“What is it, Hank?”

“Oh, nothing except what I might have expected.  Read it.”

Witherspoon read the letter, and crumpling it, broke out in his impulsive way:  “That’s all right, old fellow.  It fits right into my plan, and now let me tell you what that is.  We’ll leave here to-morrow and go over to Dura and settle up there.  I don’t know how long it will take, and I won’t try to telegraph until we get through.  Dura isn’t known as a harbor, it is such a miserably small place, but ships land there once in awhile, and we can sail from there.  But the main part of my plan is that you are to go with me and live in Chicago; and I’ll bet we have a magnificent time.  I’ll go in the store, and I’ll warrant that father—­don’t that sound strange?—­that father can get you a good place on one of the newspapers.  You haven’t had a chance.  Hank, and when you do get one, I’ll bet you can lay out the best of them.  What do you say?”

“Henry,” said the dark-visaged DeGolyer—­and the light of affection beamed in his eyes—­“Henry, you are a positive charm; and if I should meet a girl adorned with a disposition like yours, I would unstring my heart, hand it to her and say, ‘Here, miss, this belongs to you.’”

“Oh, you may find one.  I’ve got a sister, you know.  What! are you trying to look embarrassed?  Do you know what I’m going to say?  I’m going to lead you up to my sister and say, ’Here, I have caught you a prince; take him.’”

“Nonsense, my boy.”

“That’s all right; but, seriously, will you go with me?”

“I will.”

“Good.  We’ll get ready to-night and start early in the morning.  But I mustn’t forget to see the priest again.  He was a friend when I needed one; he took charge of uncle’s burial.  But,” he suddenly broke off with rising spirits, “won’t we have a time?  Millionaire, eh?  I’ll learn that business and make it worth ten millions.”

CHAPTER IV.

A strange request.

The next morning, before it was well light, and at a time when brisk youth and slow age were seeking the place of confession, Henry Witherspoon went to the priest, not to acknowledge a sin, but to avow a deep gratitude.  The journey was begun early; it was in July.  The morning was braced with a cool breeze, the day was cloudless, and night’s lingering gleam of silver melted in the gold of morn.  Young Witherspoon’s impressive nature was up with joy or down with sadness.  The prospect of his new life was a happiness, and the necessity to leave his old uncle in a foreign country was a sore regret; so happiness and regret strove against each other, but happiness, advantaged with a buoyant heart as a contest-ground, soon ended the struggle.