Threads gathered up

She had worked diligently during this time, gaining fresh laurels with every season. She had removed from the retired lodgings which she had taken at first upon coming to San Francisco, into a better locality, where she had a handsome suite of rooms in a well-known apartment-house.

These were bright and pleasant, tastefully furnished also, and Virgie thoroughly enjoyed the pretty home which she had won by the labor of her own hands.

When she had made the change she gave the contents of her other home to Chi Lu, who had married a thrifty woman of his own country, and together they were carrying on quite a flourishing laundry business, while, in place of the faithful Chinese, Virgie had taken a bright and capable Swedish woman.

One evening, after a dreary, rainy day, the bell under the name of “Alexander,” in the house of which we have been speaking, was pulled by a vigorous hand.

Virgie was in her chamber, putting her little girl to bed—a service which she enjoyed, for the child always expected a merry frolic and then some “pretty story before the dustman came.”

She heard the bell, and soon after voices in the pretty parlor leading from her chamber, and she wondered who could have chosen such a stormy night to call up her, for she seldom had visitors, even in pleasant weather.

Presently Mina, the Swede, came to her, and said that a gentleman was waiting to see her.

“Who is he? Did he give no name?” Virgie questioned, surprised.

“No, madam. I asked him, and he said there was no need to take his name, for you would know him when you saw him.”

Virgie’s heart beat more quickly at this, and a feeling of dread took possession of her.

Mr. Knight came to see her occasionally, and one or two of his clerks had been there a few times on business, but Mina knew them, so she was sure it was none of these, but someone who must have known her in the past.

She finished the story she was telling little Virgie, made some trifling changes in her toilet, and then went into the parlor.

A gentleman was seated by the table, with his back toward her, and though he had on a heavy overcoat, and his form was considerably bowed, and his hair very gray, there was something familiar about him that sent a sudden shock through Virgie’s frame.

As she went forward to greet him he suddenly arose and turned toward her, bending a pair of piercing black eyes searchingly upon her face.

Virgie stopped short as she met that glance, all the color leaving her face, while a startled cry escaped her lips.

The man flushed, and his eyes sank guiltily before hers as he said, in a low tone:

“You know me, then, Virgie?”

“Uncle Mark!” she gasped, and then sank weakly into a chair.

“Yes, I am your Uncle Mark,” the man returned, a touch of bitterness in his tone; “but I scarcely expected that you would acknowledge me as such. Where is your father?”

“Dead.”

Mark Alexander staggered as if some one had struck him a sudden blow.

“When did he—die?” he asked, with whitening lips.

“Six years ago last November.”

The man sank back into his chair, and bowed his head upon the table, with a groan.

Profound silence reigned in the room for several minutes, while each occupant was tortured by bitter thoughts.

Virgie could scarcely realize that at last the man who had wrought her father’s ruin was sitting in her presence. She had never seen him but once since that dreadful time when the thunderbolt had fallen to crush them all, and that had been when she had fled from him in the street more than three years previous. She wondered how he had found her now. She had hoped she should never meet him again; she feared him; she abhorred him for the crime and wrong he had committed.