The great sighing of the mountain pines seemed to blazen the secret of a great man's cowardly crime.
And yet Hugh Worthington died with his hand feebly clasping his motherless child's, a smile upon his lips, for she had promised never to betray the blackened past.
"Give him back his own," muttered old Hugh, whose lips had feebly owned that he had allowed Randall Clayton's good name to be vilely accused.

"Give him his own!" imploringly faltered the dying Croesus.
And so, the legacy of a crime came as a crushing burden to the girl wife whose clear eyes had looked into her father's darkened soul.
The papers and telegrams which the lonely heiress was forced to examine told her clearly how Randall Clayton's pathway had been beset with snares.
She shuddered as she read the telegrams which proved a catastrophe which she could not avert.

"And Arthur Ferris--my husband in name--knew all! This is his work!" She roused herself to action and gave over the dead clay to kindly hands when, at midnight on the day of her father's death, she had received all the dispatches which told her of Randall Clayton's evasion.

Kneeling by her father's body she vowed herself a priestess of Justice.

"They may have killed him.