“Home again, at last,” gleefully exclaimed Mollie, as the double drag brought the whole party from the depot to the executive mansion.

The President and Mrs. Craft met them at the private entrance, and gave to each a cordial welcome. Marie Colchis was received by the old people as a beloved niece, for Mollie had, in a letter written some weeks before to her father, partially explained the situation of Marie, whom she wished to be called Leona Bennett.

Once in the house, the several members, excepting Mollie, went directly to their rooms to change their traveling clothes; but she, taking her father by the hand, asked him and her mother to give her a few moments of their time, as she had something of importance to relate. Once in the library, she knelt at her father’s feet, and related the whole story concerning Marie Colchis. She told of finding the letter in Cobb’s room, and of her journey to Guadalupe Island, and the rescue of the girl; she dwelt upon all the wonderful incidents of the finding of the cavern and its contents; and then she told him of the letter which was found with Marie, and the relations which had existed between Marie and Junius Cobb, years ago; that Junius was ignorant of Marie’s identity, but was in love with her, and had asked her to marry him.

The iron box which was found in the cavern, and which was now in the trunk, was next spoken of. Finally, she admitted to her parents her love for Lester, and his adoration of her, and asked for their consent to their union. “And this is not all, dear papa and mamma,” she said: “Marie Colchester is Marie Hathaway, Lester’s sister; I brought her here to win the love of Junius, but it was not to be, for”—and she hesitated—“for she is engaged to Hugh.”

It was several minutes ere Mr. and Mrs. Craft could grasp the whole situation, the revelations had come so fast and free; but, finally, the old man took his wife’s hand in his, and slowly, but with a smile of pleasure, said: “Mamma, we were young once.”

Mollie accepted the words and expression of his face as evidence that a happy termination would end the hide-and-seek courtship of herself and Lester; she kissed them both, and ran to communicate the good news to her lover.

It was evening of that day. A happy, jolly, bright party was congregated in the private parlor of the executive mansion. In the corner, by the great mirror, sat Junius Cobb and Marie Colchis, his eyes drinking in the beauty of her being, and his thoughts wrapped in a contemplation of her grace and loveliness. On the sofa, across from them, sat Hugh and Marie Hathaway; Lester was alone in a big arm-chair near the window, while Mollie stood in the center of the room under the electric lights, bright, radiant and vivacious.

“Three spooney couples!” she cried. “No; I mean two and a half—and you are the half, Lester,” slyly turning her head toward him. “Six hearts beating as one; all in unison, but none engaged. He is coming, papa is coming; and I advise some young gentlemen whom I could name to step boldly to the front and ask—well, I think I’ll say no more, but I pity you. Papa holds his daughters in an iron fist,” and she clenched her little hand to emphasize her words.

A moment later and the President and his wife entered the room, and all arose to meet them.

“Be seated, my children,” he kindly said. “For the first time in my life I feel that I have three beautiful daughters and three noble sons. I have asked you to meet me here that I might bring complete happiness to three pairs of loving hearts. I know all your secrets, dear children; everything is known to me.”

He paused. An expression of surprise came over the face of Hugh, while anxiety was depicted in Lester’s countenance. Marie Colchis turned her eyes upon the speaker, but said nothing. As for Cobb, he thought it all quite natural, as, no doubt, Marie had told her uncle of his proposal.

“I will not keep you long in suspense. You, Lester,” and he turned toward him. “Love my daughter. You have asked for her hand more than once. I know she returns that love; and as her happiness is next my heart, I will not bring sorrow to her by refusing your request.” He stepped forward, and took the hand of Mollie, whose cheeks were red with blushes, and led her to where Lester stood, having risen from his chair. “Lester, take her; she is yours. Be a good, kind husband to her, is all I ask.”

Lester took the fair girl in his arms, and imprinted the first lawful kiss upon her lips.

“And now,” continued Mr. Craft, “as two hearts are thus made happy, let me seek another pair. Hugh; stand up, my son.”

Hugh arose, gently raising Marie Hathaway from the sofa, and moved toward his father. “Father,” he said, “here is another pair.”

Marie hung her head in confusion, but Hugh was bold and fearless.

“I know all about you two also,” said Mr. Craft, smiling. “I am more than satisfied to receive such a daughter as you, Marie Hathaway.” The girl started as her name was pronounced, and a guilty blush mantled her cheek at the thought of the deception she had practiced upon this good old man. “Unto my son I give you, if it be your wish that he should become your husband.”

He paused. Marie made no reply, save to pass her hand through Hugh’s arm, and nestle closer to his heart.

“Hugh, take her, and bless God for the prize which you have received.” Hugh led the girl away with joy in his heart.

“Junius”—the President spoke the word low, and with more embarrassment than he had used in addressing the others—“I know not how to commence. She who stands by your side is not my niece, but my daughter,” and he took Marie Colchis’ hand in his, and drew her toward him. “She is my daughter; no blood makes the tie, but that of love has given her to me. She stands before you alone in this life. No father or mother, brother or sister, or relative has she in the wide world.” The tears were now falling from Marie’s eyes, and she clung closer to her adopted father. Hugh and Lester looked on in silence but wonder. “She has come,” he continued, “like a radiant star in our universe, and from a remote period of time. She lived years ago—a hundred or more. Do not start, Junius,” as the other moved a step, and stood gazing on Marie’s face with a look of partial recognition. “Like you, she lived, and died, and lived again. The same methods which were used to prolong your life were used to give life again to this fair girl. The hand that assisted at your interment prepared the casket wherein his daughter has lain for over a century. She is—”

The wild excitement of Cobb’s soul, paralyzed for a moment by the words of the other, now broke forth in a hoarse, pathetic cry—“Marie Colchis!” and he rushed forward, and almost crushed the fair form in his strong arms. Regardless of all present, he kissed her face, her lips—kissed her with all the depth and passion of a man receiving back from death the being divine of his heart.

When Cobb’s feelings had calmed sufficiently for him to realize the situation, the President led him and Marie to their chairs. “Take her, Junius; God has ordained it!” he said, with a choking sensation in his throat. Without letting too long a pause ensue, he drew from his pocket a paper, unfolded it, and said: “Listen, my children, to the last words of that girl’s father, Jean Colchis.”

In a low tone he read:

“Guadalupe Island, December 15, 1897.

“Junius: To you I leave these words! Dead though thou art, yet a voice tells me that you will live again. In this chamber, with the inanimate body of my darling daughter lying beside me, I write my last words to mortal man.

“From the day you left us, and for years after, the heart of Marie has lain like a stone in her bosom; no feeling but that of love for you has gained entrance there.

“Wealth poured in upon me, and I endeavored by its aid to surround her with life, luxury and change of scene, hoping thus to turn her thoughts into other channels than of you. It was in vain! Sad and sorrowful she passed the days and years in hope of your return.

“I did not tell her that you had entered into a state of inanimation from which you would not awake until years had passed. I could not crush her heart! The days came and went, and no change took place. I felt that she was dying of a broken heart. As the conviction forced itself upon me, I prayed to God for help. Long and long I debated the situation. The knowledge was apparent that she would die ere many days had passed unless means were promptly taken to remove the sorrow in her heart on account of your prolonged absence. What should I do? I had assisted in your preparations for a future existence; I knew of the methods you had taken to continue life in your body.

“‘Junius can never return to my daughter,’ I cried, in the agony of my soul. ‘Why not send that daughter to him?’ If you lived, she might again live, through the means I might employ. If you did not survive the ordeal, then it were better that she, also, should die. I argued with myself; I won. I sought for a spot where no human being would find the resting place of my beloved daughter until the time should arrive for her deliverance. I selected the island of Guadalupe, far from the busy world. I prepared the chambers and made them beautiful.

“My daughter came, and for nearly a year we lived in quiet but sad community. But, alas! it was of no avail! I saw her dying before my eyes. I resolved to subject her to a living death, in the hope that she might live again and be happy.

“I have prepared her body, even as you had told me yours was to be prepared. I inclose her fair form in a golden coffin, as a fitting receptacle for one so true and noble. With immortelles for her death, should she die, I surround the casket; with orange blossoms at her head, in the hope of future life and of her marriage to you, I lay her to rest.

“In an iron box at the foot of her coffin you will find my last testament, and the dowry I bequeath my daughter. I have prepared everything for this moment. That you might know this place, I put the letter into the copper cylinder; I bored through the walls of your tomb, and pushed in the case; and when I heard it fall on the floor of your sepulchre, I sealed up the hole. I knew if you lived again you would rescue your Marie. I felt, that if you died, it was better that she died also.

“The time has come! I lay this letter upon the snowy bosom of her who loved you as never woman loved a man. O God! can mortal know the anguish that seizes my heart as I am about to seal the lid which closes her sweet face in a living tomb!

“When these words are read by thee, O my daughter, if ever thine eyes shall brighten again in life, my bones will lie bare and naked at the foot of thy coffin. Good-bye, my darling daughter. I close the lid! I seal thy fate!

“Jean Colchis.”