ood cure was
energetic as of old, and his eyes gleamed with excitement as the ship
approached. His hands were stretched out in welcome, and a smile of most
intense happiness lighted up his handsome features, and, as the
travellers stepped from the gangway to the pier, he went quickly forward
to greet them, exclaiming, in his bright cheery manner:--

"Eugene, Marie, my children, welcome home, a thousand times welcome.
Heaven has indeed been good to me. My heart's desire is now fulfilled."

EPILOGUE.

"Our acts our angels are, or good or ill,
The fatal shadows that walk by us still."

Beaumont.

Far up on the east coast of Scotland, where the huge breakers of the
Atlantic dash in angry tumult against the granite crags of that rugged
shore, stands the castle of Dunmorton, a grim historic pile.

For generations it has been the home of the McAllisters, and is still
little changed since the days of Bruce and Balliol, when armed men issued
from the low, arched doorway, to work destruction on their enemies of the
South.

The last of the race dwells there now; a man yet in the prime of life,
though one who takes but little interest in the doings of the busy world.
He leads a melancholy and purposeless existence, and seems, as the years
go on, to grow more morbid. Some say that he never got over the shock of
his wife's sudden death, and that the terrible accident completely
shattered his nerves. Others, chiefly, old wives, who have lived on the
estate for years, and are deeply versed in all matters connected with
their chief's family, shake their heads wisely, and mutter that there
is a curse overhanging this branch of the clan. They say it has been
so since the '45, when The McAllister of that day turned his son Ivan
adrift.

Be that as it may, the present chief is a most miserable man. He has
wealth, and everything wealth can command. He has broad lands, power,
unbounded influence, for fortune has marked him for one of her favorites.
But in the long winter evenings, when the great hall of Dunmorton, with
its splendid trophies of the chase and grand oak panelling, is lighted up
by the fitful glow of the huge pinewood fire, Noel McAllister sees a
vision, which freezes the blood within his veins.

From a dim eerie in the great hall there glides with a slow, noiseless
movement a tall, slight lady, clad in a gown of pale green silk. Her
snow-white hair is crowned by a cap of finest lace. Her hands are clas