Across the hall in his own room, Jim Weston sat alone, ensconced in a big comfortable chair.  He was re-reading one of his favorite books, “Essays of Nature and Culture.”  He was engrossed in the chapter, “The Great Revelation,” and as he read, the music across the way beat upon his brain, and entered into his soul.  “Every bit of life is a bit of revelation; it brings us face to face with the great mystery and the great secret.” . . .  He paused, and listened absently to the music.  “All revelation of life has the spell, therefore, of discovery.” . . .  The words of the song the young people were now singing again arrested his attention.  He liked “Thora”; it was a song of the north, and Glen had often sung it to him.  “There is the thrill, the wonder, the joy of seeing another link in the invisible chain which binds us to the past and unites us to the future.”  The words of the essay startled him.  He laid aside the book, and rested his head upon his hand.  “Another link in the invisible chain which binds us to the past.”  He thought of her who had made his life so pleasant.  He glanced above his desk, and a mistiness came into his eyes.  Memory now was the only link which bound him to the past, to those sweet days of long ago.

And as he sat there, the singing still continued.  He only half comprehended the meaning of the words, for he was living in another world.  But presently he started, clutched the arms of his chair, and bent intently forward.

  “’Tis a tale that is truer and older
  Than any the sagas tell;
  I loved you in life too little,
  I love you in death too well!”

In the adjoining room the happy young couple went on with their singing, and when the song was finished, they stopped, said something in a low voice, and then laughed joyously.  But the ruler of Glen West paced restlessly up and down his study.  He heard no more singing that night, for he had softly closed the door.  Long after the rest had retired, and the house was wrapped in silence, he continued his pacing, only stopping now and then to gaze longingly at the picture above his desk.  Since his return from the hills Jim Weston had learned a new lesson, but before it could be applied, it was necessary for him to undergo the severest mental and spiritual struggle he had ever known.

CHAPTER XXI

THE PLOTTERS

After Curly had been dumped unceremoniously beyond the Golden Crest, and sternly ordered never to return, he had sped hurriedly forward.  He was careless whither his steps led, so long as he was away from Glen West and that frowning mountain ridge.  Fear still possessed his soul, and he believed that he had escaped death as if by a miracle.  He was so frightened that he did not realise how tired and hungry he was until he had done a considerable distance, stumbling at every step, and at times falling prone upon the ground.  His bruises he hardly felt until