“At any rate, it was given out that she was dead. Dorothy believed so, and in all probability does so to-day. We chance to know that Marda the Georgian lives—that she is at the Fair, and has come for some definite purpose.
“As to Adela—her life has been a sad one. Cast off by her husband she went back to Kentucky. She was still lovely, and it was not long before her hand was sought in marriage by a worthy gentleman. Investigation brought to light the fact that in granting the divorce to Cereal, the woman was still looked upon as married, and forbidden to ever again enter upon wedlock while her husband lived.
“Thus Adela was forced to refuse the offer. She taught school; her people moved West; and she has experienced many strange vicissitudes of fortune, yet she vowed in my presence and in the sight of Heaven that the one indiscretion named was the last of her life—that her eyes were opened, her life saddened, and ever since the day her husband put her aside she has lived in the one hope that the time would come when she might redeem herself in his eyes. She has not lived in vain. Whenever the yellow fever raged in the South, there Adela could be found nursing the sick. She was the angel of light in Jacksonville when the dread scourge wasted Florida’s metropolis. Only for her own illness she would have been in Brunswick this summer. Her life is nearly spent—she has consumption now—and it is the prayer of her last days that before she goes he may forgive her; that some opportunity may yet arise whereby she can win that pardon.
“Now about her boy. Once she found him, but dared not make herself known, on account of the past. He suddenly disappeared from the city where he was attending a military academy, nor could she trace him again; but at the town photographer’s she found a picture of him which she has carried ever since, no doubt to cry over in her lonely hours, poor woman.”
Aleck hands over a card photograph. It is not a stylish picture, such as our artists of to-day produce, but faithful to the life. It represents a young fellow of about fifteen, a handsome, independent-looking chap, with something of a Southern air about him, which is heightened by the cadet suit of gray he wears.
“This settles all doubt,” remarks Wycherley; “it’s the young miner from Colorado, whom we saw with Dorothy—her brother; and at the same time I can see the poor lady I helped out of the Hotel des Vagabonde fire.”
“You had your room in that tenement, Claude?”
“Yes,” reddening a trifle.
“And all your books, your bachelor trophies, your many comforts were lost?”
“Everything. My luxurious divan, my chair, the like of which could not be found in a Vanderbilt mansion, the wonderful oil paintings, gems of art, the original collection of curios which a Sypher might not despise—all went. But, Aleck, my boy, my entire loss didn’t exceed five dollars, I assure you. What is that to a man who has won a million.”