To the letter were appended as witnesses the names of the Mamaroneck's captain and several passengers, well-known New Yorkers. There could be no doubt of its authenticity, and all hope was at an end. Since the writing of that letter months had elapsed, and there remained no longer a doubt of Ladybird's orphanage. Lawyer Stanley, who was preparing to make a great bluster over the abduction of his ward, was speedily cowed when confronted with this unexpected testimony from the dead. He was only too glad to make terms with Senator Winans for silence as to his villainy by making restitution of the fortune he had stolen from Ladybird, including the jewels in which Aura had strutted her little day on the social stage. The schemer was foiled and had to turn her attention to other plans for making a rich marriage. And what of Ethel?--beautiful Ethel, who had dreamed of wearing a coronet on her haughty brow, but who after all would only be the bride of an English gentleman of small fortune and high birth! Only God and Ethel knew of the night in which she did battle with her own heart, going over and over in her mind Arthur's words, half-gay, half-earnest: "You have only three days in which to decide whether it was the man or the title you wished to marry." The words rang in her ears all night, and his look was always before her eyes. It did not take three days for her to decide. Twelve hours were long enough. When he came for his usual morning call next day, Ethel met him alone in a pretty little room where they often sat together. She had never looked more beautiful, but she was very, very pale, so much so that as he touched her slender hand he exclaimed anxiously: "How pale you look, Ethel, and your dear hand is icy-cold. Are you ill, dear?" "I did not rest well last night," she replied evasively. He stood still, with her hand still carelessly clasped in his, studying her face with anxious eyes, and with a half-sigh, he exclaimed: "You were grieving perhaps over my loss of rank and fortune!" "Yes," she replied frankly, and drew her hand away so gently that he scarcely noticed it. Ethel's dark head drooped a little as if in shame, and she murmured hoarsely: "Arthur, you will despise me when you learn the truth. I--I--am very ambitious. I valued your rank and fortune highly. I had set my heart on having a title. But I loved you, too, or--thought I did. But now I find----" She paused, unable to continue for a moment, and Arthur, looking steadily at her, began to comprehend her drift. He began to despise her, but he would not help her out by one poor word. He saw the white hands writhing in and out of each other, saw her look at him quickly, then drop her eyes again, but he did not dream what was in that swift look, the momentary hope, the succeeding despair. She found her voice and continued: "All is altered now, and I--oh, Arthur, forgive me, but--I cannot marry you now!"