One night, in the middle of the third winter after Athel's disappearance, Philip Lee called with an important lease for Mr. Kurston to sign. He found him alone, and strangely moved and sorrowful. He signed the papers as Philip directed him, and then requested him to lock the door and sit down. "I am going," he said, "to confide to you, Philip Lee, a sacred trust. I do not think I shall live long, and I leave a duty unfulfilled that makes to me the bitterness of death. I have a daughter--the lawful heiress of the Kurston lands--whom my wife drove, by subtle and persistent cruelty, from her home. By no means have I been able to discover her; but you must continue the search, and see her put in possession of her rights." "But what proofs, sir, can you give me in order to establish them?" "They are all in this box--everything that is necessary. Take it with you to your office to-night. Her mother--ah, me, how I loved her--was a Polish lady of good family; but I have neither time nor inclination now to explain to you, or to excuse myself for the paltry vanities which induced me to conceal my marriage. In those days I cared so much for what society said that I never listened to the voice of my heart or my conscience. I hope, I trust, I may still right both the dead and the living!" Mr. Kurston's presentiment of death was no delusive one; he sank gradually during the following week, and died--his last word, "Remember!" being addressed, with all the strong beseeching of a dying injunction, to Philip Lee. A free woman, and a rich one, Mrs. Kurston turned with all the ardor of a sentimental woman to her first and--as she chose to consider it--her only true affection. She was now in a position to woo the poor lawyer, dependent in a great measure on her continuing to him the management of the Kurston property. Business brought them continually together, and it was neither possible nor prudent for him to always reject the attentions she offered. The world began to freely connect their names, and it was with much difficulty that he could convince even his most intimate friends of his indifference to the rich and beautiful widow. He found himself, indeed, becoming gradually entangled in a net of circumstances it would soon be difficult to get honorably out of. The widow received him at every visit more like a lover, and less like a lawyer; men congratulated or envied him, women tacitly assumed his engagement. There was but one way to free himself from the toils the artful widow was encompassing him with--he must marry some one else. But whom? The only girl he loved was poor, and had already refused him; yet he was sure she loved him, and something bid him try again. He had half a mind to do so, and "half a mind" in love is quite enough to begin with.