after the fire."

The mason nodded quickly.

"I don't know yet what should be done about the property," she went on
directly. "I must see some lawyer, I suppose. But it's just what I told
you, I'm sure. Half of Clark's Field belonged to your grandfather and
half to mine, and I have had the whole of it because they couldn't find
your family."

The mason listened gravely, his bright blue eyes unfathomable. He had
had ample time, naturally, to think over the astounding communication
Adelle had made to him, though he had come to no clear comprehension of
it. A poor man, who for years has longed with all the force of his being
for some of the privilege and freedom of wealth, could not be told that
a large fortune was rightfully his without rousing scintillating lights
in his hungry soul.

"There isn't all the money there was when I got it," Adelle continued.
"We have spent a lot of money--I don't know just how much there is left.
But there must be at least a half of it--what belongs to you!"

"Are you sure about this?" the mason demanded, frowning, a slight tremor
in his voice; "about its belonging to father's folks? I never heard any
one say there was money in the family."

"There wasn't anything but the land--Clark's Field," Adelle explained.
"It was just a farm in grandfather's time, and nothing was done with it
for a long time. It was like that when I was a girl and living in Alton.
It's only recently it has become so valuable."

"You didn't say nothin' about any property the first time we talked
about our being related," the mason observed.

"I know," Adelle replied, with a sad little smile. Then she blurted out
the truth,--"I knew it--not then, but afterwards. But I didn't tell
you--I wanted to--but I meant never to tell. I meant to keep it all for
myself and for him--my boy."

The mason nodded understandingly, while Adelle tried to explain her
ruthless decision.

"You'd never had money and didn't know about the Field. And it seemed
wrong to take it all away from him--it wasn't his fault, and I didn't
want him to grow up poor and have to fight for a living," she explained
bravely, displaying all the petty consideration she had given to her
problem. Then she added with a sob--"Now it's all different! He was
taken away," she said slowly, using the fatalistic formula which
generations of religious superstition have engraved in human hearts. "He
will not need it!"

There was silence. Then unconsciously, as i