sum
to-night. But come to me at this hour to-morrow night, and it shall be
yours."

"On what surety?"

"My word."

"I dare not trust to that. You may deceive me."

"When was Mark Hurdlestone ever known to utter a lie?" and a dark red
flush of anger mounted to the miser's face.

"When he forged the news of his brother's death, to murder by slow
degrees my unhappy mother," said Anthony, scornfully. "The spirits of
the dead are near us in this hour; silently, but truly, they bear
witness against you."

The old man groaned, and sunk his face between his hands as his son
continued;

"I cannot wait until the morrow. This night alone is mine. If you cannot
readily lay your hands upon the money, write me an order upon your
banker for the sum."

"I have neither pen, ink, nor paper," said the miser, eagerly availing
himself of the most paltry subterfuge, in order to gain time until the
return of Grenard Pike, or to escape paying the money.

"I can supply you." And Anthony drew forth a small writing case, and
placed paper before him, and put a pen into his father's hand.

"Anthony, you had better trust to my word," said Mark, solemnly. "Gold
is a heavier surety than paper, and by the God who made us, I swear to
keep my promise."

"Aye, but you forget the old proverb, father. 'A bird in the hand is
worth two in the bush.'"

The old man eyed him with a glance of peculiar meaning as with a
trembling hand he proceeded to write the order. When he had finished,
he folded the paper carefully together, and presented it to his son.
"You will not trust to my honor. Be it so. Take this paper, Anthony
Hurdlestone, for a Hurdlestone you are, and for the first time in my
life I believe that you are my son. But it is the sole inheritance you
will ever receive from me. Go, and let me see your face no more."

"God bless you, sir," said the youth, in a faltering voice. "Forgive my
late intemperate conduct; it was influenced by despair. From this moment
I will love and respect you as my father."

The miser's thin lips quivered as his son turned to leave him. He called
faintly after him, "Anthony, Anthony! Don't leave me alone with the
spirits of the dead. To-morrow I will do you justice. At this hour
to-morrow."

His son stopped, but the entrance of old Pike stifled the rising gleam
of paternal regard, and dismissed the ghastly phantoms of the past from
the excited mind of the gold-worshipper. He grumbled a welcome to his
minio