as occupied by young Mr. Ryder, adopted son of the new proprietor of
the mansion; and before him stood Alice, with her dark eyes fixed on the
table.

"There must have been something in it, Joe, believe me. Did you never
hear your father speak of mine?"

"Never."

"But you say he was college-bred, and born a gentleman, and in his youth
he must have had many friends."

"Alice," said the young man gravely, "when I have done something to
redeem my name, and wear it again before these people, before YOU, it
would be well to revive the past. But till then--"

But Alice was not to be put down. "I remember," she went on, scarcely
heeding him, "that, when I came in that night, papa was reading a
letter, and seemed to be disconcerted."

"A letter?"

"Yes; but," added Alice, with a sigh, "when we found him here
insensible, there was no letter on his person. He must have destroyed
it."

"Did you ever look among his papers? If found, it might be a clew."

The young man glanced toward the cabinet. Alice read his eyes, and
answered,--

"Oh, dear, no! The cabinet contained only his papers, all perfectly
arranged,--you know how methodical were his habits,--and some old
business and private letters, all carefully put away."

"Let us see them," said the young man, rising.

They opened drawer after drawer; files upon files of letters and
business papers, accurately folded and filed. Suddenly Alice uttered a
little cry, and picked up a quaint ivory paper-knife lying at the bottom
of a drawer.

"It was missing the next day, and never could be found: he must have
mislaid it here. This is the drawer," said Alice eagerly.

Here was a clew. But the lower part of the drawer was filled with
old letters, not labelled, yet neatly arranged in files. Suddenly he
stopped, and said, "Put them back, Alice, at once."

"Why?"

"Some of these letters are in my father's handwriting."

"The more reason why I should see them," said the girl imperatively.
"Here, you take part, and I'll take part, and we'll get through
quicker."

There was a certain decision and independence in her manner which he had
learned to respect. He took the letters, and in silence read them
with her. They were old college letters, so filled with boyish dreams,
ambitions, aspirations, and utopian theories, that I fear neither of
these young people even recognized their parents in the dead ashes of
the past. They were both grave, until Alice uttered a little hyste