After having mailed the letter to Gertrude from Lakewood, Homer Bulson returned to New York to complete his plans for the future.

Evening found him at his uncle's mansion, as smiling as ever, with nothing to betray the wicked thoughts which were in his mind.

Mr. Mark Horton had changed greatly. He was very feeble, his face was pinched, and his hair was fast growing white.

He had had two doctors waiting upon him, but neither of them had been able to make him well.

His malady baffled all their science, and despite their most carefully administered medicines he grew steadily worse.

"I cannot understand the case," said one physician to the other. "I was never so bothered in my life."

"It is certainly strange," answered the other. "I shall make a report on the case before the fraternity. Ordinarily this man should grow better quickly. He has no organic trouble whatever."

As Mark Horton grew more feeble he longed for Gertrude, remembering how she had ministered to him day and night.

"How goes it, uncle?" asked Homer Bulson, as he entered the room in which Mark Horton sat in an easy-chair.

"I am very weak, Homer. I don't think I shall ever be better. It is not because I fear death, for I have little to live for. But Gertrude——" He did not finish.

"She treated you badly, uncle, after all you had done for her."

"I am afraid that I was the one that was to blame."

"You? You were too indulgent, that was the trouble. She used to have her way in everything."

"Have you heard anything of her yet, Homer?"

"I think she went to Boston."

"To Boston? Do you know if she had much money?"

"I do not."

"Did she go alone?"

"I believe not. That actor got a position with some traveling company, and I think she went with the company, too."

"It is too bad! I do not wish her to throw her whole life away in this fashion. I wish she were here. Won't you write to her?"

"I would if I had the address."

"But you can find out where the theatrical company is, can't you?"

"The company went to pieces after visiting Boston."

"Then she must be in want," groaned Mark Horton. "If you cannot write to her, you can at least advertise for her in the Boston papers."

"I'll do that, if you wish it."

"I do, Homer. Tell her to return—that all will be forgiven. I am fairly dying to see the child again."

At this latter remark Homer Bulson drew down the corners of his mouth. But the dim light in the room hid his features from his uncle's gaze.

At this moment the servant came to the door.

"The nurse is here," she said.

"Oh, all right!" exclaimed Bulson. "Send her up."

"The new nurse," said Mark Horton wearily. "They simply bother me. Not one of them does as well as did Gertrude."

Presently a middle-aged woman came in, dressed in the outfit of a trained nurse. She bowed to both men.

"You are the nurse Dr. Barcomb said he would send?" said Homer Bulson, as he eyed her sharply.

"Yes, sir."

"What is your name, please?"

"Mrs. Mary Conroy."

"As the doctor sent you, I suppose it is all right. You have had sufficient experience?"

"Plenty, sir; plenty! What is the matter with the gentleman?"

"Nervous debility."

"That is too bad. I nursed one patient with it."

"Did he recover?" questioned Mark Horton, with a slight show of interest.

"He did, sir."

"Then there may be hope for me, Mrs. Conroy?"

"Certainly there is hope," put in Homer Bulson, with a hypocritical smile.

"I'll do my best by you, sir," said Mrs. Conroy pleasantly.

"Thank you."

"You had better give my uncle a little wine," put in Bulson. "He needs it as a tonic."

"I do not care much for the wine," said Mark Horton. "It does not seem to strengthen as it should."

"You would be weaker still if you didn't have it, uncle."

The wine was brought and the retired merchant took a small glass of it.

"Won't you drink with me, Homer?" asked the invalid.

"Thank you, uncle, but I bought this especially for your own use, and you must have it all."

A private conversation, lasting the best part of an hour, followed, and then Bulson took his leave.

When Bulson was gone Mrs. Conroy came in again, having been to the room assigned to her by the housekeeper. She found the retired merchant sitting with his chin in his hands, gazing moodily into the small grate fire which was burning before him.

"Is there anything I can do for your comfort, Mr. Horton?" she questioned sympathetically.

"I don't know," he returned, with a long drawn sigh.

"Perhaps I can read the paper to you?" she suggested.

"No; I don't care to listen. I am tired."

"Would you like to retire?"

"Not yet. I cannot sleep."

"Have you any medicine to put you to sleep, sir? I must ask the doctor all particulars to-morrow."

"He has given me some powders, but they do not help me. At times my brain seems to be on fire while my heart is icy cold."

"Let me shake your pillows for you." She did so, and tried to make him otherwise comfortable.

"Thank you, that is better," he remarked, as he sank back and closed his eyes. "It is hard to be alone in the world."

"You are alone then."

"Almost. Mr. Bulson, who was just here, is my nephew. My wife is dead, my son gone, and my niece, who lived with me up to a few months ago, has left me."

"It is too bad."

"In one way it is my own fault. I drove my niece from my house by my harshness. I sincerely wish she was back."

"If it was your fault, as you say, why not send for her?"

"I do not know where to send. Mr. Bulson heard she went to Boston, and he is going to advertise for her in some Boston papers. Poor Gertrude!"

"That was her name?"

"Yes, Gertrude Horton. She was my brother's child. I wanted her to marry my nephew, and we had a bitter quarrel, and after that there was a robbery, and—but I am satisfied now that Gertrude was innocent."

"Why, it seems to me I've heard something of this before!" exclaimed the nurse. "The story came to me through a friend who knows an old woman who keeps a fruit-and-candy stand on the Bowery. She said the girl was driven away from home because her uncle wanted her to marry a man she didn't want, and because the uncle thought she had robbed his safe—she and a boy who happened to call at the house about that time."

"It must be my Gertrude!" said Mark Horton. "And did she marry that actor fellow?"

"He wasn't an actor. He's a newsdealer—keeps a stand with a man, somewhere uptown; and he's not old enough to marry."

"And the girl—what of her?"

"I heard she was supporting herself by teaching the piano."

"Is it possible! Do you know where she is?"

"I don't know. But I think I can find out."

"Then you must do so—to-morrow morning," returned Mark Horton. "Gertrude may still be in New York! Pray Heaven she will come back to me!"