ou understand."

"Of course not," one of the newspaper men replied.

"And," said the merchant, with another smile, "I don't know what else
can be said."

But the smile had missed its aim. The attention of the visitors was
settled upon Henry. There was no chance for separate interviews, and
questions were asked by first one and then another.

"You had no idea that your parents were alive?"

"Not until after my uncle's death."

"Had he ever told you why you were in his charge?"

"Yes; he said that at the death of my parents I had been given to
him."

"You of course knew the story of the mysterious disappearance of Henry
Witherspoon."

"Yes; when a boy I had read something about it."

"In view of the many frauds that had been attempted, hadn't you a
fear that your father might he suspicious of you?"

"No; I had forwarded letters and held proof that could not be
disputed. The mystery was cleared up."

"How old are you?"

"I shall be twenty-five next--next"--

"December the fourteenth," Witherspoon answered for him.

"The truth is," said Henry, "uncle did not remember the exact date of
my birth."

"Was your uncle a man of means?"

"Well, I can hardly say that he was. He speculated considerably, and
though he was never largely successful, yet he always managed to live
well."

"Were you engaged in any sort of employment?"

"Yes, at different times I was a reporter."

"It is not necessary that the public should know all this," said
Witherspoon.

"But we can't help it," Henry replied. "The statement we sent out
would simply serve to hone and strap public curiosity to a keen edge.
I expected something of this sort. The only thing to do is to get
through with it as soon as we can."

When the interview was ended Henry went to the front door with the
reporters, and at parting said to them: "I hope to see you again,
gentlemen, and doubtless I shall. I am one of you."

At dinner that evening Witherspoon was in high spirits. He joked--a
recreation rare with him--and he told a story--a mental excursion of
marked uncommonness.

"What, Henry, don't you drink wine at all?" the merchant asked.

"No, sir, I stand in mortal fear of it." The vision of a drunken
painter, he always fancied, hung like a fog between him and the liquor
glass.

"It's well enough, my son."

"None of the Craigs were drunkards," said Ellen, giggling.

"Ellen," Mrs. Witherspoon solemnly enjoined, "my mother's people shall
not be m