Chapter I.
The Missing Heir.
“Uncle, you are not looking well to-night.”
“I’m not well, Florence. I sometimes doubt if I shall ever be any better.”
“Surely, uncle, you cannot mean——”
“Yes, my child, I have reason to believe that I am nearing the end.”
“I cannot bear to hear you speak so, uncle,” said Florence Linden, in irrepressible agitation. “You are not an old man. You are but fifty-four.”
“True, Florence, but it is not years only that make a man old. Two great sorrows have embittered my life. First, the death of my dearly beloved wife, and next, the loss of my boy, Harvey.”
“It is long since I have heard you refer to my cousin’s loss. I thought you had become reconciled—no, I do not mean that,—I thought your regret might be less poignant.”
“I have not permitted myself to speak of it, but I have never ceased to think of it day and night.”
John Linden paused sadly, then resumed: