New York Dispatch

THE TWIN BRACELETS.
THE STORY OF A HAPPY DISCOVERY

"I will not threaten you, Hilton. Years ago
I made my will, and you will be my heir. I
shall not alter one line of that document, be-
cause I will not bribe you to do my will, or even
to be an honorable man. You may marry whom
you will, may defy my wishes in every way, and
lose my love and my respect, but the money will
still be yours."

The quick, indignant flush on Hilton Graeme's
face, the sudden erectness of his figure, told
that his uncle had well calculated the effect of
his words.

'Truly, with his frank, brown eyes, his sensi-
tive mouth, his broad, white brow, he looked
little like a man to be bribed, but it was as
easy to read that he could be ruled by his affec-
tions.

When he spoke, his voice was low and his
tone pleading.

"Do you mean, Uncle George, that I shall
lose your love and respect if I marry Ada Wil-
let?"

"Or any other woman who is absolutely no-
body. What do you know of her?"

"Only that she is the loveliest, noblest wo-
man I ever saw. If you knew her you would
love her."

"Yes—yes; but I mean, what do you know of
her family?"

"Only what she told me herself, that her mo-
ther died of poverty, after struggling to sup-
port herself by her needle. They were miserably
poor for a long time, and then Mrs. Willet be-
gan to give work to Ada's mother. When she
died Mrs. Willet took Ada to her own home,
and after giving her every advantage her own
child could have enjoyed, adopted her."

"What was her own name?"

"Smith."

"Bah!" said Mr. Hilton, with every expres-
sion of deep disgust. "Well, marry her if you
will. Your present allowance shall be doubled,
but you need not bring her here;" and with a
sudden fierceness he added, "I want no woman
here, to remind me of a past I hoped I had for-
gotten."

Never, in all his recollection of his grave quiet
uncle had Hilton seen him so moved. His voice
was sharp with the pang of some sudden mem-
ory, his eyes flashed, and his whole frame trem-
bled with emotion.

"You are a man now," he said, with one of
those strange impulses to confidence that often
seize the most reserved men, "a man seeking a
wife. I will tell you what has never before
passed my lips to any living being. I have a
wife, somewhere, and a child, it may be."

Utter astonishment kept Hilton silent.

"It is all my own fault," Mr. Hilton con-
tinued, "that I am a lonely, miserable man,
instead of a happy husband and father. Twenty
years ago, when I was past forty years old, I
fell in love.

"Fell in love, for I was fairly insane over
Myra Delano when I had seen her three
times. I courted her with eager attention, rich
presents, flattery, every fascination I could com-
mand. I was not an unattractive man at forty.
I had traveled extensively, had been a close
student, was emphatically a society man, a suc-
cessful lawyer, and commanding large wealth
Myra was twenty-five, superbly handsome, ac-
complished and graceful.

"I thought she loved me. I thought there
was only trust and devotion in the lovelight of
her large blue eyes, the varying color upon her
cheek. We were married, traveled two years
on the continent, and then returned here to this
house, and opened its doors to society. Our
child was nearly a year old when we came home,
and what love I could spare from Myra I gave
to baby Anna.

"We were very popular, being hospitable and
generous, gathering around us refined people,
and both exerting ourselves to the utmost for
the pleasure of our guests. But while we were
traveling, all in all to each other, there was
sleeping in my heart a demon who stirred to
life when we returned.

"Strong as my love I found my jealousy. I
was an idiot—a mad, jealous idiot—for I stung
a proud, sensitive woman to contempt of my
opinion, defiance of my unworthy suspicions.
Now I can see that Myra was but filling her
proper place in society as hostess or guest; but
then, blinded by my jealousy, I grudged any
other man a pleasant look or a cheery word. I
cannot tell you now of every scene that turned
her love for me to fear and dislike. She be-
came pale and miserable, often silent and de-
fiant. Finally she left me.

"Left you?"

"I came home one afternoon, after conduct-
ing an intricate criminal case, and found a note
on my table, telling me Myra could no longer
endure the life of constant quarrelling and re-
proach. She had taken her child, and would
never return to me."

"Did she not go to relatives?"

"She had but few. Her father died while
we were abroad, and having been considered a
rich man, was found to have left less than his
funeral expenses. She had an aunt and some
cousins, to all of whom I went, but who denied
all knowledge of her. After searching with
the eagerness of penitence deep and sincere,
and love most profound, I finally advertised,
and even employed private police investigation.
It was all in vain. I never found wife or
child."

"Yet you think they live?"

"I cannot tell. I remained here for five
years, and then, as you know, went to see my
only sister, dying of consumption."

"And to become my second father."

"Yes, my boy. I found you, my little name-
sake, a sobbing boy of twelve, heart-broken
over your mother's illness and death. You
know the rest of my life-history. I retired from
the pursuit of my profession, traveled with
you, made you my one interest in life. You
filled my empty house and heart, for I loved
you, Hilton, as dearly as I loved my baby
daughter whose childhood is a closed, sealed
book to me."

"But now,
Uncle George, can nothing be
done now?"

"We have been in London three years, and
every month there has been an advertisement
only Myra would understand in the leading pa-
pers. I have never had one line of answer. No,
my boy, it is hopeless now If in the future
you ever know of my wife or child, I trust them
to your care and generosity."

It seemed as if, in the excitement of his re-
cital, Mr. Hilton had forgotten the conversation
that had immediately suggested it.

He rose from his seat, and opening a cabinet
in the room, brought back a small box. It con-
tained a bracelet of hair with an inexpensive
clasp, and a locket.

"When we were in Paris," he said, "I had
this bracelet made of Myra's hair and mine
woven together; she has the companion one.
This tiny coil of gold in the clasp was cut from
the baby's head, our little darling, then but
three months old. It must have been some
lingering love that made Myra still keep the
bracelet like this which she wore constantly.
What is the matter, Hilton? You are as white
as death."

"Nothing
Is your wife's picture in the
Iocket?"

"Yes.
You see how beautiful she was."

"I see more than that," said Hilton;
"and
yet I dare not yet tell you what I hope.
Will
you give me one little hour to see if
"I what?"

"Only one hour—I will be back then."

"Stop!" Mr. Hilton cried, shaking with ex-
citement.

But his nephew was gone.

Hoping, fearing, not knowing what to hope
or fear, Mr. Hilton watched the clock till the
hour should be over.

He walked up and down, he tried to read, he
lived over again that past whose remorseful
memories had been so vividly recalled.

With Myra's picture before him, he thought
again of that wild, fierce love that had been his
happiness and his blight.

"Why was I not calm, reasonable as became
my years and position?" he asked himself, bit-
terly. "Why did I give a boy's love to a wo-
man who had lived in society and respected all
its requirements? I lived an ideal life—My-
ra the actual one around us. Where is Hilton
What can he know? What has he discovered?
Only three minutes gone, and it seems a day
since he was here."

But even before the hour was over Hilton re-
turned.

In his eagerness to question him, Mr. Hilton
did not notice that he came through the draw-
ing-room to the library where he waited, leav-
ing the door a little open.

"Where have you been?" Mr. Hilton asked.

"To procure this," Hilton answered, gravely,
placing in his uncle's hand the duplicate of the
bracelet upon the table.

The same braid of sunny brown hair, with
here and there some of raven black streaked
with gray; the same small clasp with a wee coil
of baby curl under the glass; the same letter-
ing, too "Myra and George" twined together
with fantastic scrolls and twists. For several
moments there was deep silence The old man
could not speak, and the young one would not
break in upon what he felt to be a sacred emo-
tion. At last, lifting his head, George Hilton
asked:

"Does Myra live? Can she forgive me?"

"It is years since she died," Hilton answered,
"but, surely, in Heaven she has forgiven you.
She never spoke of you to your child but in
words of respect and affection, though she al-
ways spoke of you as dead."

"My child! You know my child?"

"I know and love her. Do you not guess,
Uncle George, where I saw that bracelet whose
duplicate I recognized at once, whose face is a
living copy of the one in your locket? Must I
tell you that the child Mrs. Willet rescued from
poverty, and adopted for her own, is my cousin,
and your daughter?"

"Ada Smith?"

"Smith was the name her mother thought
most probably would best conceal her identity,
and Ada was the name of Mrs. Willet's only
child, who died in infancy.
But why have you not brought her to me?"
asked Mr. Hilton, with almost a sob in his voice.

And as he spoke, the door Hilton had left ajar
opened, and across the threshold stepped a tall,
beautiful girl, with sunny brown hair, and large
blue eyes, who waited timidly until her father
came quickly to meet her.

"Anna!" he said, softly.
"Can this be my
baby—my wee daughter? It must be, for it is
my Myra, who has not grown old and gray, as I
have, but lives in perpetual youth. My child, I
once wronged your mother, but have sorrowed
and repented for that wrong. Can you forgive
me?"

The tears were falling fast from Anna Hilton's
eyes, and her voice was trembling with sobs, as
she said:

"My dear father!"

That was all; but as George Hilton folded his
child in his arms, he knew that he was forgiven,
and for him at last there might be happiness in
making others happy.

Good Mrs. Willett mourned and rejoiced at
once over her own loss and her adopted daugh-
ter's good fortune, but consoled herself with the
thought that Ada must have left her to be Hil-
ton's wife, and, after all, they would still be
neighbors.

But she would not give her up until after a
most brilliant wedding, and George Hilton only
welcomed his daughter to her home when he
also gave tender greeting to Hilton's wife.