CHAPTER XVIII.
One afternoon the postman brought to Fink a letter with a black seal.
Having opened it, he went silently to his own room.

As he did not return, Anton anxiously followed, and found Fink sitting on the sofa, his head resting on his hand.
"You have had bad news ?" inquired Anton.
"My uncle is dead," was the reply; "he, the richest man, perhaps, in Wall Street, New York, has been blown up in a Mississippi steamer.

He was an unapproachable sort of man, but in his way very kind to me, and I repaid him by folly and ingratitude.

This thought imbitters his death to me.

And, besides that, the fact decides my future career." "You will leave us!" cried Anton, in dismay.
"I must set off to-morrow.