in Montgomery
Street. He was brother to one of our party, and he went out to the
funeral. Maybe you'll find him, or, any way, some traces of him."

The two men sat up discussing the matter nearly the whole of the night,
and Peacocke, before he started, had brought himself to accede to Lefroy's
last proposition. He did give the man money enough to support him for two
or three weeks and also to take him to Chicago, promising at the same time
that he would hand to him the thousand dollars at Chicago should he find
him there at the appointed time, and should he also have found Ferdinand
Lefroy's grave at San Francisco in the manner described.

CHAPTER VII.

"NOBODY HAS CONDEMNED YOU HERE."

MRS. WORTLE, when she perceived that her husband no longer called on Mrs.
Peacocke alone, became herself more assiduous in her visits, till at last
she too entertained a great liking for the woman. When Mr. Peacocke had
been gone for nearly a month she had fallen into a habit of going across
every day after the performance of her own domestic morning duties, and
remaining in the school-house for an hour. On one morning she found that
Mrs. Peacocke had just received a letter from New York, in which her
husband had narrated his adventures so far. He had written from
Southampton, but not after the revelation which had been made to him there
as to the death of Ferdinand. He might have so done, but the information
given to him had, at the spur of the moment, seemed to be so doubtful that
he had refrained. Then he had been able to think of it all during the
voyage, and from New York he had written at great length, detailing
everything. Mrs. Peacocke did not actually read out loud the letter,
which was full of such terms of affection as are common between man and
wife, knowing that her title to be called a wife was not admitted by Mrs.
Wortle; but she read much of it, and told all the circumstances as they
were related.

"Then," said Mrs. Wortle, "he certainly is--no more." There came a
certain accession of sadness to her voice, as she reflected that,
after all, she was talking to this woman of the death of her undoubted
husband.

"Yes; he is dead--at last." Mrs. Wortle uttered a deep sigh. It was
dreadful to her to think that a woman should speak in that way of the
death of her husband. "I know all that is going on in your mind," said
Mrs. Peacocke, looking up into her face.

"Do you?"

"Every thought. You are tell