All things had become new to him, and in the light of his great happiness the very face of old Cambridge was changed. Fate had always been against him, and had played him the shabbiest of tricks, but now he felt that she might do her worst, he held a talisman against misfortune while his love remained to him. Thinking thus he walked along briskly, and the sharp wind brought a faint color into his sallow face. He tried to think and plan, but his ideas were whirled away before they had taken form, and he felt a giant’s power to overcome with each inspiring breath of the crisp, cool March air. Aubrey should plan for him, but he would accomplish.

Livingston had apartments on Dana Hill, the most aristocratic portion of Cambridge. There he would remain till the autumn, when he would marry Molly Vance, and remove to Virginia and renew the ancient splendor of his ancestral home. He was just dressing for an evening at the theatre when Briggs entered his rooms. He greeted him with his usual genial warmth.

“What!” he said gaily. “The great scientist here, at this hour?”

Then noticing his visitor’s anxious countenance he added:

“What’s the matter?”

“I am in difficulties and come to you for help,” replied Reuel.

“How so? What is it? I am always anxious to serve you, Briggs.”

“I certainly think so or I would not be here now,” said Reuel. “But you are just going out, an engagement perhaps with Miss Molly. My business will take some time—”

Aubrey interrupted him, shaking his head negatively. “I was only going out to wile away the time at the theatre. Sit down and free your mind, old man.”

Thus admonished, Reuel flung himself among the cushions of the divan, and began to state his reasons for desiring assistance: when he finished, Livingston asked:

“Has nothing presented itself?”

“O yes; two or three really desirable offers which I wrote to accept, but to my surprise, in each case I received polite regrets that circumstances had arisen to prevent the acceptance of my valuable services. That is what puzzles me. What the dickens did it mean?”

Aubrey said nothing but continued a drum solo on the arm of his chair. Finally he asked abruptly: “Briggs, do you think anyone knows or suspects your origin?”

Not a muscle of Reuel’s face moved as he replied, calmly: “I have been wondering if such can be the case.”

“This infernal prejudice is something horrible. It closes the door of hope and opportunity in many a good man’s face. I am a Southerner, but I am ashamed of my section,” he added warmly.

Briggs said nothing, but a dark, dull red spread slowly to the very roots of his hair. Presently Aubrey broke the painful silence.

“Briggs, I think I can help you.”

“How?”