ran to the room. He was dying, but just before he passed away, he held out this canvas which he always kept by his pillow.
"'You had faith, boy, take it,' he called to me, then, between the hacks of his death rattle, managed somehow to gasp out,—'get the gold.'
"I was only a youngster, and I was terribly frightened, as you may imagine, for he choked on that last word,—'gold.' It was just at that very second that the bolt came, the one that struck that other tree.
"Afterwards, Father had the painting framed and hung up here. And, of course, I forgot it like the fool yarn it was— Hello!" he paused and looked startled; "what's that?"
"Where? I didn't see anything."
Now, the older man was sure he had seen a figure steal down the hallway past the door, but he dismissed the idea as some vagary. It was altogther too wild a night, and incomprehensible things were happening everywhere—things which could be sensibly explained, of course, he assured himself.
But the boy was leaning forward to grasp his father's hands.
"Father," he pled, "let me take the Aileen and make a try for it"
"No, Phil, we won't go chasing rainbows. Your grandfather was right about it. No good would come of such a fool expedition.
"Besides," he went on—more crisply now, "I've had a letter today. I didn't tell you about it before, because I
