letter from my mother in which she upbraided him unmercifully for having cultivated my acquaintance. The other was his last will and testament, stating that he was in possession of all his faculties. It said: “I hereby bequeath, demise, convey and assign all of my money, property, goods and chattels whatsoever, that I now own, to my beloved illegitimate child, Inez Manford.” I left on the next train and have been a resident of Chicago ever since. Please write me at once, Stella, and tell me all that has happened to you since last we met. Yours as of old, INEZ. TALE FIFTEEN. AS TOLD TO A CLERGYMAN. “The night has a thousand eyes, The day but one; Yet the light of the bright world dies With the dying sun. “The wind has a thousand eyes, And the heart but one; Yet the light of a whole life dies, When love is done.” “You sent for me?” he said, gently, as he looked down at the emaciated form before him. Her eyes were unnaturally brilliant, her brow, with the thick, clustering curls brushed back from it, was as white as marble; the nose was sharp and had that pinched expression which is so sure a forerunner of dissolution. On each cheek was a small, red spot which indicated the fever which was consuming her. The chest heaved rapidly and as the clergyman leaned over her and looked into the hazel depths, he laid his hand almost caressingly upon her head.