The days dragged their weary length along. May passed; June and its roses faded into the languid heat of July. Still no trace was found of Sappho. Madam Frances had gone from the little house on Joy Street, and she, together with the child, had vanished and left no trace. There had been a nine-days’ wonder over the departure of Miss Clark, but outside of the few who were in the secret, no one knew the facts.

Will had received his degree from Harvard and was now looking forward to going abroad. But the eager zest and joy of pursuit and accomplishment were gone; duty alone remained.

It was rumored that John Langley had attached himself to the family of a well-to-do colored man of prominence in the city, and that he was very busily engaged in ingratiating himself into the good graces of the daughter of the house. People gossiped and speculated as to the cause of the broken engagement between him and Dora Smith, but from lack of information this sensation died out also.

Three months after Dora had broken with Langley the situation between her and Doctor Lewis was unchanged. The intimacy of early childhood was resumed, but she was shy and reserved beyond a certain point. Finally Doctor Lewis had been obliged to return to his charge in the South, but before he went he had obtained a promise from Dora to enter into correspondence with him. He had not dared to express the real interest and meaning which lay behind his request. The poor girl felt humiliated; her womanhood shamed; although to her surprise the happiness of life which had seemed quenched behind this flood of sorrow that had overtaken her was beginning to shine upon her again as buoyant youth regained its wonted sway. She respected Doctor Lewis, and appreciated the value of the position he had made for himself, but she did not intend to enter into another engagement immediately; she had almost determined to remain single for life until she heard of Langley’s conduct. After that came the fear that he might think that she regretted the past. No; she could not remain single; she would marry one whose manliness she could respect, if she did not love him. Love was another thing, with which, she told herself, she was done.

Dora possessed the rare talent of being an interesting correspondent; indeed, her literary talents would have been valuable if cultivated. Doctor Lewis soon found this out. She gave him fascinating glimpses of the possibilities of an inner nature which perfect love and trust might develop. These short views thrilled his being with the hope of winning so rare a prize for his life companion. He pursued her unceasingly. Flowers of rare beauty and fragrance, fruit and books, found their way to her home each week. John had been rather an indifferent lover; but who could resist the impetuous onslaught of a generous nature that truly loved?

Now, when the heat of July had brought with it his annual vacation, he had returned to the North. Upon their first meeting he said to her:

“Dora, I will take no denial. No; do not speak. I know what you would say. I am willing to wait for love, because I feel sure that it will come in time.”

And she, nothing loth, yielded to the stronger nature with a feeling of peace and contentment to which she had long been a stranger. So October was set for the wedding; and as the days passed, Dora felt that this time she had made no mistake.

It was toward the end of July Ma Smith sat in her pretty parlor talking with Mrs. Ophelia Davis. Mrs. Davis had just heard the news of Dora’s prospective marriage to Doctor Lewis.

“I’m jes’ as glad as I can be. Dear, dear; it don’t seem possible that so many things have happened to change the prospectus since last winter when we sat in this very room having such a good time, an’ Miss Clark had jes’ ben interduced, an’ was so hansum, an’ sech a way with her an’ so forth. You know, I thought your Will was goin’ to git completely smashed on her. It’s funny how mistook a body can git ’bout fellers and gals. You think they’re goin’ crazy over each other when all of a suddint⁠—Lordy! they’ve up an’ merried some po’ plain critter that you never thought they’d give a second look to. They’d heve made a hansum couple, too. Jes’ borned fer each other. Then there’s the smashup ’twixt Dora and Langley. Mercy knows, I don’t blame her. I allers thought he had a downish sort o’ look. Drat them sickly, peeky lookin’ men! Me! no ma’m! I wouldn’t look at one o’ them! No ma’m! Dear, dear! it do seem strange. But that wasn’t what I wanted to say tickler to you.”

She smoothed down her long white apron as she murmured to herself: “ ’Phelia, whar is you?” She was evidently embarrassed. After thinking a moment she continued:

“Now, ’bout this house. What are you goin’ to do with it?”

“We haven’t concluded yet what we will do with it. I’m going South with Dora until Will finishes at Heidelberg; then, after he has settled upon his future field of work, I am to live with him.”

“Exactly so. Then I s’pose you’ll be willin’ to rent the house ef you git a good tenant?”

“Yes; I suppose so.”

“Now, Sis’ Smith, I want to ask you ef you’ve eny ejections to my takin’ it?”

“Certainly no objections; but isn’t it a great responsibility for a woman alone in the world?” asked Mrs. Smith, greatly surprised.

Mrs. Davis smoothed the folds of her ample white apron nervously⁠—coughed⁠—stammered⁠—blushed.

“Well, truth is, Sis’ Smith, you know people make changes in this life; fac’ truth, indeed, ma’m, we’s always changin’, an’ I’m thinkin’ o’ changin’ to double harness fer a while.”

“I want to know!” exclaimed Ma Smith, now properly astonished and interested. “And who is the happy man?”

Mrs. Davis wiped the perspiration from her face with the back of her hand as she replied with a nervous laugh:

“Oh, you know him well! It’s Mr. Jeemes.”

“What! Mr. James! why, he’s nothing but a boy!” exclaimed Ma Smith.

“Course I know he’s young, but I’m not so old myself.”

“Why, how old are you, Sister Davis?”

“I don’t know that I mind tellin’ you, ’cause you’re safe. I’m all of thirty-five. Ginerally speakin’, I never tell nobody my exac’ age, ’cause it’s none o’ thar bisiness.”

“Thirty-five years! Impossible! Why, it’s thirty-five years since the war. You were a widow at that time, weren’t you?”

“That’s my age, anyhow,” was the sullen answer.

“But, Sister Davis, you must be fifty years old at the very least,” said Ma Smith, persisting that she was right in her calculations.

“Fifty nuthin’!” replied Mrs. Davis, somewhat offended at Mrs. Smith’s pertinacity. “I’m thirty-five years old, an’ I reckon thet I’m the one what knows best when I was borned.”

“I’m sure I hope you will be happy with Mr. James,” Ma Smith hastened to reply, seeing that Mrs. Davis was really offended.

“Is he going to leave college?” she continued, retiring with graceful discretion from the contest.

“No; he’s goin’ to graduate. The society he’s been preaching fer Sundays is goin’ to give him their church, and I’ll keep the laundry a-goin’ an’ rent rooms.”

“I’m sure I’ll be very glad to let you have the house. I don’t know anyone I’d rather let it to.”

“Then that’s settled,” said Mrs. Davis, with a sigh of relief. “I thought you’d say that. Now, you see, all yer ol’ lodgers can keep their rooms, an’ it will seem jes’ like home to them. Mr. Jeemes is that fond o’ me tell Sarah Ann calls me an ol’ fool, an’ says all he wants is my money, and a right smert ’ooman to work fer him. I telled Sarah Ann, ‘go git a man fer yourself an’ quit bein’ jealous.’ She says to me, ‘I will, an’ it won’t be a boy jes’ turned twenty-one.’ Sarah Ann an’ me’ll have to part after I’m merried, she’s that jealous.” Mrs. Davis had regained all her good humor, and was very complacent over Ma Smith’s evident interest in her story.

“Now that would be a pity, after you’ve been together so long,” remarked the latter.

“She’s got to drop sayin’ ticklish things to me. A ’ooman’s got a right to git merried, ain’t she?” Mrs. Davis was now fairly started on a congenial subject, and her words flowed in a torrent.

“Mr. Jeemes says he knows the Lord sent me fer to be a helpmeet to him, an’ I dassay he’s right. Sarah Ann says my money’s the ‘helpmeet’ he’s after, an’ somebody to cook good vittals to suit his pellet. But I know better; he’s a godly man ef he ain’t much to look at.”

“How did you happen to take a fancy to each other?”

“Lord, he’s sech a good critter! The first I noticed was the night you had that swaree here last winter. Some o’ the men got to talkin’ ’bout ’ooman bein’ the weaker vessel, an’ subjugatin’ theirself to be led by men an’ not go prespirin’ after work an’ sech likes which belongs to men. Mr. Jeemes he held to it thet ’ooman’s all right to ejecate herself even to be a minister, fer no man could be suferior to ’ooman, ’cause she was his rib. An’ ever sence that I kin’ o’ thought what a shame it was fer a man to be minus one o’ his ribs all along o’ ’ooman, untell I made up my mind thet ef Jeemes wanted me he could have back his lost rib. All this spring he’s been a-ridin’ me on his bike down in the kitchen every day after we got through washin’ an’ had cleaned up, so I could go ridin’ with him in the Fens an’ all out o’ town this summer. After I’d learnt, one day he came in with a beautiful bike an’ saddle. The nex’ day we was ter ride ter the Park. I hed on my new pale blue bicycle suit with a pink shirtwaist an’ a white sailer hat an’ tan-colored shoes an’ gloves. I tell you I looked some! Mr. Jeemes had on a black suit with a gray linen duster, an’ he did look extinguished in his beaver hat an’ that white choker an’ tie o’ hisn which I must say I do admire. We got along purty well. Everybody was a-lookin’ an’ a-gappin’ at us. Sarah Ann says it was ’cause we looked like a couple o’ jay birds stuffed.

“We got along all right untell we was a-comin’ down a hill. Mr. Jeemes was a-coastin’, an’ the tail o’ that linen duster o’ hisn was a-sailin’ out behin’ like a flag floppin’ in an east wind. The fust thing I knowed he was a-stickin’ fast head fust into a pile o’ sand where they was makin’ mortar to build a cellar, an’ me on top o’ him! Wasn’t it a mercy thet we wasn’t stuck in the mortar? Jeemes is purty black, but he was a white man when he got out o’ thet san’ heap. As fer me, I tore my gloves, los’ my hat, an’ busted a new pair o’ corsets right off me. Besides thet, I nearly swallered my upper teeth, an’ I lost my bangs. They picked me up an’ carried me into a house they was a-buildin’, an’ give me a chance to fix myself up a bit. But I ’clar to you them corsets was no good never after thet; an’ it cost me ten dollars to fix thet upper set o’ teeth so I could wear ’em agin; I never have seen them bangs sence.

“We was thet done up that Jeemes sent fer a kerridge to bring us home; an’ fifty dollars won’t excuse the damages to them bikes. Comin’ home an’ settin’ so close together, beside the trouble we’d had makin’ us feel kin’ o’ tender o’ each other, Jeemes put his arm ’roun’ me⁠—an’ I don’ see how ever in time he did it, bein’ the corsets warn’t no good, an’ me ’bout as small as a bag o’ taters⁠—he put his arm ’roun’ me, he did, an’ he says, says he: ‘Le’s git merried, ’Phelia!’ I was thet stonished an’ set back you could heve knocked me down with a feather, an’ was thet weak from bein’ overcamed by my feelin’ thet all I remember was thet I fell on his neck like the patrihawks did in the Bible where they tell ’bout Abraham, Isaac an’ Jacob, Shem, Ham, Meshack an’ ’Bednego⁠—you ’member how the minister tol’ us all ’bout that in the Skripter lesson las’ Sunday night, don’t you? I ain’t got no ’bility fer readin’, but I’s got a mem’ry, thank Gawd. As I was a-sayin’, I jes’ fell onto his neck, an’ I says to him: ‘Mr. Jeemes, ef you want yer rib, I’m her.’ Thet’s the way it camed ’bout, an’ we’s goin’ ter be merried purty soon, ’though Sarah Ann says I’m a mortalized ol’ ijit, an’ a insane mannyack, an’ Jeemes knows what he’s a-fishin’ fer. She’s insultin’, mos’ insultin’.”

Mrs. Smith sympathized with her, and after more talk about the rent of the building and other matters dear to the heart of the housewife, they separated.

For a long time Ma Smith sat there in the quiet, shaded room, buried in deep thought. She made a charming picture. White was her favorite color for summer wear, with a tiny crimson cashmere shawl thrown about her shoulders, to keep off the chill which comes so naturally to old age. She had been a handsome woman, and still retained traces of former beauty. Thick bands of snowy hair, falling in natural waves, were coiled closely at the back of a well-shaped head. Her clear olive complexion contrasted pleasantly with eyes large, soft, and black, heavy black eyebrows and long curling lashes. An aquiline nose, thin lips and delicately shaped ears gave her a very pleasing countenance.

As she sat there her whole life passed in review. She thought of her children, and how much she had to be thankful for in them. But more than all, the story told her so often by her father of his early life and that of his father and mother, was fresh within her mind as she sat there dreaming. Months afterward she looked back upon that day, and remembered with wonder her own tranquility.

“The supreme hours unnoted come.”

She heard the doorbell ring, but it did not disturb her reverie. There was a knock at the door of the room where she was sitting. Then the door opened, and Mrs. Davis ushered in a tall, elegant white man of distinguished address, and about her own age. Mrs. Davis closed the door behind him and vanished.

“Mrs. Smith, I presume?” he said in a pleasant voice as he advanced toward her. It was a voice of rare carrying power⁠—deep, rich, musical, and had moved the House of Commons to enthusiasm on more than one memorable occasion in the politics of Great Britain.

“Yes,” she replied, rising from her seat.

“I called to see Mr. William Smith, and I dislike to be disappointed. Will he be at home soon?” He handed her his card as he finished speaking, and she read the inscription:

Charles Montfort-Withington, M.P.

Blankshire,
England.

“Pray be seated, Mr. Withington,” she said, as she placed a chair for her visitor. “I am William’s mother; he will be in very soon.”

Mr. Withington thanked her, and having seated himself, glided easily into conversation; at the same time his keen eye noted his surroundings. Nothing in the quiet, unpretentious, shaded room escaped him. The large glass bowl of flowers⁠—sweet peas and nasturtiums predominating⁠—filled the room with fragrance; there were three or four watercolor paintings set in simple frames⁠—pictures of rural scenes. The few choice pieces of china and bric-a-brac which adorned the mantel, the open piano, the general good taste, even elegance of the apartment, appealed strongly to the artistic sense of the cultured gentleman who had been reared in the luxury of ample wealth. Mrs. Smith herself was a revelation to him. By what art of necromancy had such a distinguished woman been evolved from among the brutalized aftermath of slavery?

“I had the pleasure of meeting your son and conversing with him at the annual dinner of the Canterbury Club in February last. I was much impressed with his views on the condition of the Negroes in this country. Being interested in every phase of racial development which bears upon the science of political economy, I felt that after my Canadian business was settled I would try and meet him again. I intended to write and ask him to meet me at the Vendome, but on second thoughts I concluded to try and see him in his own home.”

“He will feel greatly flattered at your kind remembrance,” Mrs. Smith replied.

“Are you aware, madam, that your son possesses rare intellectual gifts?” he continued, after a slight pause. “I must confess to a feeling of curiosity to learn how such characters are nourished among a people like yours.”

Mrs. Smith looked at him thoughtfully a moment, and then said:

“Sir, it would afford me great pleasure to give you a sketch of his life so far, if you would care to listen.”

“It is what I desire most to hear.”

The great man listened to her humble story with marked attention, as she related the history of early struggles which her husband and she had braved for the maintenance and education of their children. It was a story common enough among Negroes ambitious to avail themselves of the privileges which were now open to them⁠—a story of faithful fathers bearing insult and injury to keep the meanly paid employment; of mothers “spending weary days and nights over the washtub and ironing-board in order to get money to educate their children.” It seemed marvelous to the listener. As she closed, he said impressively:

“Your story is a revelation to me, madam. Are there many histories like yours among your people? In what a different light you would appear as a race, if the statements made by your detractors could be stripped of calumny and deception. Believe me, you have my heartfelt sympathy, and I shall do all that I can to promote kindly feelings in England for our unfortunate black brother in America. And it is against such spirits of nobility and self-sacrifice that many would close the entrance door to the higher education of the century! Blind and foolish prejudice! Monstrous injustice!” He paused a moment to collect himself and overcome his indignation.

“Madam, how is it that you maintain so excellent an address and manner? and from whom, may I ask, without being considered impertinent, did you inherit your superior intelligence?”

“Ah, sir; that is a sad story connected with the lives of those long since passed away.”

“But you seem perfectly happy.”

“Yes; but it is the happiness chastened by wrongs endured and grief subdued.” She paused as though forgetful of her visitor, and then resumed in a low tone:

“Yes; there are strangely tangled threads in the lives of many colored families⁠—I use the word ‘colored’ because these stories occur mostly among those of mixed blood. But few have a stranger or more romantic history than my father’s⁠—Will’s grandfather; I never speak of it for fear of ridicule. I was attracted by the name of Montfort on your card. It is uncommon; I was a Montfort before marriage.”

Mr. Withington uttered an exclamation which was unheeded by the woman before him, who was lost in the clouds of the past. His face wore an expression of intense interest. Presently she continued:

“It is a homely subject to introduce to one familiar with the sorrows of the wealthy and prosperous alone; but it teaches that misfortune is the common lot of all mankind.”

“I await your story with anxiety.” And truly it seemed so, for Mr. Withington had left his seat and was pacing slowly up and down the room. Mrs. Smith began her tale like one who describes a vision passing before her eyes. She told it in almost the exact words of the story which we have given as the first part of this narrative. In the midst of the recital Will entered the room from another door, and paused in astonishment at the scene before him. Mr. Withington shook hands with him noiselessly, and signed him to keep silence and not disturb the speaker. His own emotion was intense; tears trembled in his eyes; his bosom heaved; his countenance was pale and distressed. When she had finished he said:

“And have you no proofs of this story⁠—no letters?”

“Alas, nothing! Poor father destroyed all in a fit of despondency when his brother’s letters ceased to come. Then he lost his little property, and after that he removed to Boston. I believe my father died of a broken heart. God did not intend that his wrongs should be righted.” As she finished, the tears were streaming from her eyes.

Mr. Withington ceased his nervous promenade, and taking both her hands in his, replied solemnly:

“Not so, dear cousin, for such I believe you to be; never doubt God’s goodness or justice. I believe that I hold the key to solve this riddle! I believe that I am your relative, descended directly from your father’s brother; your grandfather’s brother,” he said, turning to Will, who stood an amazed spectator of this extraordinary scene.

“Impossible!” exclaimed mother and son with one breath.

“Nothing is impossible with God. How often have I heard my father tell very much the same tale I have just listened to. Let me assure you that the letters of Jesse Montfort to his brother Charles are still in existence! They are preserved as a sacred legacy, together with a sworn statement of the main facts as we know them, in this remarkable case. Your uncle Charles married his rescuer’s daughter, and as is the custom among old English families where the name would become extinct upon the marriage of the only child⁠—a daughter⁠—he assumed the name of Withington in conjunction with his own. The United States Government was sued by Withington, Sr., and he recovered one hundred thousand dollars damages for Charles, but no trace of Jesse could be found. The money is held for him or his heirs by the Government. I can furnish you the necessary proof upon my return to England. Tell me not that the time of miracles has departed! Is not this a direct intervention of the hand of Providence that we, so widely separated, should at last become known to each other?”

He paused, overcome by emotion. Mrs. Smith wept quietly. Broken words of praise to God⁠—of joy⁠—of sorrow for the dead⁠—of hope for the future⁠—passed her lips from time to time. Ah! who can paint such a scene? Finally Mr. Withington embraced them both⁠—his kinswoman and Will, his kinsman.

“Be assured that I shall bend every effort to prove this story, and spare no money to establish you in your rights.”

Then, unable longer to control his feelings, telling Will to join him in an hour at his hotel, he hastily left them.

Alone together the mother and son fell upon their knees to give thanks to God for his unspeakable goodness.

When Mr. Withington had thought over the story which had come to him so strangely, he was profoundly impressed with the inscrutable ways of God. How wonderful was the knowledge that he had been led by devious paths to find these humble relatives. By accident alone had it been accomplished. “No, not by accident,” he told himself, “but by the direct intervention of All-wise Justice.” So noble was the nature of this man that he never once thought of the possible ridicule that might come to him through his new kinspeople. He thought only of the tie of blood. When it was placed before him in this light by Will, his reply was characteristic of the man:

“At home it will not be noticed; the opinion of narrow-minded, prejudiced people here does not matter.”

Mr. Withington now spent long days with the Smiths. There was much to learn of the past history of each family. These were days of happiness to the newly found relatives⁠—days fraught with wise lessons to himself. He was the best of friends with Dora; indeed, he was a man who inspired confidence and love. Very soon he was the recipient of the story of all her recent trials with John, and poor Will’s unhappy love episode. He approved Dora’s choice in Doctor Lewis, and had the latter’s promise to take her across to Europe at the earliest opportunity. For Will he had a strong man’s sympathy, and encouraged him to hope that all might yet be well. So potent was his hopefulness that Will brightened perceptibly and became more like his old ambitious self, to the great delight of his mother and sister.

He in his turn told them the story of Charles Montfort: How his benefactor had returned to America in the hope of finding and rescuing Jesse, after establishing the boys’ claim to the estate of their murdered father. He found that the child had disappeared, leaving no trace behind him. How Charles had rejoiced over the later discovery of his brother, and how he had grieved over the final estrangement. Then on the eve of his departure for America to personally search Jesse out, he was stricken with paralysis, and remained a helpless invalid until his death. Meantime the business of establishing the identity of the Smiths was going forward as swiftly as possible.

Mr. Withington communicated with his family lawyer, who came from England, bringing with him certain valuable papers bearing upon the case, engaged a leading firm of American lawyers to act in conjunction with the English lawyer, interviewed the authorities at Washington, and secured the services of one of the best detectives in the country to ferret out evidence to prove Jesse’s identity. Money flowed from his lavish hand, and all the legal machinery that was essential to prompt action was soon set in motion. One day Mr. Withington received a letter from the detective asking him to go to Bermuda and see an important witness. He started immediately upon receiving it, accompanied by Will Smith and his lawyer. A letter from Will to his mother after they had reached the island was filled with fresh surprises. What follows is an extract:

We have come across a wonderful coincidence. In hunting for evidence in Bermuda, the detective heard of an old woman⁠—a centenarian⁠—who was formerly a slave in North Carolina. We found her living with her daughter and granddaughter (both old women; the granddaughter is sixty); all of them were once slaves. The old woman’s mind is clouded on all subjects but one⁠—the Montfort murder! She was an eyewitness of the atrocious crime. She lived for years as the mistress of Anson Pollock, and knew that he tracked Jesse to Boston, where he lost all trace of him. The day we visited her it was pathetic to hear her grieve over the children; one would have thought them still helpless little ones. My dear mother, this woman is but another evidence of the all-powerful hand of the Almighty⁠—this poor, decrepit, half-blind centenarian is Lucy, Grace Montfort’s foster-sister and maid!

The granddaughter is married, and her husband and children are here. When the Civil War ended they determined to settle in Bermuda, and here they have lived ever since in a cottage which is almost a hut, supporting themselves by selling sugarcane in small sticks⁠—the same as our candy-shops sell sticks of candy to the children⁠—and other products of their garden, in the marketplace. Prepare yourself for another surprise.

The youngest woman had a child while in slavery, by Anson Pollock, Jr., a grandnephew of old Anson Pollock, whom we all have so much reason to remember. The poor woman seems much distressed over this boy, who, it appears, was taken from her when he was but six months old, and sold with many others to a man who farmed Negro babies for the market. She asked me if I had ever in my distant home met a young man called John Pollock Langley. He is her son! I gave her an evasive answer, and told her I would inquire about such a person, and let her know the result. I shall write John these facts. He can use his own pleasure then about claiming his relatives. How fortunate the estrangement which resulted in breaking the engagement between John and Dora. I never could have tolerated the idea of a descendant of the Montforts being united in the close relation of marriage with one of the villainous and unscrupulous Pollocks. Let us thank God for another mercy. Mr. Withington feels as I do. He has invested some money in a small annuity for our humble friends⁠—enough to keep them from want. The nobility of this man is something remarkable. We sail from here for home by the next steamer, so we shall be in time for the wedding.

In the last beautiful days of October Dora became the wife of Doctor Lewis, and went with him to his far-off Southern home to assist him in the upbuilding of their race.

And what a wedding it was! The skies were fair and bright. The romantic story of the Smith family had become noised about, and as it was a church wedding the sacred edifice was crowded to suffocation. Doctor Lewis was well and favorably known, and that was of additional interest to the spectators. The small girls who formed Dora’s class in Sunday-school, dressed in white, preceded the pretty bride, strewing flowers in her path. Then the bride followed on the arm of her brother, Doctor Lewis meeting them at the altar, where he had been accompanied by the ushers. Dora would have no bridesmaids. Gowned in the simplest white muslin frock she stood and solemnly plighted her vows to the man of her choice.

They were a striking couple: she serious, he so grave and steadfast. So it should be, taking up a new life, with its endless need of forbearance, trust, and mutual affection. Each knew that with one all was not yet given with the abandonment of perfect love. Each felt, too, the deep waters that surrounded Will⁠—the shadow of a tragedy that lay about his life. What wonder that an unusual solemnity enfolded this couple as they took their vows upon them. But it was a solemnity that quiets, soothes and strengthens.

As the bride came down the aisle on her husband’s arm at the conclusion of the ceremony, she caught for one instant the full gaze of John Langley. She never forgot that look; so full of despair and unhappiness. She said nothing about it to husband or brother, but it haunted her for many an hour.

Well, well, it was over, and they passed out to the carriage, and thence to the house.

There was a great reception after the ceremony; but just before Dora left her room to take her place with the receiving party, a package was placed in her hand. She opened it, and found it a jewel-box containing a heavy gold bracelet set with pearls, which outlined a delicate vine of pansies traced about the golden band. No note or card was attached⁠—nothing but her name and the date of the marriage. Dora locked it away with her many gifts, amid painful thoughts; she knew instinctively that John was the giver. A week later the happy couple left Boston, accompanied by Mrs. Smith, followed by the heartfelt good wishes of all who knew them, for their future prosperity. So with fair skies and favorable winds they entered upon the untried sea of matrimony.

The case of Smith vs. the United States did not come to a public trial; it was heard privately before a court composed of the judges of the Supreme Court of the United States. The English heirs had received their portion years before; the Government only awaited the production of the necessary proofs to establish the identity of Mrs. Smith beyond a peradventure. Detectives went over the ground carefully. The records of real estate transfers, chattels, etc., were all found intact among the files of the courthouse at New Bern, North Carolina. Jesse was traced from the time he fled from Anson Pollock until he settled in Exeter, New Hampshire, and married Elizabeth Whitfield.

By this woman he raised a family of twelve children, five of whom, including Mrs. Smith, were born in Exeter. Up to the time of her birth he had prospered, and had accumulated a good property, but in an evil hour he went upon the bond of his employer, who, failing to meet his liabilities, involved Montfort in his ruin. Unmanned by recurring misfortunes, Jesse Montfort removed to Boston, and never again seemed to have the ambition to try to retrieve his losses. Born in an evil hour, under an unlucky planet, this man’s life was but a path of sorrow to the grave, which he welcomed as a refuge from all vicissitudes.

As Mr. Withington had said, the letters in his possession from Jesse to Charles Montfort, yellow and time-stained, completed a perfect chain of evidence. The sum of one hundred and fifty thousand dollars was awarded to Mrs. Smith as the last representative of the heirs of Jesse Montfort. Justice was appeased.

The case was a nine-days’ wonder; startled society and all the world⁠—a life drama whose power touched the deep wells of human feeling.