Two persons who are nearly concerned in the revelation made by Mr. Sharp to Robert Ford, now demand our attention.

First, Mr. Rand, who, upon a sick-bed, worn-out by anxiety and bodily weakness, is fast drifting towards that unseen world, where all that is dark and mysterious here will be disclosed, and we shall know even as we are known. The second, is Lewis Rand, his unworthy nephew, whose whole soul is absorbed by the eager desire to secure to himself his uncle’s large fortune. Why this thirst for gold should so have possessed him, is not so clear. It was not that his habits were extravagant, for such was not the case. He was no voluptuary, at least not in the lowest sense of the word. It was not for the mere love of money that he craved it. He was elevated above the mere miser; but money was valuable to him for the power which it conferred, and the consequence which it gave. Lewis Rand’s ambition had taken this form. He desired to be known everywhere as the possessor of a princely fortune. He wished others to fawn upon him as he had fawned upon his uncle. As his dependence had compelled him to remain in a subordinate position, he wished others to become subordinates to him. Money he must have, somehow. So for years he had labored to establish and strengthen his position as his uncle’s heir. The inheritance which he craved, would make him at once a millionnaire.

As a general who has fortified a city, so as to make it, as he considers, impregnable, and at the last discovers a weak place which endangers the whole, exerts all his energy and all the resources which he can command to counteract the danger, so Lewis had, as we have seen, set in motion certain agencies, through which he hoped to avert the peril which menaced him in his cousin’s presence.

“Have you received no letters in answer to the advertisement, Lewis?” asked Mr. Rand, feebly.

“No, uncle, none whatever.”

Mr. Rand sighed, and fell back upon his pillow.

The crimson bed-curtains were drawn apart, revealing the thin and wasted form of the old man. Thinner and more attenuated he grew day by day. Each day the result of the struggle for life became less doubtful. A strong desire for life might have given the needed stimulus to the vital functions, and turned the scale against death, but the sick man had ceased to desire it.

None saw this more clearly than Lewis. With his cold, searching eye he had followed the slow advances of the destroyer. Not a word, however, had escaped him. How he trembled when the lamp of life burned for a time with a steadier radiance, lest, perchance, it might prove a harbinger of ultimate recovery; and when the momentary glow had departed, and the lamp burned so low that it seemed near its final extinction, he breathed more freely, and a glow of triumph lighted up his dark features,—features that might the next moment wear a look of the deepest sympathy. For Lewis had schooled them to obey the dictates of his will, and had not fear that they would betray him. He was a gamester who had staked his all upon a single venture, and was watching the chances with intense eagerness.

Morning after morning as he stole to his uncle’s bedside, it was with a secret hope veiled under an appearance of the greatest solicitude, that he might find the struggle ended. Each day he hoped might prove the last,—that from his heart the burden of anxiety and the weariness of waiting might at once and forever be lifted.

Fortunate was it for the old man’s peace, that he could not read this wicked wish in the eyes that were bent upon him. There was little fear. Could he conceive it possible that one whom he had long regarded with an affection second only to that which he bore his own son, who all his life long had never ceased to receive his bounty; could he dream that Lewis was capable of cherishing in his heart a hope so unnatural? So far from this, the faintest shadow of distrust had never entered his uncle’s thoughts. In his face he read nothing but sympathy and compassion. Mr. Lewis Rand, could you but sound the depth of wickedness in your own heart, could you drag it forth to the light and survey it in all its deformity, how would even your hardened nature shrink aghast and horror-stricken? Heaven only knows with what a web of sophistry you excuse this treachery of the heart. Could this be rent away, you could hardly stand as calmly as you do by the bedside of that old man, belying in your heart the filial words that fall so glibly from your tongue. Can you who have the power to bring happiness and peace to that bedside, and its unhappy occupant, who can bring the light of joy to those eyes soon to close forever, and repair a great injustice, still refuse to do it? There may come a time, whether near or remote, Heaven alone knows, when you would give all the wealth for which you are scheming if you had only done it.

On receiving a negative answer to his question, Mr. Rand remained for some time silent, with his face turned to the wall.

“It would be a great relief,” he sighed, wearily, “if I could but see my son once before I die.”

“When will he be done harping on his son?” muttered Lewis to himself. “He seems determined to torment me with it.”

He said aloud, with a proper display of emotion, “Do not speak of dying, uncle. You will yet recover.”

“Never, Lewis, never. There is something that tells me this sickness will be my last. My feet will soon enter the dark valley of the shadow of death. I have reached the age set by the Psalmist as the limit of human life. Even your kind solicitude cannot call me back from the grave that awaits me.”

“I should be very sorry if it did,” was the unspoken thought of Lewis, as he replied, covering his face with his handkerchief, as if to conceal his emotion, “you are—you must be deceived; you are looking brighter to-day.”

“Lewis, your hopes deceive you. On the contrary, I never felt weaker than I do to-day. I have never felt more entirely satisfied of the hopelessness of my situation. Yet why do I say ‘hopelessness?’ I do not fear death. Rather I welcome it as a friend. I feel no vain longing for a continuance of that life which is gliding from my grasp. For the last few years I have enjoyed too little happiness to make it seem very attractive. Wealth can do little. Even your kind attentions have failed. The consciousness of wrong done and unatoned for has followed me all these years. One wrong act has imbittered all my earthly existence.”

“My dear uncle, I regret that you should dwell upon such painful thoughts. Even if you were in fault, which I do not believe, you are agitating yourself now to no purpose.”

“Let me speak now, Lewis. The thought is always with me, and I am relieved by speaking. Never, Lewis, suffer yourself to be led hastily into a wrong act—never, as you value your soul’s peace. The thought will come back to you in after years, and never leave you; you may surround yourself with all that wealth can give, even as I have done, and your heart will still be an aching void into which no thought of joy or happiness shall enter. When you are on your death-bed, as I am now, you will feel how inestimable above all things else is that peace of mind which comes from a clear conscience and an unblemished life.”

Standing thus at his uncle’s bedside, with more than one sin unexpiated upon his soul, could Lewis listen unmoved to words which gained so deep a significance from this utterance by a dying man? Even he felt vaguely uncomfortable as he listened, mingled with an angry impatience which, however, he dared not betray.

“I feel a deep conviction,” continued Mr. Rand, “that Robert is still living. I cannot tell whence it comes, but of nothing am I more thoroughly persuaded. I had hoped that the advertisement would prove effectual in finding him out. You are sure that you caused its insertion in papers of the largest circulation?”

“I have followed your directions, uncle,” said Lewis, unblushingly, “notwithstanding my fear that it would lead to nothing.”

“You did right, Lewis. After I am gone, I wish you to continue the advertisement. Your cousin will see it sooner or later. I am quite sure of that. And when after a time he comes back to you, I wish you to see that the provisions of my will are carried out. I will not claim your promise. I know that you will do so.”

Lewis bowed, but forebore to speak.

“That is not all. You must tell him, Lewis, how I have sought for him, and how with a sorrowful heart I deplored my own injustice, from which he cannot have suffered more than I. You may tell him that I forgive him if he feels that there is anything to forgive, in the hope that he will forgive me who need it so much more. You will tell him all this, Lewis?”

“Can you doubt it, uncle?” asked Lewis, evasively.

“No, Lewis, I have perfect confidence in you. You never have deceived me, and you will not begin now; and, Lewis, you must try to atone to Robert, in my stead, for the wrong he has suffered. Never let your affection for me persuade you that it was not a wrong. I would far rather have you think harshly of me, than unjustly of your cousin.”

“I will endeavor to obey you even in that, hard though it be,” said Lewis.

At that moment the quiet of the sick-chamber was broken in by a sharp peal of the door-bell. It was so unusual an occurrence in that solitary household, that it startled both.