"There is a further sum of a thousand dollars," suggested the lawyer. "What is your pleasure in regard to that?"

"The boy is to have that too. Deposit it in some savings' bank in your own name as his trustee."

"That makes the boy worth five thousand dollars—a large gift."

"Exactly, but I know of no better use for it."

"He is to remain ignorant of this also?"

"For the present, yes."

"Now for your instructions concerning the will. I will note them down, and prepare the document for your signature."

These directions were given, one-half of the hermit's property being left to certain specified charities, the remaining half to Mark Manning.

The lawyer wrote in silence. Then, pausing, he said:

"Will you allow me, in right of our long friendship, to make one suggestion?"

"Surely, John."

"Then let me ask if you are sure that there is no one having a rightful claim upon you, and who ought to be considered in this matter?"

"Do you mean Lyman?"

"By no means. He has forfeited any claim he may once have possessed."

"Then what is your meaning?"

"Are you sure that your daughter left no issue?"

Anthony's brow contracted, not with anger but with pain. The old wound had not healed.

"I never heard of any," he answered, after a pause.

"Yet there may have been a child."

"And if there were?"

"It would be your grandchild," said the lawyer, firmly.

"And his child," said the hermit, bitterly.

"You should not impute that to the child for blame."

"What would you have me do, old friend?"

"Make provision for the child, if there should be one."

"What would you suggest?" asked Anthony, slowly.

"I don't wish to injure the boy; I would only suggest that charity begins at home. Divide your estate into thirds; give one-third to Mark, one to the child, if there be one, and one to charity."

"I have no objection to that. But suppose there be no child living?"

"Then divide that third between Mark and the charitable societies you have enumerated."

"Wisely counseled, John, but why not give it to you?"

"Because I am moderately rich already, and need nothing more. Then, also, it would work against my interest to find the child. I might turn out to be as wicked and unprincipled as most lawyers are said to be," he concluded, with a smile.

"I have no fear of that. So that is your only objection—"

"It isn't. Give it all to the boy in preference."

"No, let it be as you proposed."

"One thing more. Don't you think it is your duty to ascertain whether you have a grandchild? It may be living in poverty; perhaps in actual want."

"You are right; I should have thought of that before. But what steps would you advise me to take?"

"Send some trusted messenger to the last place where you have information that your daughter lived. Have you tidings of her husband?"

"He died first. Both died of typhoid fever, as I learned."

"Where did they die?"

"At a small place in Indiana—Claremont, I think."

"Then you should send there, and make inquiries. It would be well to go yourself, if you could bring yourself to do it."

"But I couldn't."

"Then send a trusted messenger."

"I have none whom I could trust—except that boy."

John Hardy looked thoughtful. He appeared to be pondering something. Finally he said: "Then send him. He ............