To be lifted, suddenly, from poverty to wealth, is delightful. Especially delightful when preceded by a preliminary course of self-denial. For Cyrus and his father there was now an end, at last, to the orthodox but discordant partnership between Pride and Want.

Vaulting ambition has its uses. So have rags and hunger. And there are times, as in the case of Cyrus, when they pull together. But now had come the harvest. And the prosperity was real: the checks from the Senior Partner were not a dream.

"No more cheap food and shiny clothes for us," said Cyrus to his father. "Me for gluttony; canvas backs three times a day; Burgundy and dollar cigars. And brand new raiment every morning!"

Dr. Alton nodded. "Yes, that's a good program. A change, even from bad to worse, is often beneficial. Had you been brought up on canvas backs and Burgundy, you might have yearned for water and dried apples."

One of the first things Cyrus did was to visit Mrs. Eagan. The great desire of her life had been to revisit Ireland, but she never could save enough money. She had tried in vain to sell her little cottage with its two acres of land. Now came a purchaser. For the acre farthest from the house, for which there never had been a bid, Cyrus paid her three thousand dollars. And the happy Mrs. Eagan went to Ireland. He did other things, equally unbusinesslike. Some for his old friends; some for the town itself.

As for the Great Discovery both Cyrus and his father were of one opinion—that it never must be made public: that the secret must die. One of many reasons was, that with such a power in irresponsible hands no man's property, and no man himself, would be secure. What safety for a law abiding citizen when any criminal could purchase for a few dollars and carry in his hand, or pocket, a weapon of unlimited energy and force? The burglar or the highwayman could either escape at will or send his victim into farthest space.

He had various kinds of fun with his money. But he was no fool with it. He had been too intimate with debt, half-rations and shabby raiment to renew, voluntarily, the old acquaintance. But the greatest satisfaction of all was the prospect of bringing a long deferred pleasure to his father. Dr. Alton had spoken in years gone by of a trip to Europe. And now he could have it. Moreover, this trip abroad, according to Cyrus, was to be such a new departure in activity and leisure, in wisdom and extravagance, as to startle Europe.

"We'll make Croesus look like thirty cents—and Lucullus a skinflint."

But Fate, brainless Fate, whose rewards and punishments seem random shots, stepped in between. And the blow that came to Cyrus was the hardest in his life.

To the people of Longfields there was mystery in certain periods of Dr. Alton's past. Those seven years abroad were secret history. The little son and his unknown mother had invited explanation. But explanations were not offered. Moreover, it was soon realized by his neighbors that Dr. Alton's private affairs were his own, and were not for publication. But people had surely a right to wonder why a physician with his exceptional education and opportunities should give so little thought to distinction in larger fields and prefer obscurity in a forgotten little village.

Miss Anita Clement and some other women believed that this handsome young doctor had been the victim of a blighting passion; that his heart, if not broken, had received a wound that never healed. But all that was speculative.

Of some things, however, they were sure. One was that his gentle manner, his never failing help and kindness to poor and prosperous alike, had resulted in a sincere affection for him, not only in Longfields itself but in the neighboring villages. To every member of the little community in which he lived and worked for nearly thirty years his death was a personal loss.

To Cyrus, this sudden, unexpected ending was a blow that stunned. Many days were to pass before he fully realized how irreparable was his loss. That his father's death should come when it did made sorrow doubly keen. Of what good this sudden wealth when his best friend, after these years of economy and self sacrifice, was not here to enjoy it? And that trip abroad together—only a month away!

Cyrus had this consolation, however, that the end was free from suffering.

An hour before his death—in a sunny November afternoon—his father was reclining comfortably in his easy chair when he told Cyrus where to find a package of letters in the further corner of a certain drawer in his desk. Cyrus brought them. Then he sat by his father's side and, as the letters, after being read, were handed him, one by one, he dropped them into the fire. Some were limp and worn from many readings. With them was a photograph of a woman's face. After a moment's hesitation Dr. Alton handed it to his son.

"That's your mother, Cyrus."

With unspeakable emotion the son gazed upon this face. Her eyes looked straight into his own. They were deep, dark, tragic—yet smiling. It seemed to Cyrus that he had always known this face—and loved it. He gazed in silence, overcome by feelings quite different from anything he had heretofore experienced. His father's voice recalled him to himself. The voice was becoming weaker.

"Destroy this picture, Cyrus. If you ever meet her keep your knowledge to yourself. Let her be the first—to greet you."

So low was his voice that Cyrus bent forward to get his words.

"Remember, always remember, she is a good woman."

Dr. Alton leaned back and closed his eyes.

A faint smile came to his lips. He whispered a name—

"Francesca."

His thoughts wandered. In spirit he was far from Longfields. Below him gleamed the Adriatic, azure blue. The breath of spring came gently to his cheeks. Before him, and very near, is a woman's face, radiant with beauty and with love, and with unfailing devotion. Her eyes looking deep into his own, searching his innermost thoughts. There are none to hide, for all are hers.

The smile still upon his lips he murmured in French—his voice fainter with each succeeding word—a message.

And the last word, "Francesca," was scarcely a breath.

Cyrus knew that another spirit had joined the countless host: that into these final words a faithful lover had breathed his soul.

At that sunny hour of the afternoon, in Longfields, night had fallen in the city of Milan. The great opera house was crowded. To lovers of music the farewell appearance of the Diva was a memorable occasion. It was also cause for surprise, but physicians had given warning of a certain weakness about the heart. Besides, it may have been that after thirty years of triumph—though apparently as young as ever—there had come a surfeit of glory; a yearning for the tranquil life; for days and nights of less effort and less excitement.

So, still beautiful, erect as ever, and looking to perfection the heroine, with the fresh, full voice of girlhood that charmed the world, she was singing to-night before an audience, or rather, a host of friends, that filled the great building from the floor to the topmost seats. Both the glorious voice and the Diva herself seemed unchanged. To-night she was still the envy of other singers. And to-night, as usual, she thrilled an enchanted audience.

Near the end of the second act came a surprise. Then it was that the great singer seemed conquered by some strange emotion—some mysterious agency that hushed her voice and enslaved her spirit. And to that audience it always remained a mystery.

Softly, from the orchestra, rose the accompaniment to the aria—the divine aria—flooding the house with its melody. The Diva, with lips parting for the opening notes, was moving slowly toward the front of the stage. Then, instead of the voice for which the hundreds of eager listeners were waiting, they saw her stop, and stand in silence. With eyes closed, and face upturned, transfigured—as angels' faces are transfigured—she stood, unconscious of the world about her. Vainly the audience waited. Vainly the conductor waved his baton, as his orchestra, with every bar, was leaving the Diva still further behind.

But the Diva was far away. She heard him not. She heard nothing save the thing unheard by others. The orchestra and its leader, the opera house and the people in it, all had vanished—all had vanished as completely from her thoughts as from her sight. The very music itself helped the spirit's flight—to bear it aloft, to transport her far—oh far indeed!—from where she stood.

As a dying zephyr mingles with the fragrance of the flowers, so with the harmony of the music came, from over seas, a lover's message. Her name—Francesca—interwoven with the melody, came gently to her senses. She knew from whom. And she alone knew what memories it revived, crowding upon her through the music; precious memories of the only passion of her life; of the one being to whom she had given her heart, her self, her very soul—and for all time. Now, once again, they were meeting. It came, the message, not in words—merely the breath of a dying lover. It brought this truth, that all joy of living had ended at their parting—nearly thirty years ago. Not a moment in those years had his devotion wavered, a devotion greater and more real than all else in life, beyond and far above the reach of death. Now, on the borders of that other world where loyal hearts shall know no parting—there she would find him waiting. Again her name—Francesca—fading away into the melody of the aria.

The Diva lowered her face, pressed a hand against her temples and swayed as if to fall. But her recovery was sudden. She smiled toward the sea of anxious faces and nodded to the conductor, who started his orchestra afresh. Then she sang the aria as never before.