IT MUST be explained that Tom and his father, on reaching New York late in the evening, went to the Astor House to spend the night.

At the breakfast-table the next morning, Tom, in looking about him, to his great surprise recognized Darius Darke. Mr. Darke was equally surprised to meet Tom. It appeared that Mr. Darke had arrived from Europe on a Cunard steamer only two days previous.

He reported that he had a pleasant trip. During his absence his man of business, with whom he had left his funds, had managed by skillful manipulation to more than double his money, so that he found himself, even after deducting the expenses of his European trip, the possessor of twenty thousand dollars.

Tom, too, had his story to tell, and he received the hearty congratulations of Darius Darke for the energy, perseverance and pluck which had enabled him to succeed in the face of so many difficulties.

“And now, Tom,” said Mr. Darke, “we will form an alliance, go up to Wilton, and bring consternation and dismay to our common enemy, John Simpson.”

So it was agreed, but Mr. Darke was to stop over night at a town five miles distant from Wilton, and ride over in the morning.

John Simpson, with a pleasant sense of triumph in his heart, left his handsome dwelling to call upon Mrs. Thatcher, whom he considered now to be in his power.

He could not explain why it was that he hated the Thatchers so much, but it is generally the case that the victim is hated by the one who has injured him. Moreover, as long as Mrs. Thatcher remained in Wilton she recalled a scene in his life which he was anxious to forget.

Therefore, he desired by depriving her of her humble home to force her to leave Wilton for good.

When Mr. Simpson entered the cottage he found Mrs. Thatcher alone. Tom and his father and sister were together in an upper room.

“Well, widow, I’ve called to see you about the mortgage,” said the rich man, sinking into a rocking-chair.

At the words Mrs. Thatcher’s heart felt a thrill of happiness, for she was a widow no longer. She did not know, for it had not been revealed to her, that the man before her had tried to make her a widow, or she would not have been able to treat him with common politeness.

“Can’t you let me have more than four hundred dollars on the place, Mr. Simpson?” she asked, having been so instructed by Tom.

“No,” said the shoe manufacturer, decidedly.

“The place is worth a thousand dollars.”

“Nonsense, Mrs. Thatcher. It wouldn’t bring over six hundred.”

“I can hardly believe that.”

“I will strain a point and give you that sum,” said Mr. Simpson, who knew very well that he would be making an excellent bargain. “I can’t decide upon so important a matter without consulting my son.”

To Mr. Simpson’s amazement she went to the foot of the stairs and called “Tom.”

“Has Tom got home?” asked the rich man, looking disturbed.

“He got home last night.”

Before Mr. Simpson had a chance to ask any further questions, Tom entered the room. He was looking healthy and manly, but he was shabbily dressed.

“He has returned as poor as he went,” thought John Simpson.

“So you’ve got home,” said he coldly.

“Yes, sir.”

“And you are probably convinced by this time that you were a fool to leave home.”

“No, sir; I have seen something of the world. Besides, there was nothing for me to do here.”

“Where did you go?”

“To California.”

Mr. Simpson started, and carefully scrutinized Tom’s face, but it told him nothing.

“There was nothing for me to do here,” continued Tom.

“Mr. Simpson said the other day that he would take you back into his shop,” said Mrs. Thatcher.

Tom looked inquiringly at the rich man, who said, coldly: “At present there is no vacancy. There may not be any for some months.”

“But how am I to live in the meantime?” asked Tom. “On the money I will advance to your mother on the place.”

Mrs. Thatcher repeated the offer which Mr. Simpson had made, and asked: “Shall I accept, Tom?”

“No,” answered Tom, promptly.

“Do you propose to be guided by the advice of this young jackanapes, Mrs. Thatcher?” asked John Simpson, angrily.

“Tom knows more about business than I do.”

“He looks like it—a ragged tramp like him!” said the rich man, with a sneer. “After that display of impudence I refuse altogether to employ him. Now you can do as you please—accept my offer or starve with him.”

“Mother,” said Tom, quietly, “will you be kind enough to leave me alone with Mr. Simpson? I wish to speak to him in private.”

“Certainly, Tom.”

Very much to his surprise, Mr. Simpson found himself left alone with Tom, whose manner was self-possessed and grave.

“What does all this mean?” he asked, imperiously.

“Be patient, Mr. Simpson, I have something to say which you ought to hear. When I was in California I visited a place called Rocky Gulch.”

John Simpson’s ruddy face paled, and he made a visible start, but he recovered himself by an effort.

“That was foolish,” he said. “All the gold dust has been gathered long ago, and there could be no advantage in going there.” “I wanted to find out something, if I could, about my poor father’s disappearance,” said Tom, gravely.

“Then you wasted your time,” said Simpson, nervously.

“No; I learned something.”

“What was it?” asked the rich man, in a voice slightly tremulous.

“I learned that while my father was asleep, one whom he supposed to be a friend stole upon him, attacked him, and left him for dead, carrying away a large sum belonging to my poor father.”

“That is a lie!” said Simpson, his face livid with dismay, rising from his chair.

The door opened and Tom’s father entered the room.

“It is true, John Simpson,” he said, sternly, “and you are the guilty man who stole in upon my unprotected slumbers, and sought to kill me.”

“Great heavens! Whence do you come?” demanded Simpson, hoarsely.

“I come from California, where for eight years and more I lived bereft of reason in consequence of your cruel assault.”

“You need not tell me that,” said Simpson, with a bold inspiration. “Your story is evidently the tale of a crazy man, and will not be believed. I am glad you are alive, but your attempt to levy blackmail will not succeed,” and he sat down with a smile of gratified malice.

“If such is the case and my father’s story is untrue, why did you give five hundred dollars to Darius Darke to keep your secret, about a year ago?” This was another surprise. How could Tom know this? Certainly not from the man who had received the money, for he had been burned in the old barn.

“Who told you this cock-and-bull story?” demanded Mr. Simpson, defiantly. “It is clearly a bold invention of yours.”

Another door opened, and John Simpson stared aghast at the man whom he had supposed to have been burned alive in the conflagration.

“It is no invention, John Simpson,” said the new-comer.

“Where do you come from?” asked Simpson, with staring eyes and parched lips.

“From Europe. You were very cunning, John Simpson, in your attempt, by destroying my life, to silence forever the tongue of one who might have appeared against you, but Providence did not suffer you to succeed. I did not sleep in the old barn; I passed the night in your stable, which I found more comfortable.”

“And set my barn on fire! That explains it,” said Simpson, desperately.

“No, it does not explain it. With my own eyes I saw you set the fire. I understood your motive. I meant you to believe that you had succeeded, and I left the village during the night. I went to New York, made a fortune in stocks, and went to Europe, but I gave the five hundred dollars I had wrung from your fears to this boy, and sent him to California, where he succeeded better than I expected. Your old crime and your new one are discovered, John Simpson. Your race is run.” “You can’t do anything,” said Simpson, defiantly.

“We can procure your arrest on a double charge of attempted murder, if you wish to stand trial.”

“No, no!” exclaimed Simpson, with blanched face. “It isn’t true, but it would blast my reputation.”

“It is true, and you know it.”

“Can’t we compromise this thing?” asked Simpson, nervously.

“It is for this boy to determine. Tom, what will you accept?”

“How much money of my father’s did Mr. Simpson obtain?”

“Ten thousand dollars, at least.”

“Let him pay to my father ten thousand dollars, with interest for nine years, and I shall be willing to let him off.”

“And you, Mr. Thatcher?”

“I leave the matter in Tom’s hands.”

Before John Simpson left the cottage, which he had entered for a very different purpose, he had entered into a covenant to pay the sum demanded.

In a subsequent interview he offered Mr. Thatcher his house, furniture, and large manufactory, in lieu of the money, and, as they were amply worth that, the offer was accepted, Mr. Thatcher having a desire to return to his old business.

With the remnant of his fortune, Mr. Simpson left town, and established himself in a Western State. He couldn’t bear to see daily the man whom he had attempted to murder.

Here he was induced to engage in speculations, lost all his money in the course of a few years, and died of grief. Rupert, now reduced to penury, found his way back to Wilton, and obtained a position as workman in the shop which his father had once owned. His pride had had a severe fall.

Tom became his father’s junior partner, and at twenty-one is really acting-manager and responsible head of the great shop where he once worked for three dollars a week. Of course, Mr. and Mrs. Thatcher now live in the handsome house once owned by John Simpson, while Rupert, rather curiously, is a boarder in the humble cottage once occupied by the Thatchers.

No one in Wilton understands how this wonderful change was brought about, for Tom and his father kept Mr. Simpson’s guilt and restitution a secret. It is popularly supposed that Mr. Thatcher was very fortunate in California, and made his fortune there.

It is not certain that Tom will remain long in Wilton, or in his present business. He has a handsome offer from Samuel Perkins, of Pearl Street, New York, whose papers he restored, and as he would like a larger field of action he may remove to New York and become a commission merchant. Indeed, as his father is willing to retire from business it is likely that he will accept the first fair offer for his manufactory and establish himself in the city.

Mrs. Thatcher is well and happy, and it is needless to say proud of Tom, whose energy and pluck enabled him successfully to find the clew which restored to him in the end a father and a fortune.