Leaving Margaret to recover slowly at the little cottage under her mother’s care, and Helen and her father to the tranquil existence which, though humble, contents them, we pass to a nearer view of Lewis Rand and his uncle, whose last days are imbittered by the artful machinations of his nephew.

We stand before a palace-like structure, fronting on Fifth Avenue, whose imposing exterior scarcely gives an adequate idea of the interior magnificence. But few homes, even in that aristocratic quarter, are more sumptuously furnished. Yet it would be difficult to say how far all this splendor contributes to the happiness of its owner. Happiness is quite independent of wealth, and what wealth can procure. Of what avail is it, that curtains of the richest damask keep out the too intrusive sunlight, or that carpets of the finest texture cover the floors, since the shutters are always closed, and the magnificent parlors rarely echo the steps of a visitor? Of what avail is the gallery of really exquisite paintings, selected at an immense cost from European collections? Hidden from the curious eye, lest perchance some harm might come to them, never looked upon by the possessor, they might as well be buried under ground, so far as concerns the actual enjoyment derived from them.

Mr. Rand has never recovered from the loss of his son. Great as was the shock he experienced from that son’s plebeian choice, for such he considered it, he would have made advances towards a reconciliation long before, but for the vigilance and adroit manoeuvring of his nephew Lewis. The latter well knew that this would be fatal to his hopes of succeeding as heir presumptive to his uncle’s immense wealth. Accordingly, as soon as his uncle’s first passionate anger began to show signs of abatement, he was persuaded by Lewis to undertake a European tour. This occupied several years, during which they resided, for different lengths of time, in the principal European capitals. It was at this time that most of the articles of taste and luxury which now adorned the city mansion were first collected.

But there is nothing that can supply to the heart the place of a lost affection. Mr. Rand returned to America restless and unhappy for the lack of that which his own act had driven from him. Had his son been at hand, he would have offered to receive him back, but it was not till some time afterwards that he heard of his being in Chicago. Whether Lewis suspected any disposition to relent is not certain, but, as we have already seen, he thought it politic to give his uncle the impression that his cousin was dead. Of this he did not find it difficult then to convince him, and so, for a time, he breathed easier. But the recent glimpse of Robert had aroused in the father a hope which Lewis found it exceedingly difficult to stifle. To this hope may be attributed the change in the phraseology of the will, which the nephew had taken such criminal pains to neutralize. He was in perpetual apprehension that his cousin might, by some means, learn the fact of his father’s residence in the city, and, in consequence, make an attempt to obtain an interview. This must be avoided at all hazards. The quiet manner in which they lived rendered the chance of discovery a small one, and the present alarming illness of his uncle, which Lewis regarded as a fortunate circumstance, made that chance still smaller.

On a bed in one of the most elegantly furnished chambers in his princely dwelling, reposed Mr. Rand,—let me rather say reclined, for his quick, restless movements indicated anything but repose. His white hair clung disordered about his temples, his features were thin and careworn, and his whole aspect was that of a man whose life is ending in anxiety and disappointment.

Lewis sat by the bedside, coldly scrutinizing the wasted features, as if calculating how long life can retain its hold.

“Will he never die—never?” thus ran his thoughts. “It is strange with what tenacity he clings to life; but as long as he remains here, prostrated by sickness, I am tolerably safe. Still, it isn’t a bad plan, which I have in train through Sharp. Although the chances are a hundred to one in my favor, the bare possibility of miscarriage is sufficient to justify every precaution.”

“O that he might die at once!” he mentally resumed, looking impatiently at the wasted face. “Then alone will my doubts and anxieties be at an end. Then I shall care little how often I may meet my cousin Robert. He will have no further power to injure or thwart me. He cannot last long now. It is three days since he has been rational. He must die, and then——”

Lewis rose and paced the room with quick strides, while he indulged in dreams of the uses to which he would apply the rich inheritance, for which he had been plotting and scheming for so many years.

He was interrupted by a feeble voice from the bed.

Lewis turned quickly towards the bed, and the face of the cunning dissembler at once assumed the expression of profound sorrow and sympathy.

“My dear uncle,” he said, “I am rejoiced to find that you are once more yourself. How do you feel?”

“Weak, Lewis, very weak,” returned the sick man, speaking with difficulty. “I feel that my life is nearing its close.”

“Don’t say that, uncle,” said Lewis, with well dissembled emotion; “I cannot bear to part with you. Live for me, if not for yourself. If you should die, what is there left to me? Through so many years I have renounced all other ties, and devoted myself to you. You must not leave me now.”

The artful dissembler applied his handkerchief to his eyes, possibly to hide the gleam of joyful anticipation which he could with difficulty conceal.

“Yes, Lewis,” said Mr. Rand, affected by his nephew’s apparent emotion; “you have indeed been devoted to me. You will find, after my death, that I have not been ungrateful. Your affection leads you to wish my life prolonged, but when the tongue falters, and the pulse grows weak, and the throbbing heart is almost still, man should not presumptuously strive to call back the gift which God is about to take away.”

“My dear uncle, I am convinced that you are unnecessarily alarmed. You will yet live many years.”

“Hope it not, Lewis,” said the sick man, who was far from suspecting how unnecessary this admonition was; “hope it not. I know my time is short. At such a time, Lewis, our past actions assume a very different aspect from that in which we have been wont to regard them. Now when it is too late, I can see how by my foolish pride, I have wrecked my own happiness, and perhaps—God forgive me—that of him I loved best in life, my son Robert.”

Lewis was uneasy at the turn the conversation was taking, and made an effort to divert it.

“I think, sir,” he said, “that you are blaming yourself without adequate cause. Much as I loved my cousin, I am forced to acknowledge that he justly forfeited his claims to your favor and affection.”

“Forfeited my affection! And shall we, weak, erring mortals, in our presumption dare to affix such a penalty to what may after all be only an offence against our own unworthy pride? I feel that I was wrong. I should not have condemned Robert’s choice without having seen his wife, and if she was really worthy, I should have given my consent.”

“But, consider her birth.”

“When you come to lie on your death-bed as I do now,” said the sick man, solemnly, “such considerations will dwindle into their proper insignificance. Why should I claim superiority over any being whom the same kind Father has made? When death is near us, our vision becomes clearer. The scales of prejudice are rent away, and we see things as they are.”

Lewis was silent. He was seeking some way of diverting the conversation into a less dangerous channel.

“While I have been lying here,” resumed Mr. Rand, “I have been haunted by a conviction that Robert is still living, or that he may have left issue.”

“My dear uncle,” interrupted Lewis; in alarm, “let me entreat you not to disturb yourself by such thoughts; call to mind how direct were the proofs of his death.”

“I know all that you would urge, Lewis, but there have been cases where the death of a person of similar name has led to a misapprehension. It may have been so in this case.”

“It is scarcely possible.”

“Perhaps you are right. My conviction is based rather upon my feelings than upon my reason.”

“Better think no more of it, uncle, it will only distress you.”

“Have I not done so? For eighteen years I have been striving to drive away the thoughts of my injustice. But it will not do. I must think of it, and thinking finds relief in speaking.”

“But, even admitting that you have wronged my cousin Robert, which, in justice to yourself I am not willing to allow, consider that your will, by its provisions, makes ample reparation for that wrong.”

“Poor, at best, Lewis. Will it make reparation for the estrangement which for eighteen years has kept apart father and son? That cannot be. And yet I would fain see even this poor atonement made.”

“You may rely upon my being guided by your wishes, uncle.”

“I doubt it not. Yet it would be a satisfaction if I, who have done the wrong, could have the privilege of repairing it during my life. Oh, that I might have the joy and blessing of seeing my son once more if he yet lives—that I might ask his forgiveness for the wrong I have done him!”

Lewis was seriously troubled at his uncle’s pertinacity, and still more by the inquiry which followed.

“Don’t you think, Lewis, it would be well to advertise in the daily papers, for Robert Rand or his descendants, if he should have any?”

“It would be useless,” said Lewis, shaking his head. “It would only be throwing the money away.”

“And what is money to me? Nothing, nothing, compared with the thought I have done something, however little, towards expiating my injustice. I wish, Lewis, you would draw up an advertisement, and see it inserted.”

However distasteful this proposal was to Lewis, it would not do to object. He therefore, with an appearance of alacrity, procured writing materials, and prepared such an advertisement as his uncle desired. He read it to the sick man who signified his approval, and requested Lewis to procure its insertion in the principal daily papers forthwith. This Lewis undertook to do.

But the advertisement never appeared!

Lewis dared not permit this, knowing that his cousin was actually in the city, and that it would be likely to meet his eye.

Had his uncle been in the habit of reading the daily papers, it could not safely have been suppressed. But he was too sick for that, and there was no prospect of his becoming better. He had of course no suspicion of Lewis’s double dealing, but trusted implicitly to him. Day after day he inquired anxiously if there was any answer to the advertisement. As often Lewis replied in the negative, and Mr. Rand would sink back upon his pillow with a sigh of disappointment.

Once Lewis ventured to suggest that it would be well to discontinue the advertisement.

“No, no,” said his uncle, “let it be continued while I live. And after that I depend upon you to leave no effort unmade to discover some trace of my lost son.”

“You know me too well, to doubt that I will follow your instructions to the letter.”

“Yes, Lewis,” said his uncle. “You have been very kind to me. You deserve all my confidence, and you possess it.”

So Lewis continued to keep watch by his uncle’s bedside, a daily witness of his restlessness and unhappiness, and knowing full well that in an hour’s space, he could bring peace and comfort to the dying man by restoring his son to him; even at the eleventh hour, he refused to speak the word that could have wrought the blessed change.

God grant that there be not many hearts as hard!