Craig, Sr., does not explain what brings him to Algiers at this particular time, but immediately starts asking questions regarding the scenes John has gazed upon since leaving the German college of medicine where he received his graduation diploma.

While they are yet talking, who should appear on the scene but Lady Ruth.

"You carried off my fan, John, and I wanted to mend it while I had the chance. Oh! I beg your pardon; I did not know you were engaged. The clerk told me you were in here, but—"

John has eagerly darted forward and has hold of the fair girl's arm.

"I want to introduce some one to you, some one you would see sooner or later. Sir, this is Lady Ruth Stanhope, a young lady to whom I have lost my heart, and my promised wife."

"What!" exclaimed Craig, Sr., "bless my soul, you're only a boy, John."

"Twenty-three, sir," promptly.

"Yes, you're right. Time flies. You've given me quite a little shock, but, by Jove! I'm already favorably impressed with your taste. Will you allow me the privilege of a kiss, my dear?"

"Sir!" indignantly, for in the dim light she does not see that his mustache is snow-white, as is also his hair.

Her tragic attitude rather alarms John.

"Ruth, it's my father!" he cries.

This alters the case.

"Your father! Oh! John, has he—" She sees the warning finger her betrothed raises up, and stops suddenly, for she has been about to say something relative to the presence of Sister Magdalen in the city.

The elder Craig raises the shade, and in the new light Lady Ruth sees a remarkably handsome man of middle age, even distinguished in his manner.

Then he is John's father, too, and that makes quite a difference. She approaches, with hand extended.

"Forgive me, sir. I did not dream John's father was within five thousand miles of Algiers."

"And if you have agreed to be my only boy's wife you must be my daughter, too."

This time he bestows a paternal salute upon her velvety cheek. Possibly Lady Ruth is ready to believe she is entering the Craig family very rapidly; but with a woman's idea of the eternal fitness of small things, she feels very much pleased to know that her future father-in-law is such a distinguished-looking gentleman.

As is proper, she excuses herself, and leaves the room. Doubtless father and son have much to talk over.

When John finds himself alone with the parent for whom he has ever felt the greatest respect without deep filial affection, he grows anxious again.

What can have brought the other across the sea at this particular time? Is it connected with the facts he cherishes; the presence of this other one in Algiers? and if so, what does Duncan Craig mean to do; cut him off with a penny because he has dared allow the longing in his heart to have its way, and has endeavored to find the mother so long lost?

When he steals another look at the elder Craig's face, he cannot see that there is anything like deep anger there, and yet John admits that he is not a good hand at analyzing motives.

He dares not mention the matter himself, and is therefore bound to wait until his respected father speaks, if he does so at all.

Craig, Sr., talks of his trip, declares he is delighted with the glimpse he has had of Algiers, and wonders how it would pay a good doctor to settle down there for the winter months; at which John declares it would just suit him.

Then the other drops a gentle clew to his late movements by asking John which arm it was upon which he was recently vaccinated, which is a puzzler to the young fellow until the name of Malta is mentioned, when he cries:

"Were you at Valetta, father?"

"I reached there two days after you left. Bless me, the whole town was still talking over a brave deed that had recently saved a child's life."

"Nonsense!"

"Well, it pleased me when I heard the name of the young man who saved the child at the risk of his own life. I was proud to know I was his father."

Still no mention of the real cause that has brought him so far from home. John is baffled.

His recent happiness is dimmed a little, and he has an uneasy feeling as though the unknown were about to happen; a weight rests upon his heart.

A strange thing occurs. Sir Lionel passes the door, and immediately Craig, Sr., is taken with a spasm of fury. He acts as if to start to rush out, then faces his son. John sees his father's face for the first time convulsed with fury.

"Do you know that man?" he demands.

"Certainly."

"Is his name Blunt?"

"Yes, sir."

"I thought I could not be mistaken. There is something singular that brings him here at this time. John, is this Reginald Blunt a particular friend of yours?"

"Why, no, sir, in fact, he was my rival for the hand of Ruth Stanhope. But you call him Reginald; this is Sir Lionel Blunt, a colonel from India and the south of Africa."

"Then I made a mistake. It is his cousin. Yet I knew the face; I knew the face."

Again John wonders.

"Did a Blunt ever do you a wrong, father?"

"Yes, I have believed so these many years; have been ready to stake my very life upon it; and yet, and yet. Heaven forgive me for what wicked thoughts I have hugged to my heart."

These words arouse a wild hope in the mind of John Craig. Can it be possible his father has after all these years seen light?

The idea is so wonderful that, although hope causes his heart to beat like a trip-hammer, he remains silent. When the time comes, Craig, Sr., will speak; he knows this of old.

Later on, when John finds himself alone, he begins to think again of the little scheme he has decided to work, for the edification of himself and the future good of Sir Lionel Blunt—ditto Mademoiselle Pauline, the tragedy queen.

It must be well carried out to produce the intended effect, for these are more than ordinarily sensible people and might resent the interference of outsiders in their private affairs.

Whatever happens must not appear to have been prearranged, but be purely accidental.

Perhaps success may come; it is worth an effort at any rate.

John fears more than ever lest Pauline, in the bitterness of her anger, attempt some injury toward the girl he loves and who has made the sweet confession that he is very dear to her.

This causes him much more uneasiness than anything else ever did. He can feel afraid for the safety of Ruth where he would not dream of allowing the sensation on his own account.

Hence his anxiety to mature his plans and clear the path ahead.

In the perfected work he believes he can count on the assistance of Mustapha Cadi. The Arab guide has already proved himself so valuable a man that John is ready to trust him with nearly anything.

So he waits to hear of some message from the old Moorish doctor, and while waiting begins to arrange in his mind the plans for a future campaign.

Pauline is still at the hotel, for he has had a glimpse of her. The actress does not seem very much discouraged by the disasters of the past. She smiles on meeting John, and nods in a cheery way, as though giving him to understand that she is not done with him yet. He feels that he can afford to meet her in the same spirit, although anxious about his Ruth.

Fortune favors him, too.

The British nobleman happens to be standing near as Pauline sweeps past, and as is her professional habit she gives him a bright look, that somehow starts the blood to bounding in the veteran's veins.

He approaches John.

"Pardon me, but did you bow to that lady, my dear doctor?"

John admits that he did, though careful not to show any unusual eagerness about it.

"May I ask who she is?"

"Come! this is rather singular."

"What is?"

"Why, truth to tell, I believe the lady is already interested in you."

"In me?"

Sir Lionel at once puffs out a little, as though feeling consequential. It is gratifying to his conceit to hear that this beautiful being has actually taken notice of him.

"Well, it would not be right for me to say more," continues the diplomatic young man, and this increases the curiosity of the soldier.

"Who is she, doctor?"

"One of the most noted beauties on the American stage," replies John.

"An actress?"

"Yes, and a clever one; very popular in the States, and highly respected. Why, she set half the young men in Chicago wild a year or two ago."

"Including yourself, doctor?" slyly.

"I acknowledge the corn, Sir Lionel. Young men have no show to win her favor."

"Indeed."

"She prefers a gentleman of middle age. A man who has seen life and had varied experiences."

"Wise girl."

"In short, Sir Lionel, Pauline Potter is an admirer of bravery; she adores a soldier who has won his spurs."

"Ahem! Pauline is a favorite name of mine. I've read of her triumphs, too. She was out in Melbourne two years or more ago and carried the town by storm."

"That is a fact."

"Duse take it, d'ye know what I've half a mind to do?"

"What's that, Sir Lionel?" asks John, with a very sober face, but secretly chuckling at the success that is meeting him half-way. Why, he has hardly dug his pit before the baronet comes tumbling into it.

"I've a good notion to strike up a flirtation with Mademoiselle Pauline, to relieve the tedium of the hours. Who knows what result it might have?" thinking that perhaps such a move might arouse a feeling of jealousy in Lady Ruth's heart, and thus disclose to herself the state of her feelings.

"Who knows, indeed? Be careful, Sir Lionel. Pauline is a bewitching creature. She may add your heart to her list of conquests."

"Well, if I entered the lists, I'd give as good as I received," complacently stroking his luxuriant mustache.

"Jove! I really believe you would. And I'm human enough, having adored the bright star in vain, to wish that some one else might cause the beautiful Pauline to feel some of the pangs she gave us. If the notion strikes you, colonel, I wish you success."

Then John immediately branches out upon another subject.

The seed is sown. It will require a little time to germinate, and then perhaps the result may prove satisfactory.

So much for a beginning.

When John finds himself alone, he sets to work trying to kindle a counter irritant, a congenial flame that will burn in the heart of the actress.

Securing a beautiful bouquet of flowers he fastens to them a card upon which he has written in a hand somewhat like the bold chirography of the veteran, the words:

"A compliment to beauty and histrionic renown."

This he first shows to Lady Ruth.

Then a servant is hired to take it to the room of Pauline Potter, and he is to utterly refuse any information beyond the fact that a gentleman paid him to do it.

Of course this will excite the curiosity of the actress, and further developments may soon be expected.

John, in a secure corner, waits, nor does he have long to watch before Pauline appears, going straight to the desk where lies the ponderous tome in which have registered men of note from all over the world.

She is looking for a signature that will in some degree at least correspond with the writing of the note found among the flowers. Only a few minutes she remains there, and then turning away, gives the watchful John a chance to see the smile on her face.

Pauline has, as she believes, discovered the identity of the unknown who sent the flowers.

The little side plot works apace, since each of them already feels an interest in the other. The flame being kindled, the fire will grow of its own accord.

He believes he can turn his attention to other things if necessary.

The remainder of the day is put in with sight-seeing. John notes one thing. Sir Lionel leaves them after a time and saunters back to the hotel. When this occurs, Lady Ruth and the doctor exchange significant looks. They understand that already the seed is beginning to sprout, and the absence of the Englishman is a positive relief to them.

Duncan Craig accompanies the party. Aunt Gwen has already taken a great fancy to the gentleman, and makes it as pleasant for him as possible.

John tries to study his father in secret, but finds it a hard task.

Craig, Sr., is a lawyer of repute in Chicago, a man with a large income. He has been called a Sphinx, and well deserves the cognomen, for no man shows less upon his face the emotions of his heart.

Only in debate, and when addressing a jury that hangs breathlessly upon his words, does he drop the mask and show what fire is in his soul.

So John, as in times of old, is unable to fathom the depths of his father's thoughts.

He is wretched, not knowing whether the coming of Craig, Sr., will influence his mission for good or evil.

And still the expected message from Ben Taleb does not come.

Once more evening vails day's splendor, and another night approaches, a night that John hopes will make a change in this monotonous run of luck, and bring him news.

Imagine his astonishment and secret delight when an open carriage stops at the door of the hotel, and as he glances at the elegant couple seated therein discovers Sir Lionel and the Potter.

It almost takes his breath away.

"Well, he is a hurricane in love, I declare. If he fought in the same way, the Victoria cross wouldn't be enough to decorate him. Jove! they already are dead set, each with the other. That was the cleverest piece of business I ever attempted. If success comes, I'll have to set up as a match-maker."

How gallantly Sir Lionel assists the lovely actress from the vehicle, as if he expects that the whole town may be watching.

Doubtless his actions are in part studied with a view to the effect upon a certain person, nameless, who must assuredly be looking from her chamber window above.

In that case he is apt to go too far, and soon find himself in the wiles of Pauline, who, accustomed to playing with men as one might the pieces on a chess-board, would have little trouble in manipulating one Englishman, fresh from the wilds of South Africa.

So John rests on his oars and waits for the chance to come; and the unseen hand that weaves the fabric of their lives, manipulates the shuttle through the woof.



CHAPTER XXIII.

FOUND—IN THE HOUSE OF THE MOOR.

John hears at last.

A native servant brings him a note, and it can be set down as positive that the young Chicagoan eagerly breaks the seal.

It is from Ben Taleb. He writes a fair English hand, for he is a man of much education.

"Come again this night at eleven. Tell Mustapha to be at the wall where you departed from my house, at that hour, and to rap upon the large stone with the handle of his knife, giving the signal of Mahomet's tomb.

"Ben Taleb, of Morocco."

So John's heart thrills with expectation. This looks friendly; he may be near the end of his journey. It is still dark and uncertain ahead, for even when he has found his mother, a reconciliation between these separated parents seems impossible. The past has too much of bitterness in it to be easily put aside.

His first thought is of Mustapha, and he casts around for the Arab, whom he last saw close by the door of the hotel.

The dusky courier is near by, engaged in a little game with several companion guides, for the Arab as a rule loves gaming, and will risk everything but his horse.

When Mustapha catches his eye he comes up hastily, understanding there is something in the wind.

"We are to go again into the old town."

"When, monsieur?"

"This night. See! Ben Taleb has sent me a message."

The Arab looks at the paper stolidly; it might as well be Sanscrit to him.

"Read it, monsieur."

So John complies, and his guide takes in all that is said. He nods his head to show that he understands.

"This time I, too, will change my appearance, and they will not know that it is Mustapha Cadi who walks through the lanes of old Al Jezira with an unbeliever at his side."

"A bright thought, Mustapha. When shall we leave the hotel?"

"Say half past nine, meet me here. I will have all arranged. The burnoose is safe."

John prepares for business.

He remembers that on the previous occasion he had need of weapons—that they came very near an encounter with the natives—and hence arms himself.

Before quitting the hotel he feels it incumbent upon himself to see Lady Ruth, and tell her where he is going. Nothing like beginning early, you know. She has already commenced to control his destiny.

Lady Ruth has a headache, and is bathing her brow with cologne in the privacy of her little boudoir parlor, but readily consents to see the young man.

"You'll think me a fright, John, with my hair brushed back like this"—John stops this in a thrice as any ardent lover might, taking advantage of the professor's absence, and the fact that Aunt Gwen has gone back in the second room for another chair—"but once in a great while I have a headache that will only succumb to a certain process. You will excuse me?"

"Indeed, I sympathize with you; have had the same splitting headache myself more than a few times. I wouldn't have intruded—"

"You know it's no intrusion, John," with reproach in her eyes.

"Kind of you to say so, my dear, but to the point I have heard from Ben Taleb."

"Oh! your face tells me it is good news."

"I am to visit him at ten."

"To-night?"

"Yes."

"But John, the danger. You yourself told me it was no little thing to enter old Al Jezira in the night. Those narrow lanes, with strange figures here and there, eying one fiercely; the houses that threaten to topple over on one's head; all these things make it a risky place to wander in even during the daytime. After dark it must be awful."

So John describes the plan of action, and interests his affianced, who asks more questions about his former visit, not forgetting the marvelous beauty of the Moor's daughter, for she is human.

Time flies under such circumstances, and hence it is John suddenly exclaims:

"I declare, it's after nine o'clock."

"And my headache is gone."

At this both laugh.

"You must be a wizard, John, to charm it away so completely," she declares.

"I trust I shall always be as successful in the days to come," breathes John, and this of course causes a blush to sweep over the fair maid's face.

He hurries to his room to prepare for what is before him. Deep in his heart arises a prayer for success. Again that feeling of anticipation sweeps over him. Remembering former disappointments, he endeavors to subdue his hopes and to prepare for another set back, but this does not prevent him at times from indulging in dreams of happiness.

It is just half-past nine when he reaches the door of the hotel.

Mustapha Cadi is there, looking confident and bearing a small bundle. Again, in a dark corner, John assumes an Arab covering, while his conductor proceeds to alter his own looks so that any whom they meet may not know who the tall Arab is.

So they tread the lanes of the hill-side town. Just as on the previous night, they meet Arabs, Moors, Kabyles, Jews and negroes. The silence is like that of the tomb, and yet the interior of more than one house doubtless presents a spectacle gay enough to please any lover of light and color, of lovely women, of rippling fountains, sweet flowers that load the air with their incense, and all the accessories a Moorish court can devise, for these people, while keeping the exterior of their dwellings plain, spend money lavishly upon the interior.

Now they are at the wall, and Mustapha gives the signal clearly; indeed, John fancies the hilt of the knife meets the stone with more force than is necessary, or else his ears deceive him.

The signal is heard, is answered, and in another minute they are inside the wall.

As they walk along behind their guide John whispers to the Arab:

"On my word, I believe the fellow neglected to quite secure the door in the wall," to which remark Mustapha replies in low tones:

"Presumably he knows his business, monsieur; anyhow, it concerns us not at all."

Which John takes as a gentle reminder that these Arabs are very particular not to interfere with things that belong to another.

He says no more.

They reach the central room, opening upon the court where plashes the fountain.

The guide stops.

Upon the scented air comes the notes of a musical instrument, a mandolin, and the chords are peculiarly sad and yet so very full of music.

Then a voice breaks forth—such singing John has heard only in his dreams—it is a voice of wondrous power, sympathetic and sweet, a voice that would haunt a man forever.

John knows no Moorish maidens can sing that song, and his heart gives a wild throb as the conviction is suddenly forced upon him that at last, after these weary years of waiting, after his search over half the world, he is now listening to the voice that hushed his infantile cries, and fell upon his ears like a benison.

No wonder, then, he stands there as if made of stone—stands and drinks in the sweet volume of sound as it floods that Moorish court, until the last note dies away as might the carol of a bird at even-tide.

Then he swallows a sob, and braces himself for the coming ordeal. Something behind reaches his ear. He is positive he catches a deep groan as of despair; perhaps it comes from some cage, where this Moorish judge has an enemy in confinement.

He is not given a chance to speculate upon the subject. His guide touches his arm and points. John discovers that his presence has already been made known to the Moor.

He is expected to come forward. Under the circumstances, the young man is in no condition for delay. That song, that heavenly voice, has gone straight to his heart, and he longs to look upon the face of the sweet singer.

So he advances, not slowly and with any show of dignity, but in the eager way that does credit to his heart.

He sees a figure in black, seated near the old Moor, and instantly his eyes are glued upon that face.

Then his heart tells him he now looks upon the face of the mother who has been lost to him so long.

Does she know? has she received his note, or is her presence here simply at the desire of her friend, the old Moor? She does not show any intense excitement as he approaches, and this tends to make him believe she has been kept in ignorance of the truth.

The Mohammedan doctor and his lovely daughter watch his advance with deep interest, for they are human, and take pleasure in a good deed done. The Koran commends it just as thoroughly as does our Bible. At the same time slaves are in waiting near by, armed with deadly cimeters, and should it prove that John has deceived them, that the Sister does not greet him with love, but fear, because he bears the name of Craig, a signal from Ben Taleb will be the signing of his death warrant.

John fastens his eyes hungrily upon the face he now sees. He stands distant only a yard or so, and as yet has not uttered a syllable, only waiting to see if his burning gaze, his looks of eager love and devotion, will have a miraculous effect on his parent.

As he stands thus mutely before her, she becomes aware of his presence for the first time. She looks up at his face, the casual glance becomes immediately a stare; her cheeks grow pale as death; it is evident that something has aroused memories of the past, and they flood her soul.

Slowly the woman arises. Her figure is slight, but there is a nobility about it. Purity is written upon her brow, in her eyes shines the light of faith that dares to look the whole world in the face. And before a word is spoken John Craig knows his mother has been dreadfully wronged in the past, suffering in silence because of some noble motive.

She has gained her feet, and now advances, walking like one in a dream, her hands outstretched. No wonder; it is like a phantasy, this seeing a loved face of the past in the home of a Moor in Algiers. She must indeed think it an illusion.

Now her hand touches John's face. Imagine the intense thrill that sweeps over his frame at the impact. Soul speaks to soul, heart answers heart.

The woman begins to tremble. The look of frightened wonder upon her face gives way to one of astonishment.

"It is no illusion! Alive! Oh, what does this mean? Where am I? Who are you?"

Thus the broken sentences fell from her lips, as though she hardly knows what she says.

John can only think of one reply, and as he puts out his hands, his whole heart is contained in the whispered words:

"Oh, my mother!"

This seems to break the spell. In another instant she has eagerly clasped her arms around his neck.

"Heaven be praised; my prayer is answered. My child has sought me out."

It is the magic power of love.

John's face tells his great joy. Words are denied them for some little time, but with brimming eyes they gaze into each other's face.

"Oh! mother, I have searched for you in many lands. For years I have longed to see you, to tell you that my heart believed in you. By the kindness of Heaven, that time has come."

"And you, my own boy, you believe me innocent, worthy of your love, though the world called me guilty?" she murmurs.

"Yes, because of the great love I bear you, I would believe it against all. Oh! my mother, how barren my life has been, without your companionship, your love. Many, many nights I have wept bitter tears of anguish to think of you somewhere upon the face of the earth, wandering alone, because of circumstantial evidence."

Again from the darkness beyond the court, comes that deep, terrible groan. The old Moor turns his head as though he does not understand it; but the tableau in front is too dramatic to be lost.

"I began to believe I should have to quit this world of woes without seeing you, for though I do not wish to disturb your happiness, my poor boy, you must see from my looks that I am fading like a flower in the fall; that the monster, consumption, is sapping my life. Still, I may live some years to enjoy your love; be of good cheer. How strange to see you a man grown, you whom I left almost a babe. And, John, you so closely resemble, as I knew him then, your father, my poor deceived Duncan, whom Heaven knows I have never ceased to remember with love; who wronged me terribly, but the circumstances were fearfully against me. Heaven has purified my heart by suffering."

"I can stand this no longer!" cries a voice, and a man rushes into view, advancing until he stands before them. "My eyes have been opened to the truth. In bitter tears I repent the sorrowful past. Blanche, behold your husband, unworthy to kiss the hem of your garment."



CHAPTER XXIV.

CONCLUSION.

John has been so amazed at the sight of this newcomer that he can not move a hand or foot. He immediately recognizes his father, of course, but the fact of Duncan Craig being present in this place is what temporarily paralyzes him.

The coming of the other creates a decided sensation; it can be easily understood. Upon the unfortunate wife and mother the effect is most marked.

Many years have passed since last she saw this man, her husband. Circumstances caused her to incur his apparently righteous anger, to be sent out into the world as one unworthy to bear his name.

All this she has borne meekly, doing good wherever Heaven chose to send her. The terrible infliction has tried her soul, and she has been purified as by fire.

After this life suffering she now finds this husband at her feet. His proud spirit is broken, and he seeks forgiveness.

She has long since learned to put away the ordinary small feelings that actuate so many of her sex; but being still human, she cannot but feel gratified at the vindication that has come.

John holds his breath and awaits the outcome of this strange event. He remembers the sudden rage of the old Moor on the previous occasion, when he told him he was a Craig, and fully expects to hear something from the same source again.

Nor is he mistaken.

Ben Taleb has been listening intently, and not a word of what has passed escapes his ear. He catches the confession of the man who humbles himself, and his eyes blaze.

Almost immediately he claps his hands, and half a dozen armed retainers make their appearance, springing from some unknown quarter.

"You have dared enter my house. You, a Craig, who brought years of suffering upon the woman we revere. It is well. Allah has sent you here. Mohammed is satisfied to leave you to our hands. I will be merciful, as the hyena is merciful. Instead of having you torn to pieces I will order you shot. You will learn that a Moor knows how to avenge the wrongs of one for whom he entertains feelings of gratitude."

His words are cutting and cruel, and John, expecting every second to see the slaves make their savage assault upon his father, holds himself in readiness to jump forward and assist him.

The situation is indeed critical.

It looks as though a very trifling matter would precipitate a riot, in which deadly weapons must be used.

Duncan Craig has made a terrible mistake in his past. He has been known as a cold, proud man, though much of this has been assumed in order to deceive himself. Yet no one ever called him a coward.

He knows that bodily danger menaces him, and as a soldier his spirit is at once in arms.

Springing to his feet, he faces the old Moor.

His arms are folded. Upon his face can be seen a defiant light.

"I have entered your house, Ben Taleb, unarmed, bent upon a mission of love. To humble myself. You may have the power to crush me. I have done what I believed to be right just as soon as the light of truth entered my soul. The consequences may be disastrous, but I am ready to meet them."

The old Moor is struck by his manner, but, still moved by the passion that swept over him at mention of that name, he does not allow his anger to abate a particle.

"Because of the past you shall suffer. You have ruined the life of this woman, whose only fault was in loving you, a base, heartless dog. Say your prayers, wretched man, for you have but a few minutes to live."

He faces his judge calmly. An American can meet death with even the stoicism so characteristic of the Moslem race.

The terrible sentence has awakened one who has seemed to be in a stupor. Sister Magdalen arouses herself. The old feelings within her heart are not dead; they have only been slumbering all this while.

She steps between Duncan Craig and the Moor, her face shining with a new light. She raises her hand as if to ward off the impending blow, and her voice is sweet and gentle.

"Ali Ben Taleb, great is thy house and the blessings of Allah hang over it. I understand the motive that prompts you to thus undertake to avenge what you think are my wrongs. But you must halt. I demand a hearing."

"Speak on; my ears are open to your voice. You saved my child from the pestilence that stalketh at noon day, and the heart of Ben Taleb has been full of gratitude ever since," replies the dignified native doctor.

"First, then, hear that, though I thought I should die when I no longer had a home in my husband's house, my eyes were speedily opened, and I saw that Heaven was using me as an instrument to bring about good. So I learned to be patient. Confident of my innocence, I could calmly await the time when the truth would be made known. That hour, Ali Ben Taleb, has come.

"The second point, which I particularly desire to impress upon your mind, is this: You are pleased to say that I was instrumental in snatching your beloved child from the jaws of death. Be it so. Consider, then, what would have been the result had this misfortune never happened to me, if I had always remained in my husband's home."

"Great is Allah, and Mohammed is his prophet, but I fear I should have lost my child," declares the Moor.

"You see the ways of Allah are past finding out. I have long since learned to trust myself to the guidance of a power stronger than human arms.

"You talk of avenging my wrongs, but time has already done that. The result you see here in the actions of my husband. If I forgive him freely and fully, what right have you or any other person to hate him and declare vengeance? Does your Koran teach that; did Mohammed propagate such doctrines?"

The old Moor hangs his head.

"It is not for Ben Taleb to go against the will of the one who saved his child. Take, then, his miserable life, oh, remarkable woman; and as for me, I have learned a lesson."

Again he claps his hands, and the armed retainers disappear. Peace once more smiles upon the scene.

Sister Magdalen turns to her husband, and they converse in low tones, yet with an earnestness that leaves no room for doubt of their sincerity.

Presently John sees his father motion, and he joins them.

"My boy, your mother has forgiven me. Heaven knows I do not merit such action, but she is an earthly angel. And I want to ask you if you can also forgive me, because through my actions you have all these years been deprived of a mother's love?"

His contrite manner, his dejected attitude—these things would go far toward influencing John even were his heart hardened toward the unfortunate author of all this misery, which it is not.

"Ah! father, with such an example before me how could I entertain hard feelings? The past is gone. Why should we live in it. Better that we look forward toward the future and endeavor to find happiness. You know Heaven works in a mysterious way, and much good has come to the world at large through our suffering."

"Then you do forgive, my boy?"

"There is nothing to forgive, sir. Let us strive to forget the past and hope that years of happiness may be before us."

"Ah! John, you have her spirit," sighs his father, as he wrings his boy's hand.

Sister Magdalen smiles sweetly and sadly, for she knows full well that their time together in this world will be short. She does not wish to cast a damper on their present joy, however, and hence says nothing.

The Moor has been greatly impressed by all this. He learns a lesson in life, for, as a rule, the female element in oriental circles has very little to do with the events that occur from day to day, and never engage in any of the discussions upon the leading questions of the hour.

Later on the little party leave the house of Ali Ben Taleb. Their passage through the streets is accomplished in safety, for the Moor sees to it that all are well disguised.

John never learns the truth about the coming of his father. He has reason to believe that Mustapha Cadi must have entered into some arrangement of the older Craig, after hearing his story, although the stolid face of the Arab never betrays his secret.

When Lady Ruth learns that the end has come, and John's quest is at an end, she rejoices with him.

Another day in Algiers.

Then a steamer will be due, upon which they can take passage for France, and later on reach America.

Duncan Craig is very subdued, and intensely devoted to his recovered wife. They have long conversations alone, and all that has passed in the years of their separation is told. Craig opens his heart and reveals his inmost feelings. He tells how he suffered in spirit while showing a proud face to the world, and finally how he came to learn the truth.

John becomes interested in the courtship of Sir Lionel, who, finding his ardent affection returned, pursues his game with such intensity of purpose that he wins.

Seeing them come out of a church that afternoon, Doctor Chicago is influenced to enter, and to his particular gratification learns that a ceremony has just been performed that effectually removes both of them from his track.

When he tells this to Lady Ruth that lively young lady is greatly pleased, and laughs again and again. Thus all obstacles crumble before the path of true love. Their skies are sunny and bright with hope.

Duncan Craig's wife has not become united with an order in bonds that are indissoluble. She changes her garb, but her heart has become so wedded to the work that the probabilities are she will finish her life in the sweet service of charity; and Craig, filled with penitence and newly awakened love, will be only too glad to follow her everywhere, seconding by his money, her efforts.

John means to fling his shingle to the breeze, and start upon the road of life as a full-fledged doctor. His German education will push him forward, for their system is more thorough than the American, and few there are who come out at twenty-three.

He will be separated from Miss Caprice a few months, but she is coming over to see the World's Fair, and remain. Thus Chicago gains though England loses.

With their departure from Algiers on the steamer, we may as well bid them adieu. On board they meet Sir Lionel and his wife, of whom he is at present very proud, but they keep by themselves, for each has a secret that is not for the other to know.

THE END.