A few days later, dressed in light mourning, Shirley Bloodgood for the second time in her life wended her way to a certain tenement house not far from the East River.

"Surely I cannot be mistaken,—this must be the place," she told herself, groaning in spirit.

In reply to her timid knock and inquiry for Mrs. Challoner, a little girl directed her to the apartment above, the door of which was presently opened by a woman with full rounded face; and entering a neat, well-furnished, five-room flat, Shirley was soon seated at the window chatting with happy eagerness.

The young woman with the full, fresh, rounded face, it can readily be imagined, was Miriam Challoner.

"You've been away more than three years, Shirley," she sighed, as she bent over a bit of fancy work. "It seems a century almost."

"It hasn't seemed so long to me," returned Shirley. "Though when we first went west, I thought it would be nothing short of a nightmare—waiting for an old man to die."

"It must have been," assented Miriam.

Shirley held up her head proudly, and answered:—"No, it wasn't, because for the first time in my life I really came to know my father. I thought I had known him long before, but I made a mistake. I never knew him until these last three years in Arizona—I found out almost too late."

"I always liked your father, Shirley, and I think he always liked me," was Miriam's remark.

"Yes, he did. But did you ever stop to think," went on Shirley hastily, "why, my father never wronged anybody! My father was good—my father was honest! Oh, I could scourge myself," she declared sadly, "for the things I used to think about father. I even told Murgatroyd, once, that though I loved my father, I could never admire him, respect him."

Miriam raised her eyebrows and protested mildly:—

"You never told me that, Shirley."

"No!" exclaimed the girl; "my friends don't know the worst side of me! My father a failure! Fortunately in these three years I have come to look upon things differently—have come to know that he was a success, simply because he was real. Money! What is money? My father was a man!"

Miriam rose suddenly and went over to her and kissed her.

"I'm glad, Shirley," she said with feeling, "that you found it out. I knew it always."

All this time, Shirley had been watching with growing curiosity, the fancy work on which Miriam sewed so industriously. At last, she ventured:—

"Miriam, I'm a regular old maid. I haven't been one hour in your house, and already I'm burning up with curiosity to know just what you're making."

Miriam glanced a moment out of the window, then she answered somewhat evasively:—

"Why, it's just a bit of embroidery...."

But Shirley was not yet satisfied, and went on to protest:—

"But what is it? Miriam, I must know...."

Miriam Challoner hesitated for an instant, then holding up in the air a tiny infant's dress, she said softly:—

"Well, if you must know, why, you must."

There was a long pause. At last, Shirley exclaimed:—

"Isn't it dainty! Who is it for, Miriam?"

Miriam raised her head and looked squarely into the eyes of her friend; the next moment Shirley had her arms about Miriam, and drawing her close to her, she cried joyfully:—

"You precious thing! I'm so glad, oh, so glad! But why didn't you say so before?"

Miriam smiled softly.

"I'm just a bit old-fashioned, I'm afraid," she murmured. "Nowadays, it's the thing to make such announcements through a megaphone from the housetops."

For some time, she continued to sew in silence, Shirley watching her the while. All of a sudden Shirley drew a long breath and said:—

"Miriam, I wish I were happily married. It's the only life for a woman."

"Yes, you are right," assented Miriam joyously, from whom had fled the recollection of all but the last few years.

"I have always taken the keenest interest in the romances of others, but I want something more than a mere vicarious interest in romances—marriage. I'm a marrying woman," declared the girl, "and I dread the thought of being an old maid."

Miriam laughed.

"And yet they say that they're the happiest women...."

"Oh, but a real woman is one who has a husband and children—" Shirley stretched forth her arms, as though to grasp all life within them,—"children to bring up; to wipe their noses and dress them for school, and to hear them say their prayers at night. That's life! It isn't pride with me; it's instinct." Miriam thought a moment. Finally she ventured:—

"But you've had chances. There was Murgatroyd...."

"Murgatroyd," broke in the girl, "is not my ideal. No, indeed, not after what he did...."

"Then, there was Thorne," persisted Miriam, "and Thorne may be United States Senator, too—he's forged ahead."

Shirley laughed and flushed in turn. Presently, she said:—

"I'll tell you a secret, Miriam."

Miriam smiled.

"We seem to be full of secrets to-day."

"Yes," returned Shirley, "only yours is a respectable married woman's secret; mine mustn't be told ... Well," she confessed at last, "I've seen Thorne since I came back, and——"

"No!" Miriam ejaculated.

"Yes! He proposed to me once more, and——"

Miriam leaned forward eagerly.

"You accepted him?"

Shirley frowned.

"No—if I had accepted him, it wouldn't be a secret."

Miriam looked at her blankly.

"Why did you refuse him?"

Shirley seemed puzzled.

"That's just what I want to know myself. I don't know why.... Somehow, I couldn't marry Thorne."

"Well, for some unexplainable reason, I'm glad of that," assented Miriam.

"Tell me about Murgatroyd," said Shirley suddenly, reseating herself. "I haven't seen him——"

"There isn't much to tell," answered Miriam. "As a reformer, he's been a success. He's serving his second term as prosecutor, you know. It seems he wanted to finish his work there."

Shirley tossed her head.

"Who couldn't, with all that money!"

"He and Thorne," went on Miriam, "are rivals for the United States Senatorship. Things are growing warm, too, I hear; but it's only a question of a day or two now...."

Shirley laughed, but her voice was hard when she spoke:—

"He told me once that it cost over half a million dollars in this state to be chosen Senator. Well, he's got the money, anyway——"

Miriam raised her eyebrows.

"He told you that?"

"Yes—before he got the money."

Mrs. Challoner deprecated.

"Shirley, aren't you hard on Murgatroyd? He's a man of character in the city," and she poised her needle in the air and glanced at the girl in a quizzical way. "I think," she went on slowly, "that I understand Murgatroyd. I think he's a man who could go wrong once, and only once."

Shirley shrugged her shoulders. But whatever may have been her opinion to the contrary, she was prevented from expressing it by the sound of approaching footsteps on the stairs.

"Not a word of Murgatroyd," whispered Miriam quickly.

"It must be Laurie," thought the girl to herself, and sprang up like a frightened hare. The next moment the door opened, and Lawrence Challoner came into the room.

Dressed in rough, clean, business clothes, he was as different from the Challoner of five years before as she could imagine. This man was strong, healthy, with a ruddy flush upon his face. He had the appearance of being a bit heavier, but better set up. He looked solid, respectable. In fact, he looked so good that it was a willing hand that went out to him in greeting.

"Well, this is a pleasure that is a pleasure," said Shirley, smiling. "I need not ask how you are, Laurie, for you're the picture of health."

"And you, Shirley—why, you never looked better," and he looked at his wife for a confirmation of his words. "What have you been doing with yourself all these years...." The tide of his words receded there, leaving his eyes stranded upon hers. The same thought came simultaneously to them both.

Miriam's happiness at their spontaneous greeting was good to see.

"If I dared, I'd kiss you," Laurie went on, laughing good-naturedly; but he compromised on his wife, who had been holding, all this time, the bit of fancy work on which she sewed. Suddenly she glanced down at it.

"Oh," she said, conscience stricken, and running across the room, hurriedly thrust it into a closet. Challoner watched her in surprise; and when she returned, he put his arm about her and kissed her once again.

"So much happiness," commented Shirley, with a pretty little pout, "and poor me...."

Challoner laughed.

"Oh, we'll have to look after you, Shirley! I've got a dozen likely chaps down at the works—Americans, too. Real men, every one of them—men who work with their hands."

"The works?" Shirley looked in astonishment, first at one, and then the other. "Oh, the selfish jades we've been—Miriam and I have talked about every man in creation but you! Aren't you ashamed, Miriam? I am!" She drew up her chair, and settling herself back comfortably into it, turned to Challoner and went on excitedly:—"Now tell me about yourself."

"We've saved five hundred dollars," began Miriam, answering for him. "And——"

"Five hundred dollars!" interrupted Shirley, entering completely into the spirit of things. "How did you ever do it?"

Miriam turned to Challoner, and said with a smile:—

"Laurie, do you remember the day when we had saved our first ten dollars?"

"Shall I ever forget it," returned her husband, devoutly; and turning to Shirley: "The fact is, somehow or other I've made good—and done it in five years, too! But you don't know what it means to me, to us.... When Miriam went to the hospital that day, I started in—one dollar and a half a day——"

"Yes?" said Shirley eagerly. "What kind of work?"

"Tell her about your invention, Laurie," suggested his young wife with pride.

Not waiting for a second invitation, Challoner immediately launched forth on his favourite topic, Shirley listening with great interest. But toward the close, he said something about concrete and frauds which instantly caused her to interrupt him.

"Frauds? What frauds?"

"Why, where have you been that you haven't seen the papers?" he inquired. "The papers the world over, almost, have had something to say about this political exposÉ. I was at work on the hospital job at the time, and it was I who made the discovery that everybody connected with the job was stealing cement: bosses, superintendents, inspectors, politicians, why, even I was invited into the ring. There was money in it," he continued, "money for me—hundreds, thousands...." He paused, and then wound up with: "But, what good would that do me when the hospital fell down?"

"Think what would have happened," interposed Miriam, "if it had been full of patients. It was good they found it out in time! It has to be rebuilt."

"But I wouldn't stand for the steal," Challoner went on, in his legitimate pride. "Maybe you know the rest?" He looked up questioningly; and convinced that she did not, he proceeded: "I went to Murgatroyd; he did the rest. I helped him, of course, by testifying, and all that sort of thing; in other words, I had to make good my accusations. But perhaps Murgatroyd didn't smite those chaps hip and thigh! You know what it meant, don't you? It well-nigh smashed the ring! Anyhow, it has crippled the organisation, and Murgatroyd did it!"

"Good for Murgatroyd!" ejaculated Shirley; and then added quickly with a blush: "Good for you!"

"Laurie's in business for himself," Miriam presently informed her.

"No!" exclaimed Shirley. "Concrete?"

"Yes," answered Challoner enthusiastically. "I've got a bit of a reputation for honesty, now. People that want an honest job done come to me. Of course, for a time, the hospital scandal killed concrete to some extent 'round here; but there's going to be a quick recover. The trouble is not with concrete, but with men...." Challoner sighed longingly. "I could swing that hospital job," he said wistfully, "if only I could get the bonds and the cash with which to start me. But I suppose I have got to stick to the small work for a while. However, I'm getting there, Shirley, and I'm proud of it, too. You'll begin to think I'm suffering from exaggerated Ego," he finished with a smile.

"Well," said Miriam in justification, "any man who saves five hundred dollars in so short a time has a right to blow his own horn."

"I believe in giving praise where it is due," protested her husband. "It was you, my dear, who saved it."

"I?" returned Miriam, who never seemed happier than when sacrificing herself.

"Yes, by not buying hats like Shirley's, for instance," he answered, although he glanced at the girl in admiration.

Miriam sighed with joy. It was good to be appreciated—good to have some one to talk with who could appreciate their struggle.

"I won't deny," presently she said with a smile, "that it was rather trying at times; but it was a work of love, and we've succeeded."

Shirley sprang to her feet.

"Lawrence Challoner, I'm going to kiss you—you're the kind of a man I'm looking for!" And on the impulse of the moment she went over to him and made good her word. "I'm proud of you," she went on. "You're the real thing—you're a success!"

Challoner laughed as now he drew his wife closer to him.

"They are like a pair of doves," said Shirley to herself; and then aloud, as she started for the door: "Miriam, I'm going to fix up a bit for dinner. I hope we're going to have a dozen courses, for I'm starved."

When the door had closed behind her, Miriam rose and started for the kitchen.

"Miriam, girl," said Challoner, gently, "never mind about the dinner now—that can wait."

"I haven't much to do, anyway," answered his wife.

"What have you been hiding from me for the past few weeks, Miriam?" presently asked Challoner.

She looked quickly up at him and repeated:—

"Hiding——"

He pointed toward the closet.

"What have you been putting away there every night for the last few weeks? What is in that closet now?"

Miriam Challoner hesitated. When she found her voice, she asked tremblingly:—

"Do you really want to know?"

"Yes," he answered in the same tone.

Miriam stepped to the closet, fumbled there among some things, and returning thrust something into his hands.

"There," she said, blushing.

Challoner held it up, looked at it a moment, finally he said, with just a tinge of suspicion in his voice:—

"This tiny dress—what?" He looked at his wife stupidly, and after a time, he added: "Why, Miriam, you never told me.... A little child for you and me?"

"Yes, Laurie," she whispered softly.

Challoner was visibly affected. For an instant he held the infinitesimal garment up before him; then acting upon a sudden impulse, he cuddled it down into the crook of his arm and held it there.

"A child—for me," he mused, and suddenly passed the dress back to her, but as suddenly he held out his hands for it again, saying: "Give it back to me!" After a moment, he looked up and exclaimed: "I wonder if it is given to mere man to appreciate thoroughly the anticipation of motherhood—the hours that are given to fashioning little garments like this, for instance! And yet it seems to me now that I could work forever for—" he broke off abruptly, quite overcome.

Miriam was deeply touched.

"Never fear, dear, there will be plenty of responsibility for you later on."

At that moment Shirley poked her head in through the door, and called:—

"Miriam! Miriam, the potatoes are burning!"

Miriam left the room hastily, leaving her husband still nursing the small garment in the crook of his arm.

"A father of a child!" he mused. "It's good to be a father—a good father." Suddenly he seated himself at the table and buried his face in his arms. For some time he remained thus; but when he raised his head again there were tears in his eyes.

"A little child for me—and I shot Hargraves," he moaned.

Just then Miriam came back into the room. At a glance she realised what was going on in his mind; and going over to him, placed her hand affectionately on his shoulder and with great tenderness said:—

"Don't think any more about that, Laurie, it's past and gone. You're a new man, don't you see?"

"I haven't thought of it for five years!" cried Challoner, fiercely. "I haven't dared to think of it—I haven't had time to think of it...." He paused a moment to pull himself together, and then suddenly went on: "But now I have got to think about it, if I'm going to be a father." He sighed reminiscently. "Poor Hargraves, I can see him now, Miriam, as he put up his arm...."

"Don't, Laurie!" she pleaded. "Don't! The forbidden subject—forget it, dear!"

"I can't forget it!" he returned. "It's all before me now." He glared into space, as a man might who witnessed before his very eyes some conflict. "I can see it now, just as it happened——"

He stopped suddenly, fiercely, caught her roughly by the arm, and cried in a loud voice:—

"Miriam, Miriam, thank Heaven I have thought about it! Listen, dear—I can see it now—just as it happened." He stopped and looked down at her. "Can you stand it, dear?"

"What is it?" asked his young wife, trembling with the horror of it all.

Challoner gripped her arm with painful force.

"I did not kill Richard Hargraves!" he cried in sudden joy. "No, I did not kill him!"

Miriam caught her husband about the neck and tried to soothe him.

"Laurie," she said gently, "you're beside yourself."

"No," he answered calmly enough, though evidently labouring under great excitement, "no, I know! I did not kill Hargraves! It's the first time I have thought about it. Five years ago everything was muddled—life was a muddle then; and on that night at Cradlebaugh's everything was hazy. But now, Miriam, it's as clear as day. I can see it—I do see it!" He lifted his arm, his forefinger crooked significantly, and declared:—

"I shot...."

"Yes," she said eagerly, "you shot...."

"I shot at Hargraves, but I did not hit him. It's all come back; I can see it now!" And pointing toward the junction of the side wall and the ceiling, he went on to explain: "The bullet lodged in the panel of the wall. Hargraves put up his arm like this—I meant to kill him and I shot; but I didn't hit him. It was the last thing I remembered before I toppled over in the big chair—that, and his starting over toward the door. I remember that. It's all come back in a flash. But I never saw him after that."

"Yet," she protested, "you confessed...."

"Yes," he answered, "I tell you everything was muddled—life was hazy. I knew I shot at him—I knew I shot to kill. Of course I thought that I had done it; but it's not so. I tried to do it, and then——"

She caught him wildly about the body and cried hysterically:—

"Laurie—are you sure...."

"I know, I tell you," he answered, and hastened to add:—"Yes, and there's another man that knows—Pemmican, that's the chap!"

He stopped again and looked down at the small dress, which through all his excitement he had held tenderly in the crook of his arm.

"I'm going to be a father," he went on, "and it's well that I didn't kill Hargraves. But I have got to prove it—the world must know that I didn't kill him. I must prove it—Pemmican will prove it for me—he was there."

Miriam shook her head.

"You remember his testimony at the trial, Laurie; besides," she added softly, taking an old newspaper clipping from a small drawer of her desk, "Pemmican is dead."

"Dead!" His voice rang out in astonishment. "Dead! I didn't know it. Why didn't you tell me?"

For answer she placed her finger on her lips.

"Why, he died in the county jail, not long after I was tried!" exclaimed Challoner, who was now reading the newspaper clipping. "Poor chap, the confinement killed him, I imagine. Well, I never killed Hargraves, and I'm going to prove it, somehow." He leaned over and kissed a tiny bit of ruffle. "I'm going to prove it for you and the little one."

"Laurie," insisted Miriam, quivering, "are you sure?"

"I was never surer of anything in my life than this," replied Challoner. "I tell you, it has all come back to me like a flash. It was you, little one," he said, bending once more over something imaginary in his arm, "that brought it back to me."

Miriam had watched him closely.

"Yes, yes," she conceded, "it is true, I can see it—I know." And sobbing, dropped her head upon his shoulder.

"I've got to prove it," he repeated over and over again, patting her head affectionately.

"But—Murgatroyd—why, if you were innocent ..." suddenly cried Miriam.

"Well?"

"He ought to know it."

"What do I care about Murgatroyd! What do I care about anybody but you and the little one that is coming—coming to you and to me!"

"Laurie," breathed Miriam softly, "I'm happy, oh, so happy! I knew—I felt, somehow, that things would come out right. I don't care whether you ever prove this—so long as we know. Happy?" she repeated as she nestled closer to him. "I should think so, with five hundred dollars in the bank and a small business, and after a while...."

"The most important thing, now, is that I'm certain I did not kill Hargraves. That makes it easy for the next important thing—for you—my baby—my little baby."

Reluctantly he yielded the lilliputian garment to Miriam. There was a knock on the inner door that Miriam had closed; it was followed by Shirley's entrance into the room.

"I hope," she said gaily, little knowing what had happened, "that we are going to eat pretty soon, for I never was more hungry in my life."

"The dinner will be an hour late," apologised her hostess, "but you won't mind, I'm sure, when I tell you why."