"Yes; that is the only place I can go to at present. He has long been a friend of the family."
"Have you no relatives—in Boston, New York, or elsewhere?"
"No near relatives. It will not be very long ere I shall have to make a home for myself. I am told that the estate will settle for very little," confesses Miss Hathaway, with a red spot in each pale cheek. Ashley understands and regards her sympathetically.
There is a short, somewhat embarrassing silence. Then Ashley rises regretfully. He says:
"I am afraid it must be good-bye—or, perhaps, au revoir. I shall hope to see you again before the summer is gone."
"I trust so," Miss Hathaway responds, this time quite cordially, as she gives him her hand at parting, and Ashley holds it an instant longer than ordinary courtesy calls for. And as he walks slowly away from the house he carries with him the vision of a tall girl, with a pure white face and sad blue eyes, into which the sunlight will some day come again.
At night he and Barker take the Montreal express for New York.
Summer drifts into autumn and autumn into winter. Life goes on much the same in Raymond. The Hathaway mystery gradually fades from public interest, and it is set down as a crime that will never be explained.
The Raymond National Bank has closed its doors. The robbery of its vault was a blow from which it found it impossible to recover.
No tidings are received of Derrick Ames and Helen Hathaway or of Ralph Felton. None, unless they are in the keeping of the silent, stern-faced Cyrus Felton or the beautiful girl with the sad blue eyes who abides under his roof.
Every Sunday, in rain or in sunshine, mid heat or cold, Louise Hathaway may be seen ascending the hill in the little cemetery by which Wild River sings its way, her
