did. Doctor Conway was his family physician, and having elevated him

to that pedestal in their esteem, they accepted the attendance and medicine necessary for their well-being as their right, and were generally ready to criticise him on every available occasion. Perhaps they considered this payment enough for the midnight study and patient care that Doctor Conway had so cheerfully given them.

He went on explaining and smoothing over, however, with patient good nature, and shortly got them to understand that, as they could not get him any longer, they had better be content with the substitute provided for them.

The time of his departure was drawing near now. The first of November had come, and that was to be his last month with them. He had packed up his most cherished possessions, ready for shipment. His young assistant had come in for many of the books needed to complete his little library, and many other of Conway’s friends had received from him tokens of his good will; and the doctor, having done everything necessary, was seriously debating the idea of departing at once for New York, where he could be near Norine.

He was sitting in his easy-chair one evening, puffing great volumes of smoke from his pipe, when his assistant handed him a letter he had brought from the office.

Conway took it carelessly and went on with his dreams. Of course he was thinking of Norine and their future--it seemed as if he had ever been thinking of her--and so he sat lazily back and watched the smoke as it floated in the air, thinking placidly of his great happiness, and what a fortunate fellow he was altogether. He still held the letter carelessly in his hand, but did not look at it until his pipe and the fire were both out. Then he rose with a shiver and glanced at it.

“Why, it is from Lettie!” he cried; and he tore open the envelope and threw his eyes hurriedly over its contents.

It was very short--only a few words, in fact--but it was long enough to take all the happiness out of his heart, all the light out of his life, and to send him reeling back into his chair, as if he had received a mighty blow. It said:

“Norine Bright’s husband is alive, and married again. Come here at once, if you would prevent a great wrong.”

It was signed “Lettie Allan,” and at the bottom of the page was a line giving the street and number of her residence.

He was dazed by the suddenness of the blow, and for a time was incapable of thought. He pulled himself together as speedily as possible.

“This cannot be true!” he cried passionately. “I will not believe it.”

But his heart was against him, and he felt that it was true.

What proof had they ever had of that man’s death? The body had never been recovered, and there had been no real proof of anything beyond the fact that he had disappeared.

Yes, it was true; he felt it to be so; and he laid his head on the desk in front of him and moaned in his anguish. It was true, and he had lost her again.

“My God!” he cried bitterly, “is all my joy to turn to bitterness, all my happiness to ashes, thus?”

All that night he sat with his head bent down, bemoaning his hard fate; but with the first streak of day he was up and resolved.

“I will go,” he said, “and see for myself. And Jim must go, too. We will protect Norine, or avenge her. Oh, if I only had him here!” he cried--“only had him here, we two alone!”

He caught the first train for New York, and was there as soon as steam could carry him. Taking a carriage at the depot, he was driven at once to the house of his friends. But here he met disappointment, bitter disappointment, to one in his frame of mind. Jim and Norine had left town that day, to be gone a week or ten days, the servant told him. “Did she know where?” No; but she had understood that it was at some distance.

He scribbled a line to Jim on one of his cards, asking him to join him in Chicago at once, unless he received further word. Then he returned to the carriage that was waiting.

He caught the express, and was soon whirling on his way. He had almost convinced himself by this time that there was a chance that Lettie might be mistaken; but it was hard work.

At last the smoking engine drew up in the Chicago depot, panting after its rapid journey.

Lester drove to a hotel that he might have a bath and something to eat; and, as soon after as possible, ordered a carriage to drive him to the address given in his letter from Lettie.