beg your pardon for having alluded to it, Everard," said
Rutherford, "you never told me the particulars, and I did not realize
they were so painful."

"No apologies are necessary among us three friends," Houston replied.
"Guy's parents and I are the only living human beings who know, or
ever will know, the reason for his leaving as he did. My uncle spent
vast sums of money and employed detectives all over the world in his
efforts to find him, and to let him know that the old home was open to
him, and would always be just what it had been in the past. But it was
of no avail, we could not even get any tidings of him, and uncle, long
ago, gave him up for dead, though Aunt Marjorie believes that he is
still living, and that he will yet return."

"The faith of a good woman is sometimes simply sublime," replied
Rutherford, "and a mother's love is something wonderful. To me it
seems the nearest divine of anything we meet on earth."

There was no response from the figure sitting motionless in the
shadow. At that moment it required all the force of his tremendous
will power to stem the current of almost uncontrollable emotion,
surging across his soul.

But the moments passed, other topics were introduced and discussed,
and Jack joined in the conversation as calmly as the others.

"I suppose," he remarked, as, a little later, he accompanied his
guests to the door, "I suppose that before this time to-morrow, Mr.
Cameron will have already arrived at the camp?"

"Yes," Houston replied, "we expect him over on the evening train, with
Van Dorn."

As Houston and Rutherford took leave of Jack, there was something in
his manner, something in the long, lingering hand-clasp which seemed
more like a farewell than like a simple good-night, at which they
silently wondered.

Could they have looked in upon him an hour later, they would have
understood the cause. Silently he moved about the room, gathering
together the few little keepsakes among his possessions which he most
prized. These he placed in a small gripsack which he carefully locked,
saying to himself, as he looked around the room with a sigh, "Mike can
have the rest."

Then going to the window, he stood looking out upon the calm, moonlit
scene, which for many years had been the only home he had known.

"This is my last night here," he soliloquized, "my work here is done.
After to-morrow, Everard Houston will need me no longer, everything in
which I can render him assista