GEOFFREY'S VICTORY.

Auckland Star, Volume XIX, Issue 266, 10 November 1888, Page 1 (Supplement)

GEOFFREY'S VICTORY.

BY MBS GEORGIE SHELDON, Author of ' Virgie'e Inheritance,'' Brownie'a rgyjumph,'' The Forsaken Bride,' etc.

CHAPTER XXVII,

jack's story continued. 'Xfcas the man had reached the parfa of his Btory recorded in the preceding chapter, he W as greatly agitated for several moments^ as if the memory of that dreadful time wag even now, after the lapse of more than twenty years, more than he could bear' while Geoffrey, too, felt as if he could hardly Bit there and listen to the remainder of the 'The horror of it all sobered me a'most flB quick as if I'd been struck by lightning,' Tack at length resumed, pulling himself toother with an effort. 'I don't know how lon» I stood there lookin down on them two that I believed I'd sent u fc o' the world without a, moment's warning. Then I slunk out o' the house hardly knowio' what I did, and went and hid myself in the barn. I must have cone to sleep, or fell into stupor from the liauor I'd drank, for I didn't know anything more till the roosters set up such a crowing that nobody could have slept. I never could tell you what the horror of that wakhV was," sir, and it's a'most like livin' it over a^ain to tell it,' groaned the man, with a"shudder. 'It was only about two in the raorniu', but the moon was shmin', and it as mcst as as day. I crept, out into the yard and listened ; there wasn't a sound except those roosters, and every crow sounded like a knell o' doom in my ears and made my flesh creep with fear. 'I stole up to the house and looked in at the kitchen window. I couldn't help it— something drove me to it, though I shivered afc every step. There they lay ju3t as they fell, with the light still burnin', and everything just as I'd left it. But while I gfcood there the little shaver stirred and moaned, and my heart leaped straight into ihv throat, near about chokin' me at the sight. It gave me hope—p'raps after all I hadn't, murdered 'em an:l they mi^ht be brought to. I rushed in, took the boy up,' and lay him on the bed in the bedroom just off the kitchen. He moaned all the time, till I got a wet cloth and put it on his head, when he grew quiet and dropped off into a stupor again. Then 1 went to her —my girl—Margery —the woman I'd sworn to love and take care of till I died, and who had clone me nothin' but kindness ever since we first met.

'I lifted her up, but she hung limp and lifeless over my arm. I laid her head on my breast and begged her to come back to me, to call me her Jack once more, and say she'd forgive ms, and I'd never lift my hand agin' her again, nor touch another drop asiong as I Jived. But 'twant no use. She lay there quiet and peaceful enough, but there was that dreadful purple mark and. cut on her forehead where it had hit the stove. She want cold or stiff as I thought dead people always were, but there want no signs of life about her either, and I laid her down again, my heart a breakin' and feelin' like another Cain, only worse, for I'd killed a xooman and she my own wife! 'Then I began to think what would happen if I was found there, and I grew frightened. I couldn't make up my mind to "stay and confess what I'd done, and hang like a dog for, so I got together a few things and all the money that Margery had in her own little box, and the boy's safe, and wrappin' him in a shawl—for I daren't leave him*while there was a breath o' life in him and a chance of savin' him.—l stole out of the house, without even darin' to give my girl a kias after the ill I'd done her, and made for a station a mile or more away. ' I had an awful time of it, for the boy moaned every minute of the time; but I told people on the cars that he'd had a fall and I was t««ikin' him to a doctor. I travelled all day in the fastest trains and got at a town jtisfa about dusk. Here I called a doctor to the boy. He doubted if he could save him ; but he pulled through after five weeks of terrible fever and pain, though when he got up again, loolun' more like a spirit than flesh and blood, he didn't know me or remember anything that had happened. The doctor said be was a fool and always would be one.' It seemed very strange fco Geoffrey tobe sitting there in his right mind and listening to this dreadful story about himself. _ It seemed almost like a case of dual existence. 'As soon as he wa3 well enough, Jack went on, • I felt that we ought to be gettin' out of that place ; it was too near home to be safe, and the police were liable be get on my track any day. So I began my roamin'. First we went to Texas, where I got work on a cattle and shoep ranch. After a time I scraped together a -little money and started out to raise sheep for myself. I wasn't easy to be with anyone, least somebody should come along who had heard about what I'd done and I might get snapped up. The boy and me lived in a cabin by ourselves, away from everybody else, bub I never let him out of my sight, and I grew that fond of him I would have died rather than let harm come to him, and I'd vowed I'd do the best I could by him as long as I lived to get together something handsome to leave him, to make up as far as I could for the deadly wrong I'd done him. As soon as I could get enough together I meant to take, him to some place where they care for them that have lost their mind. 'My sheep turned out wonderful ; m five years money began to come in right fast and I might have kep' on and been a rich man by this time, if ib hadn't been that a man I" knew came down that way about that time. I saw him first at the village, where I went to lay in a stock of provisions. He didn't see me, but I heard him pay he was troin' to buy out a cattle ranch ten milcs'away, and that was enough to give me a scare and unsettle me. I feared I d b« recognised and seized as the murderer ot my girl, and though life want much to me with the heavy conscience and grief i had to carry about with me all the time, yet, for the boy's sake, I was bound to ebick to ib as long as I could—there wa9 nobody else to take care of him, and I knew he'd fare hard without me. 1 The man who owned the ranch next to mine had offered to buy me out the year before, so I went to him and told him'ld made un my mind to go North and see if the doctors couldn't do eomething for the boy, and if he'd take everything off my hands I'd sell out cheap. ' He took me up quick as a wmk, and m less than a week the money was in my pocket and the boy and mo were on our way to New York. I bought a small farm just across the river in New Jersey. There was a good house and barn, on it, and 1 stacked it well, hired a good strong woman to do the inside work and a man bo help me outside, and then settled down to a quiet life; for I didn't believe anybody would think of lookin' for me there. ' I took the name of ' John -Landers, and tried to make the boy call himself George Landers ;' bub he didn't know enough to learn it, and seamed to have forgotten how to talk at all; so I hadn't much fear for his lettin" anything out. We lived here for almost five years more, and I got ahead a little every season* But, sir, the horror ol that dreadful deed never left me for a minute. My Margery's dead face was always before me, and my heart heavy with its load of guilt and loneliness. If ever a man paid for an evil deed in torment, 1 paid for mine a hundred times over. ' Bub the worst of my troubles was yet to come. The world's a small place to hide in

when a man has committed a crime. I went to town one day on business, and stepped into the post-office—which was in the same building with the railway Btation —to send a letter for the woman at home, when I heard two men talking in a low tone of voice, and one- of them spoke the name of Jack Henley.

'My blood ran cold in a minute. My back was to them, for I was payin' for the postage on the letter, and they hadn't seemed to notice me. I didn't hurry frightened as I felt, but took my own time and listened.

' It> was me they were after, sure enough ; they had tracked me all the way from Texas to that place, but, somehow, couldn't get any further. Nobody had heard of a man named Jack Henly, and no one answered to their description. It was no wonder, for I was greatly changed, looking like an old man, for my grief had whitened my hair, , wrinkled ■my face, and benfc my form. I walked straight by them on goin' out of the office, but they never suspected me. I'd got another scare,, though, that I couldn't get over, and made up my mind that I'd quit the country. So I sold off my stock, drew what money I'd laid by in the bank—my farm I couldn't sell at such short noticeshut up my house, and, takin' the boy, went to New York, intendin' to take passage in a vessel groin' to Australia, where I meant to go to sheep raisin' again, since I had done so well in Texas, while I thought I needn't fear any man in that country. I took passage, and bought a comfortable outfit for both of us, but the vessel wasn't to sail for a week, so I kep' very quiet in a room I'd hired on a by-street, fearin' those men might still be lookin' me up. ' But I lot the boy play out, for he pined in the house, while I sab by a window to watch that he did not get out of sight. Wall, one day I must have fallen asleep, for I awoke with a start, and, lookin' out, couldn't see hide nor hair of the boy. 1 went to the door, but he wasn't nowhere in sight. I started out to find him, never thinkin' of danger then, but nobody could tell me anything of him. Three days I kep' this up, until I nigh about went crazy and wore myself out with loss of sleep, travellin' about and with my grief for the little fellow.

' On the last day before we were to sail, while I was rovin' about the streets in search of him, I ran against those two men again—the ones who were lookin' for me. I knew by their quick, keen glances at me thab they had got a suspicion I might be their man, and I got out of their way in a hurry. I was discouraged about findin' the boy ; I didn'b dare to look for him any more. I was afraid to go to the police about him, lest they had been notified to be on the lookout and should snap me up; so, half - crazed with fear and grief, I staggered on board the veaael I was to sail in, crawled into my berth, and lay there till we were well out to sea.

' Wall, sir, my heart was broke. I thought I never could hold up my head agaiu, and I wouldn't have turned over my hand to have saved myself from goin' to the bottom; for I got to lovin' that poor little chap with my whole soul, and I didn't know how to get on without him. ' But we had a good passage. I was hale and hearty when we landed, and seemed, likely to live my lonely life for many a year] I Avent into the interior, boughb a sheejj ranch, and set myself to do the work ol three men ; notbin' else would ease thj pain and worry that was eatin' my hear!

out ' Well, air, to make a long story shorij I've been on that sheep ranch over since ti} about six months ago, when a longin' seize! me to come home and take a last look jt my own land. I've grown to be a well-bo-cp farmer ; I've plenty of money, and no oie bo spend ifc on or leave ib to, unless I gi*« it to you. Master Geeffrey, now that;! have found you, Heaven be praised tor bhtt, and that you've got your mind back ! iVe been to New Jersey, found my place fcW-e neglected and all1 out of lepair, butstilja thrifby little farm if 'twas well tiken ca:e of. Tve been to Texas for a lookat my dd ranch. The man that bought it got rici, sold out, and then went North to live on his money. Then I came on hew to see t^e place where I first found my Margery, ar|d it was nigh this very spot —ju* there iy that clump of spruce, where! was hjd when you came—that we plghted oir troth. Ah ! girl! my girl!' The poor man broke down!completely here, and sobbed like a child, atS Geoffreys eyes were full of tears, too, as le witues;«d his emotion and realised what fe must hsve suffered during the chequered life thab he had led. I j He had been deeply touchedi>y the iajfchfulness and devotion which he fed exhibited in his care of him during allthose years while he was such a helpless lurden, mentally, on his hands. I Hesawthabthe man was natirally honourable and kind-hearted, and oat he wculd never have been guilty of theorimo wLich he had just confessed, but fir the misfortunes that led him into evil bmpany and to the use of intoxicating drills.

' I'm a broken down old mn, sir,' Jack said, after struggling hard fd self-control, 'or I never should blubber ike this ; bub this place brings back thoseitd days tfhen ray conscience was free—vhen life was bright and full of hope befce me and my girf, and ib seems more I *m bear. It's wonderful, though, thab I stiuld run across ye here ! Oh, sir, I did ye i woful wfong, in my ancer and jealous fit, /hen ye were a child. I've no right to specb it,; bub 'twould comfort my'poor olehearb more'nl could tell ye, if I could heaiye say ye flon b lay ib jpagin me.' I ~ Geoffrey burned toward be humble suppliant beside him. J 'I do not. Jack,' he saidfeartily ; 'you wore the victim of drink, hd were hardly accountable for the deedsfof thab nicjht; you condemn yourself morjbhan you really deserve, for if'you have tol me everything iust' as ib occurred, your wp did nob die by your hand—her deabh ws caused by an accident.' •.,,. J. , The man shook his heafe.-idly. • No, no,' he said ; ' I cn'b got it off my conscience that it was iurder; for if I hadn't laid hands on be she might have been living to-day.' I . ■ , ' Sbill, it was not^vilf or preraediated, Geoffrey persisbed. 'Hjvever,' he added, ' I freely forgive you foyqur share in my misfortune, if thab will c any comforb to y°' UThank ye, sir ; and (there is a God, I thank Him, boo, bhat Ij> been allowed to set eyea on ye once mo| and in yer right mind, too,' was the ferfcit response. ' I reckon,' he confcinfd, after a moment of thought, ' it might the work of Providence thab Ilosb jbhereinNew lork, for if ye'd gone withhie to Australia 1 doubt thab ye'd ever Bn cured, and I m right sure ye'd never feen the gentleman, that ye are. I'd thantye to tell me about the good man thab befended ye. ' I will, Jack, preseiy, but I first wanb to ask you a few morduesbions about the 'AH right, sir; anyiing I can tell ye, ye shall know.' ' Well,'then, I'd HkW to describe the man who was my faer,' Geoffrey said, gravely. { Jack turned to iookpon.the young man beside him. j ;' ' The best descriptn ye could get ot him'd be to go and ljk at yereelf m the glass,' he said, stud^ng Geoffreys face and form, 'for ye'reJs nigh like him as another man could bsvhen I first saw him after he brought thabretty little woman to live here. " He'd pn otf to meet her somewhere, and he aved off all his heavy beard, had his haijtrimmed up in the fashion, and wore a tody suit o' clothes. ' His name was Di you say? Are you t sure that was bis tA name ?' the young man asked. j . 11 couldn't take moath a 8 to that, sir,

but everybody here knew him as Captain William Dale, though I don't know how he came to be a captain. She used to call hinx

5 Will ■' in a way that made his eyes shine enough to do ye good.' Geoffrey's eyes lighted at this. It was evident that Captain Dale had truly loved the girl whom he had brought there, whether she had been his legal wife or not.

' Do you know what her name was before he married her f he asked.

'No, sir; that is one of the things I can't tell ye; even Margery never found out. They was both very shy of talkin' about themselvesafore folks, and nobody ever knew where they came from, either.'

' Did they never have visitors—was there no friend who ever came to see them ?'

'No, sir; and they didn't seem to want anybody; she was just his world and he hers. My girl used to think it was kind of strange, though, that they never got any letters ; but she never did, and never writ any, either.'

'Did sheseem happy ?' Geoffrey asked, in a hushed tone, as if this was ground he hardly liked to trespass upon. 'As chipper as a bird,' Jack returned ; 1 and she could sing like one, too. Many's the night the boy 3 have stolen night to yonder house to listen' while she sang and played to the cap ; he had a pianer sent up from Santa JTe; and she was always bright and smilin'; she was like a streak of sunshine in a dark place, for there wasn't anybody like her onywhere about.' Geoffrey felt his heart yearn wistfully for this sweet tnd gentle woman, who had been his mother, and who had brightened that wild and dieary place with her presence for one short ysar. Still the mystery regarding his father, and her relations to him, seemed as dark as ever.

If he could not learn whence they came, it would be impossible to traca his history any farther, and a feeling of depression and discouragement began to settle upon him.

It seemed as if those two lovers had hidden themselves there, cut themselves adrift from all previous associations, and then lived simply for and in each other.

' Did Captain Dale's mine here pay him well ?' he asked.

1 No, sir, it did not; and that is something thit always seemed strange to me,' Jack said, reflectively. 'He couldn't much morn paid expenses here, but he never seemed to care, and I've always had a notion that he had an interest in other mines.'

'What other mines?' Geoffrey inquired, eagerly. 'I couldn't say, sir ; ha was very close, and never talked business afore his help.' , ' What made you think he had other claims ?'

' Well, after the fiwb month or two he used to be away considerable—not long at a time ; but he went often, and was always co chipper when he came back, I reasoned 'twas only good luck could make him so.' ' What arrangements did he make with you when he left me in your wife's care ?' 'There want any bargain,' Jack said. ' Margery was that fond of ye she'd been willin' to kep' ye for nothin' rather than let ye go ; but the cap was always jrenerous— he gave her two hundred dollars to start with, besides a handsome present on her own account, for what she did for his wife while site was lay dyin'. Then, i'or the first two years he came once in six months to gee ye, and always left a good round sum for ye—there wan'b nothin' moan about Captain Dale—and when he didn't come he sent it.'

' Did he never mention where he spent his time ?' Geoffrey asked, ' or speak of ever taking me away with him ?' *No sir, never a word ; the most he ever said was thab he should put ye to some school a<s soon as ye were old enough. 'Did he—did he appear to be fond of me?' Geoffrey inquired, hesitatingly, a hob flush rising bo his cheek. 'Thab he were, sir : it was as much as evor he'd let ye out of his arms from the time he came till he went, though he never staid very long, and I've seen the tears ix standin' in his eyes when he parted from ye.' ' How long before my—accident; was hia last visit ?'

'Ib musb have been more'n a year, if I remember right; but the money came regular, and Margery seemed happier when he didn'fc come—she was always afraid he'd take ye away from her. I've often wondered what he did when he came again and found ye {rone —ifc musb have boen a mortal blow bo him.' Jack concluded, and bhen dropped into a fib of musing.

i. CHAPTER XXVIII. GEOFFKEY VISITS THE SCENE OF THE TRAGEDY. ' Where do' you intend to go from here, Jack ?' Geoffrey asked at length, breaking a silence of sevei-al minutes, during which both had been busy with various thoughts and emotions.

'To California, sir. I'm bound to have a last look at all the places I've ever been in, t.hough it'll be a sad day that lands mo there. My poor girl and I saw many happy days on that little farm just out of San Francisco. I didn'b own ib, we only hired ib, for we hadn't money enough bhon to pay for a home ; but I'd gladly give up every dollar I've earned since if I could only have my girl back again,' Jack concluded, with another heartbroken sob.

His grief and remorse were painful to witness. His face was almost convulsed, great drops came out upon his forehead, and h© trembled with emotion.

' I believe i will go to California with you, Jack,' Geoffrey said, after a season of thought. 'I do not believe it will bo exactly cafe for yon to go there by yourself to visit your old home. Suspicion might be ai'oused immediately, and you would be liable to get into trouble; but no one would think it at all strange if I should return to make inquiries regarding my old nurse.'

'.Wall, bub everybody knew we wen b oft together,' said Jack. ■'Very'true; but if unpleasant questions were asked, I could explain that you escaped to Australia, whilel was cared for by friends in New York, all of which would be true,' Geoffrey responded. 'Thank ye, sir ; ye're kinder to me than I deserve ; but even if I knew bhey'd snap me up, I reckon I should go. I can never rosb bill I know where they've laid my girl,' Jack reburned wibh a heavy sigh.

'You shall,' Geoffrey answered, 'we will find out all there is to know; but I particularly wish to learn if my father ever visited the place after we left. If he did, he probably left some address so thab information could be found, in case any trace of us was discovered.'

Jack appeared bo be very grateful to have his pabh thus smoothed for him, and bhe next morning the two men left the mining village, and proceeded directly to San Francisco.

Before leaving, however, Geoffrey had cub several slips from ihe ivy thab grew all about his mother's grave, and inclosing them wrapped in wet paper in a small tin box, mailed them to Gladys.

'My darling,' he wrcbe, 'if you can coax any of bhese bo live pray do so, for my sake. I have a particular reason for making the request, which 1 will explain when I return,' and Gladys had bhree of them nicely roobed before she reburned to Brooklyn at the end of bhe season.

Geoffrey and his companion reached the small town near which Jack Henley had once lived, and only a few miles from San Francisco, about noon one warm August day. They had their dinner, and rested for several hours, then when the day grew cooler, Geoffrey started out alone to visit Jack ITenley'B former home, and to try to discover, the grave of his wife.

He found the place without any difficulty, a small house and barn standing in a lonely location, about two miles from the town, while there were only one or two other dwellings' in sight. There was no sign of life about the place, and the buildings were fast falling to decay. Weeds and vines and wild flowers grew all about the yard, and everything looked desolate and forlorn.

Geoffrey shivered as he stepped up to a window and looked into that small kitchen, and recalled the dark deed which had been perpetrated there. He did not believe the place had ever been inhabited since; it had a look of having been shunned and perhaps regarded as a haunted house. He wondered how Margery had been found and what measures had been taken to discover the author of the crime.

He did not remain there long ;.it was not an attractive spot, and there were no means of learning what he wished to find out. He resolved to visit some of the neighbours, and try to ascertain what had been done with Mrs Henley's body, and if Captain Dale had ever visited the place since the tragedy occurred. The nearest neighbour was at least a quarter of a mile away ; he could just discern the roof and chimney over the rise of ground to t'lia south. He mounted his horse again and rode toward it, coming, in a few minutes, to a large comfortable farm-house, .where peace and plenty appeared to reign. He found the farmer just driving up his cows from pasture. He was a man apparently sixty years of age, with a kind and genial face, quick and energetic in his movements in spite of his three-score years.

Geoffrey saluted him courteously, introduced himself, and asked' if ho could spare the time to answer a few questions. The man called a boy to attend to his cows, then invited Geoffrey to dismount and come with him to the wide, pleasant verandah, where they could converse at thejr leisure, assuring dim that he should be glad to give him any information he might possess. Geoffrey accepted his invitation, and then entered at once upon the business that had brought him there. 'I am in this locality chiefly to ascertain something of the people who once occupied that house over yonder,' he said, indicating Jack Henley's deserted dwelling, 'and thought my best way would be to apply to some one living in the neighbourhood.'

The farmer's face fell at this. Evidently the subject was not a pleasant one to him. 5 You couldn't have come to a better place to find out what you want to know, sir,' he replied, ' for I've lived hero for tho last thirty-five years, and I can tell you all about that sad story—at least all that anybody hereabouts ever knew ; though itisa't a cheerful subject.'

'I am very fortunate, then, in having come to you,' Geoffrey said, in a tono of satisfaction. Then glancing at his watch, he added, ' I find it is later than I thought, and as I would like to get back to town before dark, I will ask you to relate in your own way all that you know about the family, and I will restrain all questions until you get through.' ' Well, sir,' began the farmer, 'the Tlenleys came here nigh about twenty-two or three years ago, and we thought we were fortunate in haying such thrifty neighbours, as they seemed to bo. There were only throe of them, Jack and his wife, and a baby only a few months oid, that the woman had taken to nurse, ic3 mother being dead. Everything went along smoothly, and they appeared to be doing well for four or five years, when Jack got into bad company and began to drink. Before this ho and his wife seemed to think a great deal of each other, and in bad weather ho would help her about the house, while in good weather she would work with him out of doors. In this way ho gained time to do man}' odd jobs outside, and made-considerable money by so doing. 'x\fter Henley got in with his companions, we now and then hoard that things were not very pkesant between him and his wife, but no one ever dreamed how serious the trouble was until the terrible tragedy burst like a thunderbolt upon us, My°wife and Mrs Henley had beon great friends from the first, and had got in the way of borrowing little messes from each other, as neighbours often do, when they came short and could not get into town to buy what was wanted. So one afternoon my wife said she was out of tea, and would run over to see Mrs Henloy for a little while and borrow enough for supper. 'It didn't seem as if she'd gone long enough to get there, when she came flying back as pale as death, wringing her hands and seeming half frightened out of hexsenses. I rushed to the door to meet her, when she fell into my arms in a dead faint. When she came to she was so unnerved by what she had seen that we had hard work to get the truth out of her, but we finally made out that upon reaching Henley's sho had knocked at the door. No one answered, and she Btepped in, as she had often done, when she saw Mrs Henley lying on the floor, a terrible bruise and gash on her forehead. My wife was so frightened and shocked that she dropped her cup on the floor, where it broke into a dozen pieces, and then, with a scream, turned and ran as fast as her trembling limbs would carry her, toward home. I called my son and one of my men, and we started at once for the place. We found the woman lying as my wife had described her, only instead of being dead, as she thought, she was now rolling her head from side to side and moaning as if in great pain.' 'Not dead? interrupted Geoffrey, in a startled tone. 1 No, sir, praise the Lord ! not dead. We lifted her and laid her on her bod just off the kitchen, when I sent my man for a doctor, and my son Iback home to bring his mother, while I got some water and bathed the poor woman's head. My wife was too sensible to nurse he* own feelings when sho found she was needed, and that her friend was not dead, and she came immediately to do what she could for her.

' When the doctor came, he said ib was doubtful if the poor thing could live ; the blow on the head had been a fearful one, and it was a wonder that it had nob killed her outright. Besides that, there was the print of three fingers on her throat, Showing that there had beer a struggle with some one, and pointing to foul play. ' Of course when we found that Henley had decamped, taking the boy with him, we suspected him of having done the deed, and the authorities were at once seb on his track. But nothing has ever been heard of him or the child from that day to this ; at least nob to my knowledge. His wife had a tough time of it. We had her brought over here, and my wife and daughter-took care of her through a three months' illness, and when she did get up again she was but the shadow of her former self.' 1 Did she get well V Geoffrey exclaimed, amazed. ' Yes, she recovered her health, though she was not as strong as she had been, and her head was apb to trouble her at times. But her heart was broken over the disappearance of her husband and the boy. 'It was a lonp" time before we could make her tell how°she had been injured, and then she excused Henley. She said he had come home the worse for liquor, and did not know what he was about. She said he must have been frightened believing ho had killed her, and then taken the boy and fled. I suspect there was something more to it, but that was all we could ever geb out of her.' ..- 'Ah!' thought Geoffrey, 'she shielded him from the suspicion of having murdered me also, and she must have suffered torture on my account as well as his.' 'As soon as she was able to get about,' resumed thefarmer, 'she insisted upon going away altogether from the place. She could

not go back to her home and live there alone, she said, and she wanted to search for her husband to let him know that he had nob killed her, as he must believe. I imagined, too,»that she couldn't bear to meet the boy's father when he should come again and find that he had disappeared. She sold all her household goods, offered a reward of a thousand dollars—having deposited that amount in a bank in San JTrancisco for the purpose—to anyone who should find her husband or secure any definite information regarding him, and then she left the place herself. We have never seen her since nor heard what became of her.'

' Did she leave no address ?' Geoffrey inquired. ' If not, how could she expect to be communicated with in case any tidings of her husband were obtained ?'

1 1 believe a personal of some kind wa? to be inserted in certain papers in the leading cities of the country by those who had charge of the aflair,' replied the farmer, • but I guess it has never been printed. Their house has never been occupied since. A good many people believed that Henley murdered the boy also, and concealed the body somewhere on the farm, so the place has had the reputation of being haunted, therefore we have never had any neighbours there.'

• Since Mrs Henley was not murdered, I am at liberty to set your heart at rest upon that subject,' Geoffrey responded. ' The- boy is alive and well. /am that boy.' The farmer started from his chair and stared, at him in open-mouthed astonishment at this electrifying statement. 'I can't le'ieve it;,':he said at last, and bending to look more closely into, his visitor's face, ' and yet you said yo;ir name was Huntress.'

' Yes, my name is Geoffrey Dale Huntress,' Geoffrey replied, with a smiie at his host's astonishment.

'That was the child's name,' Geoffrey Dale—it must be true ; do tell me how you happen to come back here after all these years ?' the farmer urged in an eager tone.

Geoffrey felt that he was warranted in so doing, since Margery Henley had lived and there was no longer any need of concealment on Jack's part. 'Jack escaped all pursuit,' he said, ' wandering about from place to place, went to Texas on aO&eep ranch for a few years, and finally tuffled up in New York, where I became separated from him and could not be found. Just about, this time ho became convinced that the officers were on his track —they must have- been those who were working for Mrs Henley's thousand-dollar reward—and he was so frightened ho suddenly shipped for Australia.' ' Poor fellow,' said the farmer, sympathetically, 'ho must have suffered keenly. But this is the strangest part of the whole story. I never imagined that we should get the sequel to that tragedy over yonder. Was the man kind to you? I used to think he was not over fond of you when you were a little fellow.' 1 No one could have been more kind than he was, as long as I was with him,' Geoffrey said, gravely, as he recalled all that Jack had so recently told him. lie thought, too, as long as Margery had kept the secret of his having been nearly murdered also, ib would bo best to still preserve silence upon that point. 'It was my own fault,' he continued, ' that I was lost, for I wandered away without his knowledge and he was not able to find me, although he laboured faithfully to do so, until driven by desperation by the belief that he was being tracked.' ' How did you learn that he had sailed for Australia, if you were lost before he went ?'

' I learned that later,' Geoffrey briefly replied. ' And whafc became of you ?' • ' A philanthropic gentleman became interested in me'adopted me, and has given me a good education.

( To be Continued.)