hine's
money too--her earnings--that paid for the chest.

There came an awkward silence into the confused and dismal room.
Scheffer stood among his ruins, not like a ruined man: he could not
talk, however. He could say nothing whatever in continuance, about the
fire. It was never his habit to boast; as little his practice to lament.

'Paul,' he said at last, resuming his dismal endeavor to arrange and
assort the chaotic remnant of his goods, 'I got your box under weigh
last night. There's a friend of mine going to see it; and you needn't be
worrying on account of this--this fire; for I shall have money enough to
push your business pretty soon; and there are two good fellows standing
ready to buy your rights to the patent in this State, on your own terms,
I guess, if you are tolerably reasonable. You can have five thousand
dollars, if you will be easy with them about the payments. They are as
safe as the best in town. I settled all that last night. All you have to
do is to come to an agreement.'

Paul's heart beat as fast as any young man's heart beats when the result
of secret toil, of wakeful nights, and patient endurance of home
misconception, is before him in the form of honorable success. But
instead of thanks, these words escaped him in a tumult:

'Scheffer, have you heard the news from Cromwell?'

Scheffer considered ere he answered; he was puzzled, looking at Paul,
such a contradiction and confusion of signs he read in the lad's face.

'I heard that your family had great tidings from him,' he answered
finally.

'He is dead!'

'Poor Josephine!'

What was it that brought so low the head of the man who had stood all
day bravely erect, enduring the condolence of people, sustaining himself
in the shock of integrity? Scheffer sat down when he heard this news,
and wept.

And Paul wept with him. There, in that chamber of ruins, they deplored
the loss of the proud, ambitious, brilliant, and dishonest wordling, who
had long ago gone out of _their_ world with a lie on his soul.

Then Paul produced the foreign letter he had brought with him from the
mail, as he came in his search for Scheffer. The letter he read aloud.
It was written by one of Harry's fellow students, his companion in that
notable journey Cromwell made to the Ural, and the Zavods of Siberia. He
had returned to Paris, and thence had written of his various successes
to his friends: they knew it was his purpose to sail at once for
Alexandria. His