Chapter I.
The Missing Heir.
"Uncle, you are not looking well to-night."
"I'm not well, Florence. I sometimes doubt if I shall ever be any
better."
"Surely, uncle, you cannot mean----"
"Yes, my child, I have reason to believe that I am nearing the end."
"I cannot bear to hear you speak so, uncle," said Florence Linden, in
irrepressible agitation. "You are not an old man. You are but
fifty-four."
"True, Florence, but it is not years only that make a man old. Two
great sorrows have embittered my life. First, the death of my dearly
beloved wife, and next, the loss of my boy, Harvey."
"It is long since I have heard you refer to my cousin's loss. I
thought you had become reconciled--no, I do not mean that,--I thought
your regret might be less poignant."
"I have not permitted myself to speak of it, but I have never ceased
to think of it day and night."
John Linden paused sadly, then resumed:
"If he had died, I might, as you say, have become reconciled; but he
was abducted at the age of four by a revengeful servant whom I had
discharged from my employment. Heaven knows whether he is living or
dead, but it is impressed upon my mind that he still lives, it may be
in misery, it may be as a criminal, while I, his unhappy father, live
on in luxury which I cannot enjoy, with no one to care for me----"
Florence Linden sank impulsively on her knees beside her uncle's
chair.
"Don't say that, uncle," she pleaded. "You know that I love you, Uncle
John."
"And I, too, uncle."
