One thing gave him some satisfaction.  He at least knew that Virgie was in San Francisco, and that she must have been residing in the State for some time to allow her the right to apply for the divorce there.  She must have been there even while he was there searching for her, and it seemed terribly cruel to him that he should have missed her.

But he resolved that he would find her yet, if she lived.  Poor darling! what a bitter lot had been hers during this last year, believing what she must of him.  It should not go on, however; he would seek her and vindicate himself; he would prove to her that he had never wavered in his truth to her in spite of all the evidence against him.  He would prove his love for her, and he would win her again, even though the dread decree had been pronounced, bring her back with him to Heathdale, and they would be happy yet.

And his child—­the precious little one whom he had never seen—­his heart cried out for her with an uncontrollable yearning—­his baby! his miniature Virgie!

Thus, as we already know, he went directly to Heathdale where he arrived on the very evening that Lady Linton had received the papers announcing that his wife had secured a decree of divorce.

He was very wretched in spite of his sister’s hearty welcome and efforts to render him comfortable; and during her absence from the room to see that something unusually nice should be prepared for him, anxious, bitter thoughts crowded his mind, and he rebelled against the arbitrary weariness and lassitude that bound him, as with chains of iron, and compelled him to rest.

Gradually, however, his glance began to wander over the familiar room, lingering now upon some picture, now upon some rare article of virtu, each endeared by peculiar associations, until at length it rested upon the table and that document, which his sister had dropped and forgotten in her surprise at his appearance.

Its likeness to the one he had previously received startled him.

He arose and went forward to examine it.  Its postmark told him at once whence it had come.

A deathly paleness overspread his face; a horrible numbness fell upon his heart.

With trembling hands he tore it open, and one glance was sufficient to tell him the nature of its contents.

It was the one bitter blow too much, even though he had half-expected it, and, with a despairing cry that would have melted the hardest heart, “Lost! lost!  Virgie, my love! my love!” he fell prone upon the floor, clutching that fatal paper in his grasp.

Long weeks of watching and anxiety followed—­weeks during which Lady Linton began to fear that she was paying dearly for her plotting and treachery, even though her son might become the master of Heathdale in the event of her brother’s death.

But he did not die.  His constitution was naturally rugged, and by the end of winter, after many alternations of hope and fear, he slowly began to rally.