compact was there not an atom of self-interest? Over and over again he
asked himself these questions, and he strove to answer them to the
honor of his incentive, but he felt that in this strife there lay a
prejudice, a hope that self might be cleared of all dishonor. But was
there ever a man who, in the very finest detail, lived a life of
perfect truth and freedom from all selfishness? If so, why should
Providence have put him in a grasping world? Give conscience time and
it will find an easy bed, and yet the softest bed may have grown hard
ere morning comes.

"Who am I that I should carp with myself?" the traveler mused. "Have
the world and its litter of pups done anything for me?" He walked up
and down the deck. "God knows that I shall always love the memory of
that dear boy. But if all things are foreseen and are still for the
best, why should he have died? Was it to throw upon me this great
opportunity? But who am I? And why should a special opportunity be
wrought for me? But who is anybody?"

Going whither? Home. A father--and he thought of a drunken painter. A
mother--and his mind flew back to a midnight when arms that had
carried him warm with life were cold in death. A millionaire's
son--that thought startled him. What were the peculiar duties of a
millionaire's son? No matter. They might impose a strain, but they
could never be so trying as constant poverty. But who had afflicted
him with poverty? First his birth and then his temperament. But who
gave him the temperament? He wheeled about and walked away as if he
would be rid of an impertinent questioner.

When the ship reached New Orleans he went straightway to the telegraph
office and sent this message to George Witherspoon: "Will leave for
Chicago to-day."

And now his step was beyond recall; he must go forward. But conscience
had no needles, and his mind was at rest. In expectancy there was a
keen fascination. He met a reporter whom he knew, but there was no
sign of recognition. A beard, thick, black and neatly trimmed, gave
Henry's face an unfamiliar mold. But he felt a momentary fear, he
realized that a possible danger thenceforth would lie in wait for him,
and then came the easing assurance that his early life, his father and
his mother, were remembered by no one of importance, and that even if
he were recognized as Henry DeGolyer, he could still declare himself
the stolen son of George Witherspoon. Indeed, with safety he could
thus announce himse