their own inferences. A person of my position
is surely above suspicion. The intelligence of
the present company needs, I think, no further
guarantee. Besides, Mr. Harding, the Secretary
of the Royal Society, is a personal enemy of
mine, ever since I refuted his interpretation of
a passage in Boyle. No, I will not expose myself
to pain and annoyance from that
mischievous man's malice."

The stranger bowed and was silent, but a
strange scowl came over his hard features.

The next morning, the dean walked up and
down the gravel walk of his garden, his
daughter's hand resting fondly on his shoulder.
If ever a man was happy, the dean was that
bright spring morning. A loving daughter to
share his hopes and triumphs; a home beautified
by art and luxury. He had wealth, social
position; and, to crown all, the fame of an
unexpected and almost unprecedented discovery. Can
you write a prouder epitaph on any man's grave
than this? "He succeeded in all he had ever
undertaken."

"How happy I am, dear papa," said Bertha,
"to see you at last victorious, after your long
hunt for this secret;" and, as she said this, her
large brown eyes glowed with pure unselfish
love; "you are the great discoverer of the age.
They will erect statues to you."

"I am, indeed, happy; God be thanked!"
replied the dean, stooping to kiss his daughter's
forehead.

The sound of footsteps caused both the dean
and Bertha to look round. It was Bessy, rosier
than ever with running; her white apron
fluttering in the wind, her little feet tripping over
the grass. She bore a large official-looking letter
in one hand, its broad red seal uppermost.

"What can it be, papa?" said Bertha, her
eyes expanding with surprise; "it wants an
hour to post time."

"The letter has come, miss," said Bessy,
"from that gentleman who was here yesterday.
He left it to be brought up here to
your papa an hour after the coach started for
London."

The dean took it, and nervously broke the
seal, as Bessy ran back to the house, gaily as
she had come. It ran thus:

"The President of the Royal Society requests
the honour of the Dean of Salisbury's presence
on Tuesday, the first of April, the next general
meeting of the Society, several of the members
desiring to witness his remarkable experiments
in chemistry both in fixing mercury and
producing metals.

"Signed, JOSEPH BANKS, Knt., President,
"Somerset House.

"P.S. Mr. James Harding, the Secretary of
the Society, is the bearer of this letter."

The letter dropped from the dean's hand, the
colour left his face, a cold dew broke out on his
forehead, he staggered to a garden-seat, and sat
down with his head bent. Bertha was alarmed;
she sat down by his side, and seized his hand.

The dean picked up the letter, and showed it to
her.

"Are you ill, dear papa?" she said.

"No, darling—it's the letter, the letter," he
murmured.

"Why, it's brave, good news, dear papa—
more honours for the great genius in chemistry
—the great Royal Society want to bestow its
honours upon you."

The dean was silent; he sighed, and still kept
his head hung down. He looked now more like a
convicted criminal than a genius or discoverer
whom the world was eager to honour.

Bertha looked at her father for a moment;
then, with the quick insight of a woman, she
saw that some great blow, whence or how she
could not understand, had fallen upon him. She
suddenly threw her arms round his neck, and
kissed him several times; then she said,

"Oh, dear papa, tell me what has happened.
Something dreadful has happened, I know; but
you will not keep it from Bertha, who loves you
so much."

The dean was silent; he still kept his eyes
fixed on the ground. He was crushed to the
earth.

"Oh, dear, dear papa, do tell me—you terrify
me with this frightful silence. What can there
be so terrible in exhibiting those wonderful
experiments of yours before the Royal Society?
Will they not be wonderstruck like every one
else, and acknowledge you the great genius of the
age, as every one else does? They must—they
shall. Dear, dear papa, do look up and tell me
what has happened."

There was a long interval of silence; then the
dean gently and fondly removed his daughter's
arms from his neck, and looked up. He appeared
in that short time to have grown older. His
voice was low and tremulous. His eyes seemed
to have lost part of their colour, and to have
shrunk into their sockets. He pressed his
daughter's hands between his own, which
trembled as if they were palsied.

"Dear daughter," he said, "what I tell you
will give you great pain. It will give me greater
pain to tell you. You will have to listen to the
story of your father's shame and guilt. I am a
self-deceived man, and, what is worse, the
deceiver of others. I can no more make gold than
the poorest apothecary in the town. I had for
years dreamt over books of alchemy, till a wicked
longing for power and wealth dominated over
my mind. I began to believe in the possibility
of making gold, yet never could attain the
secret. I still believe in the possibility; but,
alas! I am no nearer the secret than I was
twenty years ago. I may never discover it—
indeed, I fear, greatly fear, I never shall—some
one link is wanting, and that one link wanting,
all the other links of the great chain are useless.
My child, a year ago, as I sat at my furnace,
Satan tempted me a—voice seemed to say from
the centre of the flame, 'Fool! why try and
discover the inscrutable? Pretend to discover it, and
you will gain by that pretence the very power you
crave.' Bertha, darling, I wickedly and basely