the injury to his vanity
hurt him more than his wounded conscience; that he had learned to
soothe, but his pride had never before been humbled. And so it was said
that Henry Francis died of a broken heart.

His sister Mary, who nine years before had brought back to Pennsylvania
the corpse of the murdered Cummins, was now summoned to carry another
dead man home. True, he lived a year to contemplate the ruin of fortune
and honor, but he was mortally wounded. Most pathetic of all, he was
resolved to suffer in silence. Brothers and sisters should not share in
his disgrace. He had gambled and lost. But he would not tell them that
he had gambled with his honor.

There is still balm in Gilead, even for a sinner! It was good to feel
the touch of his sister's hand, to taste the delicacies that only she
could prepare. The last long journey over the plains, at the end of
which he would find rest on the hillside where Will Cummins slept, was
almost as peaceful as his. He had renounced the world of thieves and
gamblers, and was going home.

Arrived in his native valley, he marvelled at its beauty. Why had he
ever left it, to risk life and honor in the pursuit of riches? Man's
needs are so simple! How easily he might have thriven among such kindly
neighbors! None of them could be called rich, but they had an abundance
of this world's goods, with something to spare for him, the returned
prodigal. What does it profit a man to gain the wealth of California and
lose his own soul? Had he lost his soul, then? He had proved unfaithful
to his friend. Or had he been simply unfortunate? Ah, well! he hardly
knew. He was eager to see Robert Palmer again in the world to which he
was hastening. Then he would confess all, and be forgiven. For Robert
Palmer had loved him like a son. Yes, that was what made the cup so
bitter!

CHAPTER XX

The Bridal Veil

"Where ancient forests widely spread,
Where bends the cataract's ocean fall,
On the lone mountain's silent head,
There are Thy temples, Lord of All!"

Andrews Norton.

As the trial and execution of J. C. P. Collins were the last acts in his
worthless career, so they were the last but one in the courtship of Mat
Bailey and Mamie Slocum. These comparatively young people were married
soon afterward. They were married and did not live happily ever after;
but they certainly enjoyed greater happiness than that which fell to the
lot of their friends, John Keeler and