Virgies Inheritance | Page 3

a dear friend of my early life. He has a
cultivated wife, and two daughters about your own age; he will believe
me when I tell him the truth regarding our misfortunes, and will, no
doubt, give you a home in his own family, and care for your interests
until--woman's best gift--the love of some true man comes to you, and
you have a home of your own. New York is almost on the other side of
the world, and no evil breath of the past will be likely to touch you
there. What do you say, Virgie?--may I write to my friend, giving you
to his care?"
"Yes, papa," Virgie said, wearily assenting to his project, more to put
an end to the painful conversation than because she had any choice in
the matter, "you may do whatever your judgment tells you is best, and I
will be guided entirely by your wishes."
Mr. Abbot looked intensely relieved.
This question had troubled him for many months, and he had always
shrunk from speaking of it, because of the pain which he knew it would
inflict. With this vital matter settled, he felt that he could give up all
care, and spend the few remaining days of his life in peace with his
idolized child, and calmly await the end, which he knew was so near.

"That is right, dear," he said, with a contented smile. "I am greatly
comforted. I will write a full account of everything, together with my
wishes for your future, and it will be ready to be sent to Mr. Bancroft at
a moment's warning. I do not care to have him know anything about us
just yet; hark! what was that?" he broke off abruptly, and started into a
listening attitude.
"Only the wind and the storm beating against the house, I think,"
answered Virgie, lifting her head, and calmed for the moment as she,
too, listened to what had seemed an unusual noise.
"It is a wild night, my child. I hope no one is homeless in this storm,"
said Mr. Abbot. "I am thankful for this peaceful, though humble refuge,
after the turmoil and wrong of a few years ago, only it is hard for you to
be so shut away and isolated from those of your own age. But surely
that was a knock, Virgie."
The young girl started to her feet as a loud and imperative rap echoed
through the small entry outside the parlor.
It was seldom that they were disturbed at that hour of the evening, for
among the hard working people of the mining district in which they
lived, there were few who were not early wrapped in slumber after the
labors of the day.
Virgie passed quickly out of the cheerful parlor into the tiny hall, and
opened the outer door, though the heavy burglar chain was fastened and
would admit of its being opened but a little ways.
"Who is there?" she asked, in her clear, sweet tones.
"A stranger who has lost his way and seeks direction to the nearest
public inn," answered a rich, mellow voice from without.
Mr. Abbot now came out, a heavy shawl wrapped about his shoulders
to shield him from the dampness.
"It is more than a mile from here, and a very poor place at that," he

said.
The stranger outside gave a low whistle of dismay at this information,
and muttered something about being in "a very uncomfortable fix."
Mr. Abbot unfastened the chain, threw wide the door, and invited the
unknown to come in out of the storm.
"Thanks," was the courteous response; "but I will not trespass upon
your hospitality if you will kindly direct me to the inn of which you
speak. The darkness came on so suddenly that I lost my way. I left
Oreana at noon to go to Humboldt, but my horse sprained his foot on
the rough mountain road, and I have had to come at a snail's pace ever
since."
"You are sadly out of your way, indeed, if you are going to Humboldt,
for it is a good ten miles from here. Come in--come in out of the
pouring rain, and we will discuss what will be best for you to do,"
returned his host, in a hearty tone, for he was won by the man's
frankness and courtesy.
The stranger stepped, dripping, into the hall, a tall, straight figure,
booted and spurred, and enveloped in waterproof jacket, trousers, and
havelock.
"Thanks," he said, "you are very kind; but allow me to introduce myself;
my name is Heath--William Heath, at your service."
"Then, Mr. Heath, come to my fireside and dry and warm yourself; my
name is Abbot and this is my daughter," replied Mr. Abbot, leading the
way into