ntil his uncle
died. Graciella had never seemed so beautiful as to-day, as she sat,
dressed in the cool white gown which Miss Laura's slender fingers had
done up, and with her hair dressed after the daintiest and latest
fashion chronicled in the _Ladies' Fireside Journal_. No wonder, he
thought, that a jaded old man of the world like Colonel French should
delight in her fresh young beauty!

But he would not give her up without a struggle. She had loved him;
she must love him still; and she would yet be his, if he could keep
her true to him or free from any promise to another, until her deeper
feelings could resume their sway. It could not be possible, after all
that had passed between them, that she meant to throw him over, nor
was he a man that she could afford to treat in such a fashion. There
was more in him than Graciella imagined; he was conscious of latent
power of some kind, though he knew not what, and something would
surely happen, sometime, somehow, to improve his fortunes. And there
was always the hope, the possibility of finding the lost money.

He had brought his great-uncle Ralph's letter with him, as he had
promised Graciella. When she read it, she would see the reasonableness
of his hope, and might be willing to wait, at least a little while.
Any delay would be a point gained. He shuddered to think that he might
lose her, and then, the day after the irrevocable vows had been taken,
the treasure might come to light, and all their life be spent in vain
regrets. Graciella was skeptical about the lost money. Even Mrs.
Treadwell, whose faith had been firm for years, had ceased to
encourage his hope; while Miss Laura, who at one time had smiled at
any mention of the matter, now looked grave if by any chance he let
slip a word in reference to it. But he had in his pocket the outward
and visible sign of his inward belief, and he would try its effect on
Graciella. He would risk ridicule or anything else for her sake.

"Graciella," he said, "I have brought my uncle Malcolm's letter along,
to convince you that uncle is not as crazy as he seems, and that
there's some foundation for the hope that I may yet be able to give
you all you want. I don't want to relinquish the hope, and I want you
to share it with me."

He produced an envelope, once white, now yellow with time, on which
was endorsed in ink once black but faded to a pale brown, and hardly
legible, the name of "Malcolm Dudley, Esq., Mink Run," and in the