an't be worth much; but what belongs to somebody else, is
invaluable; moreover, they are liable to sudden tantrums of sheer
obstinacy, that hang on like whooping-cough, or a sprain in one's
joints. Did you never see a mule take the sulks on his way to the corn
crib and the fodder rack, and refuse to budge, even for his own
benefit? Some men are just that perverse. Mr. Dunbar is trailing game,
worth more to him at present, than a sweetheart across the Atlantic
Ocean; which reminds me of what brought me here. He asked Ned to-day,
if you saw Mr. Darrington yesterday when he came here; and learning
that you did not, he gave him this paper, which he said would explain
what the Legislature did last month, about declaring you of age. Ned
told him you signed some document Mr. Wolverton brought here last week,
which secured all the property to Mr. Darrington, and he said he had
been informed of the transaction, and that Mr. Darrington would soon go
back to Germany. Then he added: 'Singleton, present my respects to Miss
Brentano and tell her, I am happy to say that my trip West last summer
was not entirely unsuccessful. It has furnished me with a very valuable
clue. She will understand.' Oh, dear! how bitterly cold it is! Come to
my room, and get thoroughly thawed; Ned is down stairs, and the
children are asleep."

"No, thank you; I should only feel the cold more, when I came back."

"Then take my shawl and cover your ears and throat. There, you must.
Good night."

She closed the door, and fled down the long black passage, to the
bright cozy room, where her babes slumbered.

Slowly Beryl resumed her walk from window to door, from bar to bar, but
of the stinging cold she grew oblivious; and the blood burned in her
cheeks and throbbed with almost suffocating violence at her heart.

She comprehended fully the significance of the message, and dared not
comfort herself with the supposition that it was prompted by a spirit
of bravado.

To what quarter of the globe was he tracking the desperate culprit, who
had fled sorely wounded from his murderous assault? Ignorant of his
mother's death, and of his sister's expiatory incarceration, might not
Bertie venture back to the great city, where she had last seen him; and
be trapped by those wily "Quaestores Paricidii" of the nineteenth
century--special detectives?

Fettered, muzzled by the stone walls of her dungeon, she could send him
no warning, could only pray and endure, while she