im for dishonesty."

"Thereby incurring his life-long hatred and enmity, so that years
afterward, he sought to wreak his revenge upon you by stealing from
the wrecked train, where your daughter lost her life, the little
child who would otherwise have been your solace in that time of
bereavement."

"Everard!" exclaimed Mr. Cameron, "are you sure you are correct? What
proof have you of this?"

"The proofs were not discovered until recently," Houston replied,
"although we knew that they existed, but now this girl has found a
letter from Maverick's wife confessing the whole crime, and stating
that it was committed through a spirit of revenge; and she also has in
her possession the articles of clothing she wore at the time she was
stolen, together with a locket containing her mother's picture and her
own name,--Marjorie Lyle Washburn."

"That is enough," said Mr. Cameron briefly, "let me see her,
Everard."

Houston stepped within the house, reappearing a few moments later,
with Lyle. Very beautiful she looked as she came forward in the soft
radiance of the moonlight, a child-like confidence shining in the
lovely eyes.

Mr. Cameron rose to meet her, and taking both her hands within his
own, he stood for an instant, gazing into the beautiful face.

"My dear child, my own Edna!" he said in broken tones, folding her
closely within his arms, "Thank God for another child restored to us
from the dead!"

Houston returned to the sick-room, leaving Mr. Cameron and Lyle in
their new-found joy. Lyle told him briefly the story of her life, his
eyes growing stern with indignation as he listened to the wrongs she
had endured, then luminous with tenderness, as she told of Jack's
affectionate care for her.

"Call me 'papa' my child, as you used to in the days of your
babyhood," he said, kissing her, as they rose to return to Guy's room,
"you never even then, would call Mrs. Cameron or myself anything but
'mamma' and 'papa,' and now you shall be as our own child!"

Together they watched beside the sick-bed until the morning sun
touched the mountain peaks with glory, but there came no relief to the
sufferer, now moaning and tossing in delirium.

Eastward, across the mountain ranges, Morton Rutherford was speeding
swiftly, scarcely heeding in his sorrow and anxiety, the grandeur and
beauty through which he was passing; while from Chicago, the
sweet-faced mother was hastening westward, all unconscious that she
was being swiftly a