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It was said that Mr. Marvin had but one interview with his father-in-law elect, and returned so supremely disgusted, that the match was broken off. The horse-stealing story, more or less garbled, found its way through lips that pretended to decry it, yet eagerly repeated it. Only one member of the Rightbody family–and a new one–saved them from utter ostracism. It was young Mr. Ryder, the adopted son of the prospective head of the household, whose culture, manners, and general elegance, fascinated and thrilled Boston with a new sensation. It seemed to many that Miss Alice should, in the vicinity of this rare exotic, forget her former enthusiasm for a professional life; but the young man was pitied by society, and various plans for diverting him from any mesalliance with the Rightbody family were concocted.

It was a wintry night, and the second anniversary of Mr. Rightbody’s death, that a light was burning in his library. But the dead man’s chair was occupied by young Mr. Ryder, adopted son of the new proprietor of the mansion; and before him stood Alice, with her dark eyes fixed on the table.

“There must have been something in it, Joe, believe me. Did you never hear your father speak of mine?”

“Never.”

“But you say he was college-bred, and born a gentleman, and in his youth he must have had many friends.”

“Alice,” said the young man gravely, “when I have done something to redeem my name, and wear it again before these people, before YOU, it would be well to revive the past. But till then–“

But Alice was not to be put down. “I remember,” she went on, scarcely heeding him, “that, when I came in that night, papa was reading a letter, and seemed to be disconcerted.”

“A letter?”

“Yes; but,” added Alice, with a sigh, “when we found him here insensible, there was no letter on his person. He must have destroyed it.”

“Did you ever look among his papers? If found, it might be a clew.”

The young man glanced toward the cabinet. Alice read his eyes, and answered,–

“Oh, dear, no! The cabinet contained only his papers, all perfectly arranged,–you know how methodical were his habits,–and some old business and private letters, all carefully put away.”

“Let us see them,” said the young man, rising.

They opened drawer after drawer; files upon files of letters and business papers, accurately folded and filed. Suddenly Alice uttered a little cry, and picked up a quaint ivory paper-knife lying at the bottom of a drawer.

“It was missing the next day, and never could be found: he must have mislaid it here. This is the drawer,” said Alice eagerly.

Here was a clew. But the lower part of the drawer was filled with old letters, not labelled, yet neatly arranged in files. Suddenly he stopped, and said, “Put them back, Alice, at once.”

“Why?”

“Some of these letters are in my father’s handwriting.”

“The more reason why I should see them,” said the girl imperatively. “Here, you take part, and I’ll take part, and we’ll get through quicker.”

There was a certain decision and independence in her manner which he had learned to respect. He took the letters, and in silence read them with her. They were old college letters, so filled with boyish dreams, ambitions, aspirations, and utopian theories, that I fear neither of these young people even recognized their parents in the dead ashes of the past. They were both grave, until Alice uttered a little hysterical cry, and dropped her face in her hands. Joe was instantly beside her.

“It’s nothing, Joe, nothing. Don’t read it, please; please, don’t. It’s so funny! it’s so very queer!”

But Joe had, after a slight, half-playful struggle, taken the letter from the girl. Then he read aloud the words written by his father thirty years ago.

“I thank you, dear friend, for all you say about my wife and boy. I thank you for reminding me of our boyish compact. He will be ready to fulfil it, I know, if he loves those his father loves, even if you should marry years later. I am glad for your sake, for both our sakes, that it is a boy. Heaven send you a good wife, dear Adams, and a daughter, to make my son equally happy.”

Joe Silsbie looked down, took the half-laughing, half-tearful face in his hands, kissed her forehead, and, with tears in his grave eyes, said, “Amen!”

*****

I am inclined to think that this sentiment was echoed heartily by Mrs. Rightbody’s former acquaintances, when, a year later, Miss Alice was united to a professional gentleman of honor and renown, yet who was known to be the son of a convicted horse-thief. A few remembered the previous Californian story, and found corroboration therefor; but a majority believed it a just reward to Miss Alice for her conduct to Mr. Marvin, and, as Miss Alice cheerfully accepted it in that light, I do not see why I may not end my story with happiness to all concerned.