The Compass of Fortune.
by Eugene Shade Bisbee.
A FEW days after his return to New York from twenty years' prospecting in South America, Alfred Leighton found the following letter at his hotel:—
"Dear Alfred: A moment ago, to my astonishmentand delight, I ran across your name among yesterday's hotel arrivals. I won't waste words in telling you what pleasure this news gives me, but write at once to ask you to come up here with bag and baggage, so that we may talk over old times and compare notes as to how the world has used us since we parted thirty years ago.
"Telegraph when you are coming, and I will meet you at the train.
For a moment after finishing the letter Leighton stood dum-founded, his mind swiftly gathering up the threads of long-forgotten experiences and friendships. It was now almost thirty years since he and Melville Barrett had chummed together at college, but the letter and the signature were enough to recall the brilliant, luckless fellow who had been Leighton's room mate during the latter's senior year. As nearly as he could remember, Barrett, in spite of his mental gifts, had never got on in the world, and, at last accounts, had gone West where he had dropped out of sight apparently for good and all. And now, behold he had turned up again in the character of a landed proprietor! Had Barrett at last struck it rich?
Five hours later when, after a drive in a well-appointed landau
18
