The next day Mr. Lawrence, leaving his nephew still with Henry, went to the town of which he had spoken. Here insanity had taken hold of him, and here he expected to unravel his mysteries.

The two boys laid their heads together, and arrived at the conclusion that the world is not hollow, after all; and that if they were not heroes yet, a few years would make them so.

“The stuff is in us, Will; all we have to do is to work it up.”

“Yes, Henry; and when you come to see me, the people in our neighborhood had better be prepared. There are no captives for us to rescue, but I guess you can hit on something good.”

“Why, Will,” said Henry, smiling his delight, “you are almost getting to be like any other boy! You—you talk sensibly. What has come over you?”

“Well, when I saw that good came from our journey to the cave, and that we rescued my uncle, I concluded that I had been wrong and you right. I guess it’s safe to play tricks with you, anyway; and——”

“‘Tricks!’” echoed Henry, scowling horribly.

“No, no!” Will hastily declared. “I—I—mean—Henry—Don’t be vexed, Henry; I meant stratagems!”

The affronted patient softened. “Yes, that is the word you meant, Will,” he said, “but you always ought to say what you mean. I always do; and so I never have to stumble, and correct myself, and appear as though I don’t know what I’m talking about.”

Will’s eyes expressed a mild rebuke.

Henry was not fluent in making apologies; on this occasion he simply said, with a look of pain that spoke volumes in his behalf: “It’s in my left knee, Will; hand me that bottle, please.”

“Next time I venture on any more stratagems,—if I ever do venture on any more,—I’ll warn all the sailors[205] and teamsters in the settlement, so that I can be rescued just in the nick of time,” Will Said good humoredly.

“Yes, as long as they didn’t follow too close at your heels, and spoil the fun. Well, Will, I knew I could cure you if you stayed with me long enough; but I didn’t expect to do it so soon.”

When the patient was easy Will read to him. The books that pleased them most were about mustached heroes who cruised in Polynesia, discovering “sea-girt isles” which Captain Cook and later navigators had missed, and which almost invariably held captive some ragged individual, who, after divers adventures with pirates and Chinamen, had finally succeeded in nailing $795,143 up in a mahogany coffin, only to be shipwrecked with it.

In after years Will looked back on those days spent with Henry as the pleasantest in his boyhood. He had no haunting dreams; got into no disgrace; and, except when he thought of poor Stephen, felt no reproaches of conscience.

One day the mother of the girl who had given Henry a glass ink-bottle came in to inquire personally after his health.

“I heard you were getting better, Henry, but I thought I should like to come and see for myself,” she said pleasantly.

“I wonder now if she didn’t hint to her mother to do this!” Henry thought to himself. “I believe she did; but I wish I knew. Why can’t folks tell the truth, anyway, and say right out how it is! How am I to find out! I know when she had a bad cold, I hinted till my mother went there to ask about her! Botheration! I will know!”

“It’s very good of you to take so much interest in me,” he ventured, slightly emphasizing the word you.

“Yes, Henry, when I saw the doctor call here twice yesterday I thought I must step in and see you.”

The boy was silenced, but not satisfied.

“I’ve brought a book for you, Henry, that I think you will like,” she said, taking a handsomely bound volume out of her reticule and laying it on a stand at Henry’s elbow.

[206]

He picked it up. “Her book!” he thought exultingly. “I know it’s hers, for I’ve heard her speak of it. She sent it to me! Of course she did. She sent it!”

Once more his heart bounded with ecstasy; once more he was supremely happy. The blood rushed to his face; his lips quivered; his hands trembled.

The visitor remarked this, and turning to Mrs. Mortimer said sympathetically, “Poor boy! How patiently he bears it!”

Then, stepping up to the bedside, she laid her hands on his head, kissed his forehead gently and affectionately, and asked softly, “Is the pain very bad, Henry?”

It seemed to Henry that his heart stood still.

“It is her mother,” he thought, “and she has kissed me!”

Their eyes met. A woman perceives many things intuitively; Henry’s secret was hers from that moment. For all answer she kissed him again. From that day the two were firm and true friends.

When Henry found himself alone he examined every leaf of that book carefully.

“She sent it,” he muttered, “and perhaps there is something written in it. She may have written, ‘I hope you will like this book, Henry;’ or, ‘This is the story we spoke of, Henry;’ or, ‘When will you be able to start to school again, Henry?’”

The observing reader will perceive that in each of those sentences the hero’s own name occurs. Henry was capable of strong feelings; in some respects he was a boy; in others, a man.

At last, at the top of a useless fly-leaf, he came upon two initial letters. They were not hers; they were not his. The writing was very bad; he could not recognize it. He did not consider that a book-seller often scrawls a cipher or two on the fly-leaves of his books. He was mystified.

Jealousy, however, soon suggested an explanation; jealousy pointed out that those characters were written by her, and that they stood for “J. J.”

Once more he was miserable.

[207]

He saw Johnny Jones in his true colors; saw all his defects, all his emptiness, all his insignificance, all his baseness. And yet he was jealous!

The lover very often feels his rival to be the most despicable person on the face of the earth; and yet, at the same instant, he fears that rival, despicable as he is, will steal away the heart of his beloved.

To a man whose thoughts never rise above the earth on which he walks, this may seem preposterous; but it is true, and may easily be explained—so easily, in fact, that the writer leaves it for some one who can do so more ably and clearly than himself.

It has been said that Henry was fated never to explore the Demon’s Cave. He never did.

The City Fathers, fearing, in their wisdom, that the cave might become the haunt of evil characters or the lair of some wild beast, convoked a council, and drew up a document which began and ended thus:

“Whereas, ...

“Resolved, that said cave be forthwith demolished.”

Then five men and two hundred and seventy-three or seventy-four boys fell to work upon it, and executed this command to the letter. The Demon’s Cave had served its purpose: it was no more.

The view from the opposite bank was marred; but the City Fathers knew that they had done their duty, and their conscience was easy.

After an absence of a week Uncle Dick returned to Mr. Mortimer’s. He had visited the little city; solved his mysteries; and been to see his brother.

He made himself comfortable in an easy chair, and while those interested in him listened attentively, he romanced as follows:—

“Several years ago, when I was still a young man, by prudent and lawful speculations I amassed a fortune. But I was not satisfied; I still wished for more; and one day when a stranger came to me with wonderful stories about making colossal fortunes in a far-off part of the world, I listened eagerly, and secretly resolved to settle my affairs and hasten away with him. I should need[208] every dollar I possessed to embark in this scheme, the stranger told me; and the sooner I could get a............