ts had
been paid, and Mountjoy could be left a bit happier. Having achieved so
much, he was delighted to think that he might. But there had come
latterly a claim upon him equally strong,--that he should wreak his
vengeance upon Augustus. Had Augustus abused him for keeping him in the
dark so long, he would have borne it patiently. He had expected as much.
But his son had ridiculed him, laughed at him, made nothing of him, and
had at last told him to die out of the way. He would, at any rate, do
something before he died.

He had had his revenge, very bitter of its kind. Augustus should be made
to feel that he had not been ridiculous,--not to be laughed at in his
last days. He had ruined his son, inevitably ruined him, and was about to
leave him penniless upon the earth. But now in his last moments, in his
very last, there came upon him some feeling of pity, and in speaking of
his son he once more called him "Gus."

"I don't know how it will all be, sir; but if the property is to be
mine--"

"It will be yours; it must be yours."

"Then I will do anything for him that he will accept."

"Do not let him starve, or have to earn his bread."

"Say what you wish, sir, and it shall be done, as far as I can do it."

"Make an offer to him of some income, and settle it on him. Do it at
once." The old man, as he said this, was thinking probably of the great
danger that all Tretton might, before long, have been made to vanish.
"And, Mountjoy--"

"Sir."

"You have gambled surely enough for amusement. With such a property as
this in your hands gambling becomes very serious."

They were the last words,--the last intelligible words,--which the old man
spoke. He died with his left hand on his son's neck, and took Merton and
his sister by his side. It was a death-bed not without its lesson,--not
without a certain charm in the eyes of some fancied beholder. Those who
were there seemed to love him well, and should do so.

He had contrived, in spite of his great faults, to create a respect in
the minds of those around him, which is itself a great element of love.
But there was something in his manner which told of love for others. He
was one who could hate to distraction, and on whom no bonds of blood
would operate to mitigate his hatred. He would persevere to injure with
a terrible persistency; but yet in every phase of his life he had been
actuated by love for others. He had never been selfish, thinking always
of others rather