"You will probably wish to ask Colonel Sharpley about the circumstances attending poor Frank's loss," said Craven, in a soft voice.

"I am ready to hear what Colonel Sharpley has to say," returned Mrs. Craven, coldly.

"I see you are displeased with me, madame," said Sharpley. "I can understand your feelings. You associate me with the loss of your son."

"I do!" said Mrs. Craven, with emphasis.

"But that is not just, my dear," said Mr. Craven. "Accidents may happen at any time—they are beyond human foresight or control. It is my friend Sharpley's misfortune that our Frank came to his sad end while in his company."

"While in his company?" repeated Mrs. Craven, looking keenly at Sharpley.

"You think I should have prevented it, Mrs. Craven. Gladly would I have done so, but Frank was too quick for me. With a boy's curiosity he leaned over the precipice, lost his balance and fell."

"When did this happen—what day of the month?"

"It was the eighteenth of August."

Mrs. Craven remembered with joy that the letter which she had read, addressed to Ben Cameron, was dated a week later; it was a convincing proof of Frank's safety.

"You are sure that it was the eighteenth?"

"Yes, perfectly so," answered Sharpley, not, of course, seeing the drift of her question.

"Did you find Frank's body?" asked Mrs. Craven, with less emotion than Sharpley expected from the nature of the question.

"No," he answered, and immediately afterward wished he had said yes.

"Then," said Mrs. Craven, "Frank may be alive."

"Impossible!" exclaimed Mr. Craven and Sharpley in unison.

"Why impossible?"

"The precipice was too high; it was absolutely impossible that any one could have fallen from such a height and not lose his life."

"But you did not find the body?"

"Because I started for home the very next day to let you know what had happened. I left directions with a guide to search for and bury the body when found. He has doubtless done it. A letter from him may be on the way to me now announcing his success."

"When you receive the letter you can show it to me," said Mrs. Craven, quietly.

"Certainly," said Sharpley.

Then he regretted that he had not, while in Europe, forged such a letter, or, failing this, that he had not positively declared that he had personally witnessed Frank's burial. This would have removed all difficulty.

"I have not expressed my sympathy in your loss," said Sharpley; "but that is hardly necessary."

"It is not at all necessary," said Mrs. Craven, "for I believe Frank to be alive."

"How can you believe it," asked Sharpley, with difficulty repressing his irritation, "in the face of my testimony?"

"You are not sure of Frank's death."

"I am as sure as I can be."

"I am not," said Mrs. Craven, quietly.

"But, permit me to ask, how could he possibly escape from the consequences of such a fall?"

"That I cannot explain; but there have been escapes quite as wonderful. I have a presentiment that Frank is alive."

"I did not think you were so superstitious, my dear," said Mr. Craven.

"Call it superstition if you please. With me it is conviction."

Involuntarily the eyes of the two—Craven and Sharpley—met. There were irritation and perplexity in the expression of each. What could be done with such a perverse woman, so wholly inaccessible to reason?

"Confound it!" thought Sharpley. "If I had foreseen all this trouble, I would have stayed and seen the brat under ground. Of all the unreasonable women I ever met, Mrs. Craven takes the palm."

"I have not yet told the circumstances," he said, aloud. "Let me do so. You will then, probably, understand that your hopes have nothing to rest upon."

He gave a detailed account, exaggerating the dangerous character of the cliff purposely.

"What do you think now, my dear?" asked Mr. Craven.

"I believe that Frank escaped. If he has, he will come home, sooner or later. I shall wait patiently. I must now beg to be excused."

She rose from her chair, and left the room.

"What do you think of that, Sharpley?" demanded Craven, when she was out of ear-shot. "Did I not tell you the truth?"

"Yes, your wife is the most perverse, unreasonable woman it was ever my lot to encounter."

"You see the difficulty of our position, don't you?"

"As to the property?"

"Yes. Of course, that's all I care for. Believing, as she does, that Frank is alive, she won't have his property touched."

"It is a pity you are not the guardian, instead of your wife."

"It is a thousand pities. But what can we do? I want your advice."

Sharpley sat in silent thought for five minutes.

"Will it answer if I show your wife a certificate from the guide that he has found and buried Frank?"

"Where will you get such a certificate?"

"Write it myself if necessary."

"That's a good plan," said Craven, nodding.

"Do you think she will resist the weight of such a document as that?"

"I don't see how she can."

"Then it shall be tried."

Three days later, as soon as it was deemed prudent, Sharpley called again at the house. He had boarded meanwhile at the hotel in the village, comprehending very clearly that Mr. Craven was not at liberty to receive him as a guest.

Mrs. Craven descended, at her husband's request, to meet the man whom she detested. She had received a second call from Ben, who, with all secrecy, showed her a line from Frank, to the effect that he was well, had found good friends, and should very shortly embark for America. It was an effort for the mother to conceal her joy, but she did so for the sake of expediency.

"When I was last here, Mrs. Craven," said Sharpley, "you expressed doubt as to your son's death."

"I did."

"I wish you had had good reason for your doubt, but I knew only too well that there was no chance for his safety."

"Well?"

"I am now prepared to prove to you that he is dead."

"How will you prove it?"

"Read that, madame," he said, extending a paper.

She took the paper extended to her, and read as follows:

"Honored Sir:—As you requested, I searched for the body of the poor boy who fell over the cliff. I found it concealed among some bushes at the bottom of the cliff. It was very much bruised and disfigured, but the face was less harmed than the body, so that we knew it at once. As you directed, I had it buried in our little cemetery. I will point out the grave to you when you come this way.

"I hope what I have done will meet your approval, and I remain, honored sir, your servant,

"Baptiste Lamoureux,
"Alpine Guide."

"That removes every doubt," said Mr. Craven, applying his handkerchief to his eyes. "Poor Frank!"

"When did you receive this letter, Colonel Sharpley?" asked Mrs. Craven.

"Yesterday."

"It was written by a Swiss guide?"

"Yes, madame."

"He shows an astonishing knowledge of the English language," she said, with quiet meaning.

"He probably got some one to write it for him," said Sharpley, hastily.

"So I thought," she said, significantly.

"What difference can that make, my dear?" demanded Mr. Craven. "It seems to me of no importance whether he wrote it himself, or some traveler for him. You can't doubt Frank's death now?"

"I do."

"Good heavens! What do you mean?"

"I mean that I am confident that my boy is alive. No one can convince me to the contrary," and she rose and left the room.

"The woman is mad!" muttered Sharpley.

"So she is," said Craven, rubbing his hands, as an evil thought entered his mind. "She is the subject of a mad delusion. Now I see my way clear."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean this. I will obtain a certificate of her madness from two physicians, and have her confined in an asylum. Of course, a mad woman cannot control property. Everything will come into my hands, and all will be right."

"You've hit it at last, Craven!" said Sharpley, with exultation. "That plan will work. We'll feather our nests, and then she may come out of the asylum, or stay there, it will be all the same to us."