object of his boyish idolatry, he had no doubt.

But why did Pet avoid this Frederick Lynville? Did she really dislike
him? Or----. The thought of his own shyness toward the beautiful girl
came into his mind like a flash. To avoid might be--to love.

The poor boy dropped the letter, and covered his face with his hands,
and wept.

Love is not always selfish; and goodness is sometimes its own reward. In
that bitter hour of his first real misery, Bog did not regret his
kindness to the Minfords, or take credit to himself for having nobly
concealed from their knowledge those little weekly gifts of money which
he sent to them through the mail, when they were in poorer
circumstances. He was not for a moment base enough to think that Pet
would look with kinder eyes on him, if she but knew of his secret
benefactions--which, up to this time, neither she nor her father had
suspected, and which they would never learn from his lips.

BOOK SIXTH.

MYSTERIES OF THE NIGHT.

CHAPTER I.

THE UNKNOWN HAND.

Marcus Wilkeson made no effort to discover the writer of the anonymous
letter, because he knew that such an effort would be in vain. He called
on Mr. Minford once in two or three days now. The inventor always took
occasion to refer to the letter, and assured Marcus that it was not
worth remembering, or talking about. "Why, then, did he talk about it?"
Marcus asked himself. His eyes were not blind to watchful and suspicious
glances which the old man directed to him, at times, under cover of
those shaggy, overhanging eyebrows. Nor could he help noticing a strange
reserve in the bearing of Pet toward him. It was not mere modesty, or
timid gratitude, but DOUBT, as he read the signs. Marcus was convinced
that the father had put his child on guard against something, though he
might not have mentioned the existence of the anonymous letter. This
thought distressed him acutely.

But his troubles, as well as his joys, he kept to himself. The miser
puts his broken bank notes and his good gold under the same lock
and key.

One evening, early in April, Overtop and Maltboy observed a peculiar
expression of sadness on the face of their friend. He had eaten nothing
at dinner, but had drunk more than his usual allowance of sherry. He had
kept his eyes fixed on the table as in a revery, and had scarcely spoken
a word. Miss Wilkeson, in her solemn state opposite the boiled chickens,
was hardly less social.

After dinner, Marcus to