o my uncle, and a small
gold chain and a locket that I wore when I was sto--when uncle took
me. That's all."

"I will do the best I can, but I'm too old."

"You are only a few years older than I am. They'll never know. They'll
be blind. You'll have the proof. Go at once. You are Henry
Witherspoon. That's all."

The blustery afternoon settled into a calm as the sun went down, and a
change came with the night. The sufferer's mind flitted back for a
moment, and in that speck of time he spoke not, but he gave his friend
a look of gratitude. All was over. During the night DeGolyer sat alone
by the bedside. And a ship came at morning.

A kind-hearted priest offered his services. "The ship has merely
dodged in here," said he, "and won't stay long, and it may be a month
before another one comes." And then he added: "You may leave these
melancholy rites to me."

A man stepped into the doorway and cried in Spanish: "The ship is
ready."

DeGolyer turned to the priest, and placing a purse on the table, said:
"I thank you." Then he stepped lightly to the bedside and gazed with
reverence and affection upon the face of the dead boy. He spoke the
name of Christ, and the priest heard him say: "Take his spirit to Thy
love and Thy mercy, for no soul more forgiving has ever entered Thy
Father's kingdom." He took up his traveling-bag and turned toward the
door. "One moment," said the priest, and pointing to the couch, he
asked: "What name?"

"Henry--Henry DeGolyer."

CHAPTER V.

DISSECTING A MOTIVE.

Onward went the ship, nodding to the beck and call of mighty ocean.
DeGolyer--or, rather, Henry Witherspoon, as now he knew
himself--walked up and down the deck. And it seemed that at every turn
his searching grief had found a new abiding-place for sorrow. His
first strong attachment was broken, and he felt that in the years to
come, no matter what fortune they might bring him, there could not
grow a friendship large enough to fill the place made vacant by his
present loss. An absorbing love might come, but love is by turns a
sweet and anxious selfishness, while friendship is a broad-spread
generosity. Suddenly he was struck by the serious meaning of his
obligation, and with stern vivisection he laid bare the very nerves of
his motive. At first he could find nothing save the discharge of a
sacred duty; but what if this trust had entailed a life of toil and
sacrifice? Would he have accepted it? In his agreement to this odd