"Miss Dundas."

Netty rose ungraciously, and presented a frigid hand to Dora, casting a sharp, feminine eye over the newcomer's black dress and hat, which signified that she, too, was in mourning. This Netty regarded as rather impertinent.

The girls had never been intimate friends, although they had seen a great deal of one another when Mrs. Swinton took Dora under her wing and introduced her into society, which found Netty dull, and made much of Dora. This aroused a natural jealousy. The girls were opposite in temperament, and, in a way, rivals.

"Netty, is your mother really ill?" asked Dora, as she extended her hand, "or is she merely not receiving anyone?"

"Mother has a bad headache, and is lying down. She is naturally very upset."

"Oh, Netty, it is terrible!" sobbed Dora, breaking down hopelessly. "It can't be true—it can't!"

"What can't be true?" asked Netty, coldly.

"Poor dear Dick's death. It will kill me."

"I don't think there is any doubt about it," snapped Netty. "And I don't see why you should feel it more than anybody else."

"Netty, that is unkind of you—ungenerous. You know I loved Dick. He was mine—mine!"

"Forgive me, but was he not also Nellie Ocklebourne's, and the dear friend of I don't know how many others besides? But none of them have been here since they heard that he got into a scrape before he went away."

"There has been some hideous blunder."

"No, it is simple enough," said Netty, curling herself up on a low settee. "Think what it may mean to me—just engaged to Harry Bent—and now, there's no knowing what he may do. His people may resent his bringing into the family the sister of a—forger."

"Netty, you sha'n't speak of Dick like that!"

"Why shouldn't I? Did he think of me? Really, you are too absurd! I don't see why you should excite yourself about it. If you think that he cared for you only, you are merely one more foolish victim."

"Netty, how can you talk of your brother so! He is accused of a horrible crime. Why don't you stand up for him? Why don't you do something to clear him? What is your father doing—and your mother?"

"Surely, they can be left to manage their affairs as they think best."

"And I, who loved him, must do nothing, I suppose," cried Dora, hysterically. "I loved him, I tell you, and he loved me. We were engaged."

"Engaged! What nonsense! Really, Dora!"

"No one knew, Netty," sobbed Dora, aching for a little feminine sympathy, even from Netty. "Here is his ring, upon this ribbon round my neck."

"Surely, you don't think that is interesting to me—and at such a time."

"Well, if it isn't," cried Dora, flashing out through her tears, "perhaps your brother's honor is. I must see your mother, and urge her to refute the awful slanders spread about by Vivian Ormsby."

"Oh, so your other admirer is responsible for spreading the story of Dick's misdeeds. I think he might have kept silent. You must know that it is only because Ormsby made himself ridiculous about you, and because Dick hated Ormsby, that he flirted with you, and so caused bad blood between them. I think that you might leave Dick alone, now that he is dead."

"Dead! Dead! He can't be," cried Dora desperately. "I must see your mother," she insisted. "I shall go up to her room. This is no ordinary time, and my business is urgent."

Netty shrugged her shoulders, and walked out of the room, apparently to inform her mother of the visit. After a long delay, Mrs. Swinton entered, looking white and haggard.

"What is it you want of me?" she asked, with a feeble assumption of her usual languid tone.

"Oh, Mrs. Swinton, it isn't true—tell me it isn't true! I can't believe it of him."

"You are referring to Dick's trouble? Our sorrow is embittered by the knowledge that our poor boy went away—"

Words failed her. She could not lie to this girl, whose eyes seemed to be searching her very soul. What did she suspect?

"My father told me of the checks," said Dora. "They were made out to you. Yet, they say he forged them. How could he? I don't understand these things; and father's explanation didn't enlighten me at all. I loved Dick—you know I did."

"I suspected it, Dora, and had things gone well with us, I should have been as pleased as anybody, if the affection between you ripened—"

"Ripened!" cried Dora, with fine contempt: "He loved me, and I loved him. We were engaged. No one was to know till he came back, but now—well, what does it matter who knows? But those who slander him and take away his good name must answer to me. Vivian Ormsby was always his enemy. But you—you must have known what he was doing. He couldn't take all that money and go away in debt, and talk as he did of having got money from his grandfather by extortion. He told me that you'd been able to arrange things for him."

"He told you that!" cried Mrs. Swinton, startled into revealing her alarm.

"Yes, he told me that his grandfather had grown impossible, and that you were the only one who could get money out of him. He said you'd got lots of money, and that things were better for everybody at home—those were his words. Yet, they say he altered checks. What do they mean? How could he?"

"My dear, it is too complicated a matter for a girl like you to understand. You must know that to discuss such a matter with me in this time of sorrow is little less than cruel."

"Cruel? Isn't it cruel to me, too? Isn't his honor as dear to me as to his mother? I tell you, I won't rest until he is set right before the world. Where is Mr. Swinton? He is a man, and can make a public denial on behalf of his son. Surely, he's not going to sit quiet, and let Mr. Ormsby—"

"It is not Mr. Ormsby—it is his grandfather who repudiates the checks, Dora. Don't you think that you are best advised by me, his mother? Do you think I didn't love Dick? Do you think that, if there were any way of refuting the charges, I should be silent? His father knows that it is useless. You will serve Dick best by burying your love in your heart, and saying as little as possible. He died the death of a hero; and as a hero he will be remembered by us, not by his follies. And, after all, what was the tricking of his grandfather out of a few thousands that were really his own? It was a family matter, which should never have been made public at all."

"That's what I told father," faltered Dora.

"The best thing you can do, Dora, is to mollify Mr. Ormsby. Don't anger him. Don't urge him on to blacken Dick's memory, as he is sure to do if you don't look more kindly upon his suit. He expects to marry you. He told me so when I met him at dinner at the Bents'. Your father wishes it, and, if Dick could speak now, he would wish it, too—that you would do everything in your power to close the lips of his rival. Ormsby is a splendid match for a girl like you, an eldest son, and immensely wealthy. He worships you, and is a stronger man altogether than poor Dick, who was weak, like his mother. What am I saying—what am I saying? My sense of right and wrong is dulled. Help me. Bring me that chair. Oh! I'm a very wretched woman, Dora!" cried the unhappy mother, sinking into the chair Dora brought forward. "Take warning by me. Love with your head and not your heart, Dora. Don't risk everything for a foolish girl's passion, when a rich man offers you a proud position."

"I shall never marry Vivian Ormsby," said Dora, scornfully, "I shall never marry anybody. Oh, Dick!—I am his. And you, Mrs. Swinton—I thought one day to call you mother. Yet, you talk like this to me, as though Dick were unworthy—you whom he idolized."

"Don't taunt me, Dora!" moaned the wretched mother. "I shall always be fond of you for Dick's sake. Good-bye—and forgive me." Mrs. Swinton tottered from the room with arms extended, a pitiable figure; and Dora stood alone, crestfallen, and faced with the inevitable.

Her idol was thrown down. Yet, what did it matter that his feet were clay? She stood where Mrs. Swinton had left her, rooted to the spot as if unable to move. This room was in Dick's home, and shadowed by remembrances of him.

The door opened, and the rector looked in, with a face so ghastly and drawn that she almost cried out in terror. His hair was white, and his eyes looked wild.

"Oh, you, Miss Dundas," he murmured, as he advanced with an extended, limp hand. "I thought I heard my wife's voice."

"I have come to offer my condolences," murmured Dora, unable to do more than utter commonplaces in the face of his grief.

"Yes, yes—thank you—thank you. It is a great blow, but I suppose we shall be reconciled in time."

With that, he turned abruptly and hurried away into the study, not trusting himself to say more, and omitting to bid her adieu.

Her mission had failed, and, as Netty did not return, she let herself out of the house quietly, and, with one last look round at Dick's home, crept away.



CHAPTER XV

COLONEL DUNDAS SPEAKS HIS MIND

Colonel Dundas entered the dining-room with his hands full of letters, and gave a sharp glance at Dora, who was there before him this morning, sitting with a newspaper in her lap, and her hands clasped, gazing abstractedly into space.

People who knew of her regard for Dick Swinton spared her any reference to the young man's death; but others, who loved gossip and were blind to facial signs, babbled to her of the rector's trouble. The poor man was so broken, they said, that he could not conduct the Sunday services. A friend was doing duty for him. But Mrs. Swinton had come out splendidly, and was throwing herself heart and soul into the parish work, which the collapse of her husband seriously hindered. It was gossiped that she had sold her carriage and pair to provide winter clothing for the children of the slums. The gay wife had quite reformed—but would it last? How dull it was in the church without the rector, and what an awful blow his son's death must have been to whiten his hair and make an old man of him in the course of a few days?

Dora listened to these tales, unwilling to surrender one jot of news that in any way touched the death of her lover. She found that the people who talked of Dick very soon forgot his heroism. Mark Antony's words were too true: "The evil that men do lives after them. The good is oft interred with their bones."

Now, the colonel flung down his letters, and, taking up one that was opened, handed it to Dora.

"There's something in this for you to read—a letter from Ormsby, Dora."

"I don't want to read anything from Mr. Ormsby."

"I've read it," said the colonel awkwardly, "as Mr. Ormsby requested me to. I think you'll be sorry if you don't see what he says."

Dora's face hardened as she took out the closely-written letter, addressed to herself, and enclosed under cover to her father.

"MY DEAR MISS DUNDAS,

I have been very wretched since our last interview, when you judged me unfairly and said many hard things, the worst of which was your dismissal, and your wish that I should not again enter your father's house. He has invited me to come, and I am feverishly looking forward to your permission to accept the invitation.

I am not jealous now of a dead man, nor do I wish to press my suit at such a time. But I desire to set myself right. You have no doubt learned by this time that the lies of which you accused me were painful truths. The hard things you said were not justified, and I only ask to be received as a visitor, for my life is colorless and miserable if I cannot see you.

There is one other matter I must discuss with you in full. It is, briefly, this: Mr. Herresford has withdrawn his account from our bank, of which I am a director and a partner, and demands the restitution of seven thousand dollars taken by poor Dick Swinton. My co-directors blame me for not acting at once when I suspected the first check. But they are not disposed to pay the money, and a lawsuit will result. You know what that means—a public scandal, a full exposure of my fellow-officer's act of folly, a painful revelation concerning the affairs of the Swinton's and their money troubles. All this, I am sure, would be most repugnant to you. For your sake, I am willing to pay this money, and spare you pain. If, however, you persist in treating me unfairly and breaking my heart, I cannot be expected to make so great a sacrifice to save the honor of one who publicly insulted me by striking me a cowardly blow in the face because I held a smaller opinion of him than did other people, and thoughtlessly revealed the fact by an unguarded remark.

I never really doubted his physical courage, and he has rendered a good account of himself, of which we are all proud. But seven thousand dollars is too dear a price to pay without some fair recognition of my sacrifice on your behalf."

"Father," cried Dora, starting up, and reading no more, "I want you to let me have seven thousand dollars."

"What!" cried the colonel, staring at her as though she had asked for the moon.

"I want seven thousand dollars. I'll repay it somehow, in the course of years. I'll economize—"

"Don't think of it, my girl—don't think of it. That miserly old man, who starves his family and washes his dirty linen in public, is going to have no money of mine."

"But, father, give it to me. It'll make no real difference to you. You are rich enough—"

"Not a penny, my girl—not a penny. Let Ormsby pay the money. Thank heaven, it's his business, not ours. Your animosity against him is most unreasonable. Because you had a difference of opinion over a lad who couldn't hold a candle to him as an upright, honorable man—"

"You sha'n't speak like that, father."

"But I shall speak! I'm tired of your pale face, and your weeping in secret, turning the whole house into a place of mourning. And what for? A man who would never have married you in any case. His grandfather disowned him, he wouldn't have gained my consent, and the chances are a hundred to one you would have married Ormsby. But, now, you suddenly insult my friend—you see nobody—we can't talk about the war—and, damn me! what else is there to talk about? You call yourself a soldier's daughter, and you're going to break your heart over a man who couldn't play the straight game. Why, his own father and mother can't say a good word for him. Yet, Ormsby's willing to pay seven thousand dollars to stifle a public exposure, just for your sake. Why, girl, it's magnificent! I wouldn't pay seven cents. Ormsby is coming here, and you'll have to be civil to him. Write and tell him so."

"Very well, father," sighed Dora, to whom the anger of her parent was a very rare thing. There was some justice in his point of view, although it was harsh justice. For Dick's sake, she could not afford to incense Ormsby. She swallowed her pride and humbled her heart, and, after much deliberation, wrote a reply that was short and to the point.

"Miss Dundas expects to receive Mr. Ormsby as her father wishes."



CHAPTER XVI

MR. TRIMMER COMES HOME

"Mr. Trimmer is back."

The words went around among the servants at Asherton Hall in a whisper; and everybody was immediately alert, as at the return of a master.

Mr. Trimmer was old Herresford's valet, who had been away for a long holiday—the first for many years. Trimmer was a power for good and evil—some said a greater power than Herresford himself, over whom he had gained a mental ascendency.

Mr. Trimmer was sixty at least. Yet, his face bore scarce a wrinkle, his back was as straight as any young man's. His hair was coal black—Mrs. Ripon declared that he dyed it. And he was about Herresford's height, spare of figure, and always faultlessly dressed in close-fitting garments with a tendency toward a horsey cut. His head was large, and his thick hair suggested a wig, for two curly locks were brushed forward and brought over the front of the ears, and at the summit of the forehead was a wonderful curl that would not have disgraced a hair-dresser's window block. Faultless and trim, with glistening black eyes that were ever wandering discreetly, he was the embodiment of alert watchfulness. He could efface himself utterly at times, and would stand in the background of the bedchamber, almost out of sight, and as still as if turned to stone.

Interviews with Herresford were generally carried on in Trimmer's presence, but, although the old man frequently referred to Trimmer in his arguments and quarrels, the valet acutely avoided asserting himself beyond the bounds of the strictest decorum while visitors were present. But, when they were gone, Trimmer's iron personality showed itself in a quiet hectoring, which made him the other's master. Mr. Trimmer was financially quite independent of his employer's ill humors. He was wealthy, and his name was mentioned by the other servants with 'bated breath. He was the owner of three saloons which he had bought from time to time. In short, Mr. Trimmer was a moneyed man. His was one of those strange natures which work in grooves and cannot get out of them. Nothing but the death of Herresford would persuade him to break the continuity of his service. His master might storm, and threaten, and dismiss him. It always came to nothing. Mr. Trimmer went on as usual, treating the miser as a child, and administering his affairs, both financial and domestic, with an iron hand.

Never before had he taken a holiday, and on his return there was much anxiety. The servants at the Hall had hoped that he was really discharged, at last. But no, he came back, smiling sardonically, and, as he entered the front door—not the servants' entrance—his eye roved everywhere in search of backsliding. Mrs. Ripon met him in the hall with a forced smile and a greeting, but she dared not offer to shake hands with the great man.

"Anything of importance since I have been away?" asked Mr. Trimmer.

"Yes, Mr. Trimmer. Mr. Herresford has changed his bedroom."

"Humph! We'll soon alter that," murmured Trimmer.

"That's what I told him, Mr. Trimmer. I said you'd be annoyed, and that he'd have to go back when you returned."

"Just so, just so! Any trouble with his family?"

"Mr. Dick—I daresay you have heard."

"I've heard nothing."

"Dead—killed in the war."

"Dead! Well, to be sure."

"Yes, poor boy—killed."

"Dear, dear!" murmured Mr. Trimmer, growing meditative.

Mrs. Ripon knew what he was thinking—or imagined that she did. There was no one now to inherit Herresford's money but Mrs. Swinton, and she believed that Trimmer was wondering how much of it he would get for himself; for it was a popular delusion below stairs that Mr. Trimmer had mesmerized his master into making a will in his favor, leaving him everything.

"How did Mr. Dick get away?" asked Mr. Trimmer. "Surely, his creditors wouldn't let him go."

"Ah, now you have touched the sore point, Mr. Trimmer. The poor young man swindled—yes, swindled the bank, forged checks in his grandfather's name."

Mr. Trimmer allowed some human expression to creep into his stone face. He puckered his brows, and his usually marble-smooth forehead showed unexpected wrinkles.

"It was the very last thing we'd have believed, Mr. Trimmer; it was for seven thousand dollars."

"Tut, tut!" exclaimed Mr. Trimmer, sorrowfully. "That comes of my going away. I ought to have locked up the check-book. I suppose the young man came here to see his grandfather and stole the checks."

"No, he never came—at least only once, and just for a moment. Then, his grandfather was so insulting that he only stayed a few minutes. That was when he came to say good-bye. But Mrs. Swinton came, trying to get money for the boy."

"I must see Mr. Herresford about this." Trimmer walked mechanically upstairs to the former bedroom, quite forgetting that his master would not be there. He came out again with a short, sharp exclamation of anger, and at last found the old man in the turret room.

Herresford was reading a long deed left by his lawyer, and on a chair by his bedside was a pile of documents.

"Good morning, sir," said Trimmer, in exactly the same tone as always during the last forty years, and he cast his eye around the untidy room.

"Oh, it's you? Back again, eh?" grunted the miser. "About time, too! How long is it since valets have taken to doing the grand tour, and taking three months' holiday without leave of their masters?"

"I gave myself leave, sir," replied Trimmer, nonchalantly.

"And what right have you to take holidays without my permission?"

"You discharged me, sir—but I thought better of it."

A grunt was the only answer to this impertinence.

"You seem to have been muddling things nicely in my absence," observed Trimmer after a moment, with cool audacity.

"Have I? That's all you know. Who told you what I've been doing?"

"Your heir is dead, I hear. I hope you had nothing to do with that."

"What do you mean, sir—what do you mean?"

"I mean that I hope you didn't send him away to the war to save money and keep him from further debt."

"My family affairs are nothing to do with you, sir."

"So you have told me for the last forty years, sir. I liked the young man. There was nothing bad about him. But I hear you drove him to forgery."

"It's a lie—a lie!"

"How did he get your checks?"

The miser made no answer. Trimmer came over, and fixed glittering eyes upon him. The old man cowered.

"You've ruined the boy, and sent him to the war. I can see it in your face. I knew what would happen if I let you alone—I knew you'd do some rascally meanness that—"

"Trimmer, it's a lie!" cried the old man, shaking as with a palsy, and drawing further down into his pillow. "I'm an old man—I'm helpless—I won't be bullied."

"This is one of the occasions when I feel that a shaking would do you good," declared Trimmer.

"No, no—not now—not again! Last time, I was bad for a week. The shock might kill me. It would be murder."

"Well, and would that matter?" asked Trimmer, callously. He stood at the bedside, with a duster in one hand and a medicine-glass in the other, polishing the glass in the most leisurely fashion, and speaking in hard, even tones. He looked down upon the old wreck as on the carcase of a dead dog.

They were a strange pair, these two, and the world outside, although it knew something of the influence of Trimmer over his master, had no conception of its real extent. Trimmer ought to have been a master of men; but some defect in his mental equipment at the beginning of life, or an unkind fate, was responsible for his becoming a menial. He was a slave of habit, a stickler for scrupulous tidiness. A dusty room or an ill-folded suit of clothes would agitate him more than the rocking of an empire. He entered the service of Herresford when quite a young man, and that service had become a habit with him, and he could not break it. He was bound to his menial occupation by bonds of steel; and the idea of doing without Trimmer was as inconceivable to his master as the idea of going without clothes. The miser, who followed no man's advice, nevertheless revealed more of his private affairs to his valet than to his lawyers. And Trimmer, who consulted nobody, and was by nature secretive, jealously guarded his master's interests, and insisted on being consulted in all private matters. A miser himself, Trimmer approved and fostered the miserly instincts of his master, until there had grown up between them an intimacy that was almost a partnership.

And, now that Herresford was broken in health, and had become a pitiful wreck, he preferred to be left entirely at Trimmer's mercy.

"What are you going to do about an heir now?" asked the valet, curtly. "Have you made a new will?"

"No, I've not. Why should I? I left everything to the boy—with a reasonable amount for his mother. In the event of his death, his mother inherits. You wouldn't have me leave my money to charities—or rascally servants like you, who are rolling in money? You needn't be anxious. I told you that you would have your fifty thousand dollars, if you were in my service at my death and behaved yourself—and if I died by natural means! Ha, ha! I had to put in that clause, or you would have smothered me with my own pillows long ago."

"Very likely—very likely," murmured Trimmer indifferently, as though the suggestion were by no means strained. He had heard it many hundreds of times before. It was a favorite taunt.

"Who is that coming up the drive?" asked the invalid, craning his neck to look out of the window.

"It is Mrs. Swinton, sir, and Mr. Swinton."

"On foot?" cried the old man. "And since when, pray, did they begin to take the walking exercise? Ha! ha! Coming to see me—about their boy. Of course, you've heard all about it, Trimmer."

"Very little, sir."

"Well, if you stay here, you'll hear a little more."

The decrepit creature chuckled with a sound like loose bones rattling in his throat. He laughed so much that he almost choked. Trimmer was obliged to lift him up and pat his back vigorously. The valet's handling was firm, but by no means gentle; and, the moment the old man was touched, he began to whine as if for mercy, pretending that he was being ill-used.

Mrs. Swinton entered the room alone; the rector remained below in the library. She found her father well propped up with pillows, and his skull-cap, with the long white tassel, was drawn down over one eye, giving him a curious leer. The rakish angle of the cap, with the piercing eyes beneath, the hawk-like beak, and the shriveled old mouth, puckered into a sardonic smile, made him an almost comic figure. Trimmer stood at attention by the head of the bed like a sentinel. His humility and deference to both his master and Mrs. Swinton were almost servile; it was always so in the presence of a third person.

"I am glad to see you sitting up and looking so well, father," observed the daughter, after her first greeting.

"Oh, yes, I'm well—very well—better than you are," grunted the old man. "I know why you have come."

"I wish to talk on important family matters, father," said Mrs. Swinton, dropping into the chair which Trimmer brought forward, and giving the valet a sharp, resentful look.

"You can talk before Trimmer. You ought to know that by this time. Trimmer and I are one."

"If madam wishes, I will withdraw," murmured Trimmer, retiring to the door.

"No—no—don't leave me—not alone with her—not alone!" cried the old man, reaching out his hand as if in terror. But Trimmer had opened the door. He gave his master one sharp look of reproof, and closed the door—almost.

Father and daughter sat looking at each other for a full minute. The old man dragged down the tassel of his skull-cap with his bony fingers, and commenced chewing the end. The glittering eyes danced with evil amusement, and, as he sat there huddled, he resembled nothing so much as an ape.

"I am glad to find you in a good temper, father."

"Good temper—eh!" He laughed, and again the bones seemed to rattle in his throat. The fit ended with coughing and whining and abuse of the draughts and the cold.

"Why don't you have a fire in the room, father? You'd be so much more comfortable."

"Fire! We don't throw away money here—nor steal it."

"Father, I beg that you will not refer to Dick in this interview by offensive terms; I can't stand it. My boy is dead."

"Who was referring to Dick?"

His eyes sought hers, and searched her very soul. She felt her flesh growing cold and her senses swooning. It had been a great effort to come up and face him at such a time, but her mission was urgent. She came to entreat an amnesty, to beg that he would not drag the miserable business of the checks into court by a dispute with the bank, and there was something horrible in his mirth.

"Hullo, forger!" he cried at last, and he watched the play of her face as the color came and went.

"What do you mean, father?"

"What I say. How does it feel to be a forger—eh? What is it like to be a thief? I never stole money myself—not even from my parents. D'ye think I believe your story? D'ye think I don't know who altered my checks—who had the money—who told the dirty lie to blacken the memory of her dead son? D'ye think I'm going to spare you—eh?"

"Father! Father! Have mercy—I was helpless!" she cried in terror, flinging herself on her knees beside his bed. "I couldn't ruin both husband and daughter for the sake of a boy who was gone."

"You couldn't ruin yourself, you mean—but you could sully the memory of my heir with a foul charge—the worst of all that can be brought against a man and a gentleman."

"It was you, father—you—you who denounced him."

"Lies, lies! I did nothing of the sort. The bank people suspected him because he was a man, because they didn't think that any child of mine could rob me of seven thousand dollars—seven thousand dollars! Think of it, madam—seven thousand dollars! D'ye know how many nickels there are in seven thousand dollars? Why, I could send you to Sing-Sing for years, if I chose to lift my finger."

"But you won't father—you won't! You'll have mercy. You'll spare us. If you knew what I have suffered, you'd be sorry for me."

"Oh, I can guess what you have suffered. And you're going to suffer a good deal more yet. Don't tell me you've come up here to get more money—not more?"

"No, father—indeed, no. John and I are going to lead a different kind of life. I've come to entreat you not to press the bank for that money. We'll pay it all back, somehow. John and I will earn it, if necessary."

"Earn it! Rubbish! You couldn't earn a dime."

"We'll repay every penny—if you will only give us time, only stop pressing the bank—"

"I shall do nothing of the sort. You've robbed them, not me. You must answer to them. If you've got any of it left, pay it back to Ormsby. If your husband is such an idiot as to beggar himself to restore the spoils, more fool he, that's all I can say. When you steal, steal and stick to it. Never give up money."

"Father, you'll not betray me! You won't tell them—"

"I don't know. I'll have to think it over. Get up off your knees, and sit on a chair. That sort of thing has no effect with me. You ought to have found that out long ago."

She arose wearily, and dropped back limply into the chair like a witness under fire in a court of law. The old man sat chewing the tassel of his cap, and mumbling, sniggering, chuckling, spluttering with indecent mirth.

"Listen to me, madam," he said at last, leaning forward. "Behind my back you've always called me a skinflint, a miser, a villain. I always told you I'd pay you out some day—and now's my chance. I'm not going to lose anything. I'm going to leave you to your own conscience and to the guidance of your virtuous sky-pilot. People'll believe anything of a clergyman's son. They're a bad lot as a rule, but your boy was not; he was only a fool. But he was my heir. I'd left him everything in my will."

"Father, you always declared that—"

"Never mind what I declared. It wasn't safe to trust you with the knowledge while he lived. You would have poisoned me."

"Father, your insults are beyond all endurance!" she cried, writhing under the lash and stung to fury. She started up with hands clenched.

"There, there, I told you so!" he whined, recoiling in mock terror. "Trimmer, Trimmer! Help! She'll kill me!"

"It would serve you right if I did lay violent hands upon you," she cried. "If I took you by the throat, and squeezed the life out of you, as I could, though you are my father. You're not a man, you're a beast—a monster—a soulless caricature, whose only delight is the torturing of others. I could have been a good woman and a good daughter, but for your carping, sneering insults. At different times, you have imputed to me every vile motive that suggested itself to your evil brain. You hated me from my birth. You hate me still—and I hate you. Yes, it would serve you right if I killed you. It would separate you from your wretched money, and send your soul to torment—"

"Trimmer! Trimmer!" screamed the old man, as she advanced nearer with threatening gestures, and fingers working nervously.

Trimmer entered as noiselessly as a cat.

"Trimmer, save me from this woman—she'll kill me. I'm an old man! I'm helpless. She's threatening to choke me. Have her put out. I can't protect myself, or I'd—I'd have her prosecuted—the vampire!"

Mrs. Swinton recovered herself in the presence of Trimmer, and drew away in contempt. She flung back the chair upon which she had been sitting with an angry movement, and she would have liked to sweep out of the room; but fear seized her at the thought of what she had done. This was not the way to mollify the old man, who could ruin her by a word.

"I am sorry, father," she faltered. "I forgot that you are an invalid, and not responsible for your moods."

He leaned forward on the edge of the bed, resting on his hands, and positively spat out his next words.

"Bah! You're a hypocrite. Go home to your sky-pilot. But keep your mouth shut—do you hear?"

"I hear, father."

"Pay them back your money if you like, but don't ask me for another cent, or I'll tell the truth—do you hear?"

"I hear, father," she replied, with a sob.

"Open the door for her, Trimmer."

Trimmer darted to the door as if his politeness had been questioned, and bowed the daughter out.

When her footsteps had died away, he walked to the bed and looked down contemptuously at the mumbling creature. He surveyed him critically, as a doctor might look at a feverish patient.

"You're overdoing it," he said. "You're getting foolish."

"That's right, Trimmer—that's right. You abuse me, too!" whined the old man, bursting into tears. "Isn't it bad enough to have one's child a thief, without servants bullying one?"

"You are the last person to talk to Mrs. Swinton about stealing."

"Keep your tongue still!"

"If your daughter knew what I know!"

"You don't know anything, sir—you don't know anything!"

"I know a good deal. Three times during your illness, you were light-headed—you remember?"

"I tell you, I'm not a thief. The money was mine—mine! Her mother was my wife—it belonged to me. Doesn't a wife's money belong to her husband?"

"Tut, tut! Lie down and be quiet. I only kept quiet on condition that you set things straight for your daughter in your will, and left her the three thousand a year her mother placed in your care."

"Trimmer, you're presuming. Trimmer, you're a bully. I'll—I'll cut your fifty thousand dollars out of my will—"

"And I'll promptly cut you out of existence, if you do," murmured Trimmer, bending down.

"That's right, threaten me—threaten me," whined the old man. "You're all against me—a lot of thieves and scoundrels! What would become of the world, if there weren't a few people like me to look after the money and save it from being squandered in soup-kitchens, and psalm-smiting, and Sunday schools?"

"Lie down and be quiet. You've done enough talking for to-day. I'm going to have you moved into the other room."

"I'll not be treated as a child, sir. I'll stop your wages, sir. I'll—"

"I've had no wages for many months. Lie down."



CHAPTER XVII

MRS. SWINTON GOES HOME

Mrs. Swinton returned to the rector, who was waiting in the library, with set face and clenched hands, pacing up and down like a caged beast. The increased whiteness of his hair and the extreme pallor of his skin gave to his sorrow-shadowed eyes an extraordinary brilliancy. His lips moved incessantly as thoughts, surging in his brain, demanded physical utterance. At intervals, he would wring his hands and look upward appealingly, like a man struggling in the toils of a temptation too great to be mastered. A long period of worry and embarrassment had broken his spirit. He was fated with the first real calamity that had ever overtaken him. With money difficulties, he was familiar. They scarcely touched his conscience. But, in this matter of his son's honor, the divergent roads of right and wrong were clearly defined; unhappily, he was not strong enough fearlessly to tread the path of virtue.

His wife's arguments seemed unanswerable. Indeed, whenever she was near, he hopelessly surrendered himself to her guidance. He knew perfectly well that the only proper course for a man of God was to go forth into the market-place and proclaim his son's innocence, to the shame of his wife, of himself, and of his daughter. It was not a question of precise justice. It was a plain issue between God and the devil. But Mary had pursued the policy of throwing dust in his eyes, and led him blindly along the road where he was bound to sink deeper and deeper into the mire.

When the love of wife conflicts with the love of child, a father is between the horns of a dilemma. The woman was living; the boy dead. The arguments were overpoweringly plausible. Mrs. Swinton had her life to live through; whereas Dick's trials were ended. And would a suspicious world believe he shared his wife's plunder without knowing how it was obtained? In addition, Netty's future would certainly be overshadowed to a cruel extent.

The arguments of the woman were, indeed, unanswerable: the misery of it was that the whole thing resolved itself into a simple question of right and wrong. As a clergyman of the church he could not countenance a lie, live a lie, and stand idly by while Herresford compelled the bank to refund the money stolen from them by his wife.

He had naturally argued the matter out with her, in love, in anger, in piteous appeal. It always came around to the same thing in the end—a compromise. The seven thousand dollars must be paid to the miser, if it took the rest of their lives to raise it; if they starved, and denied themselves common necessities. And Herresford must say that he drew the checks for innocent Dick.

His wife agreed with him on these points; but on the question of confessing their sin—their joint sin it had become now—she was obdurate. She had yielded to his entreaties so far as to face the ordeal of an interview with her father, she agreed to the most painful economies; but further she would not go.

If Herresford consented to add lie to lie, and to exonerate Dick by acknowledging the checks, all might yet be well.

Now, when his wife came in, with flushed face and lips working in anger, he cried out, tremulously:

"Well, Mary?"

"It is useless, worse than useless!" she answered. "He is quite impossible, as I told you."

"Then, he will not lend us the money?"

"No, indeed, no. Worse, John, he knows."

"Knows what?"

"That I did it. He understood Dick well enough, in spite of his wicked abuse of him, and he had made him his heir. He accused me of altering the checks, and—I couldn't deny it."

"Mary! Mary! You have ruined all. He will denounce us."

"No, he doesn't intend to do that, John. He knows the torture we are enduring, and he wants it to go on. He means to let the bank lose the money."

"Then, the burden of the guilt still rests on the shoulders of our dead son."

"Oh, don't, John—don't put it like that! I've borne enough—I can't bear much more. I think I'm going mad. My brain throbs, everything goes dim before my sight, and my heart leaps, and shooting pains—"

She tottered forward into her husband's arms. He clasped her close, drawing her to him and pressing kisses on her cheeks.

"My darling, my darling, be strong. It is not ended yet."

"Take me home, John—take me home!" she sobbed.

"No, I'll see the old man myself."

"John! John! It'll do no good—I beseech you! I cannot trust you out of my sight. I never know what you may do or what you will say. I know it's hard for you to go against your principles; but you mustn't absolutely kill me. I should die, John, if you played traitor to me, your wife, and allowed me to be sent to jail."

"Don't Mary—don't!" he groaned.

"When a man leaves his father and mother, he cleaves unto his wife: and, when I left my home, John, I was faithful and true to you. It was for you that I stooped to the trick which I now realize was a crime which my father uses as a whip to lash me with. We must live it down, John. The bank people are rich. It won't hurt them much—whereas confession would annihilate us."

"The money must be paid back," he cried resolutely, striking the air with his clenched fist, while he held her to him with the other arm.

"It's impossible, John, impossible. We cannot pay back without explaining why."

"We must atone—for Dick's sake. No man shall say that our son robbed him of money without compensation from us, his parents. Let us go home, Mary, and begin from to-day. The rectory must be given up. It must be let furnished, and the servants dismissed. We must go into some cheap place."

"Yes, let us go home, John. You'll talk more reasonably there, and see things in another light."

The man listened, and allowed himself to be led. This was as it had been always; but it could not go on forever. Deep down in John Swinton's vacillating nature, there was the spirit of a martyr.



CHAPTER XVIII

A SECOND PROPOSAL

Dora was undetermined in her attitude toward Dick's enemy, who, for her sake, was ready to become his friend and save his name from public disgrace. She had a poor opinion of a man who was willing to further his own suit by making concessions to a rival, even though that rival were dead; but her attitude of mind toward Dick was changing slowly under outside influence—as it was bound to do with a clear-headed girl, trained to the strict code of honor that exists among military men concerning other people's money. A soldier who had committed forgery could never hold up his head again in the eyes of his regiment, or of the woman he loved. He voluntarily made himself an outcast.

The colonel did not fail to drive home the inevitable moral, and congratulated himself upon his daughter's escape. Dora was obliged to acknowledge that Dick, if not a villain, was at least a fool. The sorrow he had brought upon his father and mother was alone sufficient to warrant the heartiest condemnation. The colonel was never tired of commenting on the awful change in the mother's appearance and the blight upon John Swinton, who went about like a condemned man, evading his friends, and scarcely daring to look his parishioners in the face.

There had been talk of a memorial service in the parish church, but nothing came of it. Its abandonment was looked upon as a tacit recognition of a painful situation, which would only be augmented by a public parade of sorrow.

Ormsby treated Dora with the greatest consideration. No lover could have been more sympathetic—not a word about Dick Swinton or the seven thousand dollars. He laid himself out to please, and self-confidence made him almost gay—if gaiety could ever be associated with a man so somber and proud. The colonel persisted in throwing his daughter and the banker together in a most marked fashion, and Ormsby was at much pains to ignore the father's blundering diplomacy.

As a result of his skilled tactics, Dora had ceased to shrink away from him—because she no longer feared that he would make love to her. She laughed at her father's insinuations, because it was easier to laugh than to go away and cry. She put a brave face on things—for Dick's sake. She did not want it to be thought that he had spread around more ruin and misery than already stood to his credit at the rectory. Pride played its part. She supposed Ormsby understood that the idea of his being a lover was absurd. In this, she was rudely awakened one evening after the banker had dined at the house.

The colonel pleaded letters to write, and begged Dora to play a little and entertain their guest.

"Ormsby loves a cigarette over the fire, Dora, and he's fond of music. I shall be able to hear you up in the study."

Ormsby added his entreaties, and the colonel left them alone.

Dora was in a black evening-gown. It heightened the pallor of her skin, and made her look extremely slender and tall. Ormsby, whose clothes always fitted him like a uniform, looked his best in evening dress, with his black hair and dark eyes. His haughty bearing and stern, handsome features went well with the severe lines of his conventional attire. The colonel paused at the door before going out, and looked at the two on whom his hopes were now centred—Ormsby standing on the hearth-rug, straight as a dart, and Dora offering him the cigarette-box with a natural, sweet grace that was instinctive with her. He nodded in approval as he looked. Dora was an unfailing joy to him. She pleased his eye as she might have pleased a lover. He was proud of her, too, of her fearlessness, her tact, her womanliness, and, above all, her air of breeding. She certainly looked charming to-night, a fitting chatelaine for the noblest mansion.

As the colonel remained in the doorway, still staring, Dora turned her head with a smile.

"What are you looking at, father?"

"I was only thinking," said the colonel bluntly, "what a magnificent pair you two would make if you would only bring your minds to join forces, instead of always fencing and standing on ceremony like two proud peacocks."

"My mind requires no making up, colonel," responded Ormsby quickly, with an appealing, almost humble glance at Dora.

"Father, what nonsense you talk!" cried she, changing color and trembling so much that the cigarettes spilled upon the floor.

The colonel shut the door without further comment, and left them alone.

"How stupid of me," murmured Dora, seeking to cover her confusion by picking up the cigarettes.

"I shall not allow you," he murmured, seizing her arm in a strong grip, gently but firmly, and raising her. "I am ever at your service. You know that."

"Let go my arm, please."

"May I not take the other one as well, and look into your eyes, and ask you the question which has been in my mind for days?"

"It is useless, Mr. Ormsby. Let me go."

"No," he cried, coming quite close and surveying her with a glance so intense that she shrank away frightened. "I will not let you go. You are mine—mine! I mean to keep you forever. I'll shadow you till you die. You shall never cast me off. No other man shall ever approach you as near as I. I will not let him. I would kill him."

"You are talking nonsense, Mr. Ormsby, and you are hurting my arm."

"To prevent your escaping, I shall encircle you with bands of steel," and he put his arm around her quickly, and held her to him.

"I beg that you will behave decently and sensibly," she cried, with a sob. "I've given you to understand before that this sort of thing is repugnant to me. Let me go."

She struck him on the breast with the flat of her hand, and thrust herself away, compelling him to release her. Her anger spent itself in tears, and she hurried across to the piano stool, where she dropped down, feeling more helpless and hopeless than ever in her life before. Her father had given Ormsby the direct hint; and he had proposed again. She could not blame him for that. She could not deny that he was masterful, and handsome, and convincing. There was no escape; and the absurdity of sweeping out of the room in indignation was obvious. He was their guest, and would be their guest as long as her father chose.

The ardent lover held himself in check with wonderful self-possession. He drew forward an armchair, and, dropping into it, picked up the cigarettes from the floor, lighted one and settled himself callously to smoke, taking no further notice of her tears. It was better than offering sympathy that would be scorned. It was exactly the right thing at the moment, and Dora saw the wisdom of it and respected him. It lessened her fear; but she cried quietly for a little while; then, drying her tears, she fingered the music on the top of the grand piano, idly.

"I'm afraid you think me a very hysterical and stupid person, Mr. Ormsby?" she said at last, growing weary of the strained silence and his indifferent nonchalance. "I don't usually cry like this, and make scenes, and behave like a schoolgirl."

"I'm making headway," was Ormsby's thought, "or she wouldn't take the trouble to excuse herself."

"I think you are the most sensible girl I ever met, Dora."

"You have no right to call me Dora."

"In future, I shall do just as I choose. You know your father's wishes—you know mine. I am patient, I can wait. After to-night, you are mine always, and forever. Some day, you will be my wife, and, instead of sitting apart from me over there, you will be here by my side, holding my hand."

"Never!" she cried, starting up, and emphasizing her determination by a blow with her hand upon the music lying on the piano top.

"Ah! you feel like that now. Dora, show your sweet reasonableness by playing to me for a little while. I promise, I shall not annoy you further."

"I don't feel like playing. You have upset me."

"Then, sit by the fire."

He drew forward a chair of which he knew she was fond, and brought it close to the hearth.

"Come! You used to smoke in the old days. Have a cigarette. It will help you to forget unpleasant things. It will calm you—if you don't feel inclined to play."

"I would rather play," she faltered.

"Whichever you please."

She settled herself at the piano, and fingered the music, irresolutely. She had not touched the keys since Dick's death, and, if she had been less perturbed to-night, she would not for a moment have contemplated breaking that silence for the sake of Vivian Ormsby, but an extraordinary helplessness had taken possession of her. There was something magnetic about this man whom she feared, and tried to hate, something that compelled her to act against her will and better judgment.

She chose the first piece of music at hand—a waltz, a particularly romantic and melancholy refrain, that was soothing to the man in the chair. He sat with his head thrown back, blowing rings of smoke into the air and secretly congratulating himself upon his progress. In imagination, he experienced all the intoxication of the dance, and Dora in his arms, resting heavily upon him. In imagination, he was drawing her closer and closer, her eyes looking into his, and her breath upon his cheek.

He started up and faced her, watching the slender hands gliding over the keys, as if he could keep away no longer; then, he strolled over and stood behind her, ostensibly watching the music. She felt his presence oppressively. He bent lower, as if to scan the notes: yet, she knew that he could not read music. Her fingers faltered, and she looked over her shoulder nervously.

Her eyes met his, and the playing ceased. Those glittering orbs held her as if by a magic spell. She was rendered powerless when he put his arm about her, and touched her lips in a kiss.

Instantly, the spell was broken. She started up, and struck him in the face—even as Dick had done.

He only laughed—and apologized. The blow was a very slight one: and it gave him the opportunity of seizing her wrists, and holding her captive for a few moments, until she confessed that she was sorry. Then she fled from the room.

"I'm getting on," he murmured, as he dropped back into the armchair, and lighted another cigarette. "A little more boldness, a rigid determination, a constant repetition of my assurances that she cannot escape me, and she will surrender. They all do. It's the law of nature. The man subdues the woman; and she surrenders at once when her strength is gone."



CHAPTER XIX

AN UNEXPECTED TELEGRAM

As the days wore on, Dora went through many scenes with her father concerning Vivian Ormsby. The banker pressed his suit remorselessly, yet with a consideration for the girl, which did him the greatest credit. The colonel made no secret of his keen desire for the match; and he informed his friends, as well as Dora, that he looked upon the thing as settled. Naturally, the girl's name was coupled with Ormsby's, and, wherever one was invited, the other always appeared.

Ormsby showed himself at his best during this period. He would have made no progress at all but for his tactful recognition of the fact that Dora had loved Dick Swinton, and must be treated tenderly on that account. She was grateful to him, for he seemed to be the only one who respected poor Dick's memory. Other people were free in their comments, and remorseless in their condemnation of the criminal act which, as the culmination of a long series of follies, must inevitably have brought him to ruin if he had not chosen to end his life at the war.

Nobody was surprised when the society columns of the newspapers hinted of a coming engagement between the daughter of a well-known soldier and the son of a banker, who came together under romantic circumstances, not unconnected with a regrettable accident.

Later, there was a definite announcement: "An engagement has been arranged between Miss Dundas, daughter of Colonel Herbert Dundas, and Vivian Ormsby, eldest son of William Ormsby, the well-known banker."

Letters poured in on every side. Polly Ocklebourne drove over to congratulate Dora in person, and found the affianced bride looking very pale, and by no means happy. Dora hastened to explain that the engagement would be a long one, possibly two years at least—and they laughed at her. The girl had given her consent grudgingly, in half-hearted fashion, with the stipulation that she might possibly withdraw from it. Her father coaxed it out of her. But, when people came around and talked of the wedding, and abused her for treating poor Ormsby shabbily by insisting on an engagement of quite unfashionable and absurd length, the thought of what she had done began to terrify her. She knew perfectly well that she did not care for her lover; that, under certain circumstances, she almost hated him. But there was no one she liked better, nor was there any prospect of her dead heart coming to life again at all. And, in the meantime, Ormsby was constantly by her side.

One morning, Ormsby drove up in his automobile, to propose an engagement for the evening to Dora. His fiancee, however, had gone out for a walk, and he was forced to content himself by leaving a message with her father. The two men were chatting together in the library, when a servant entered with a telegram. "For Miss Dundas, sir," was the explanation.

"I suppose I'd better open it," murmured the colonel, as he slit the envelope.

He read the message, frowned, swore an oath, turned it over, then read it again, with a look of blank amazement, whilst Ormsby watched.

"Bad news?"

"Read."

Ormsby took the slip between his fingers. His pale face hardened, and his teeth ground together. His surprise was expressed in a smothered cry of rage.

"It can't be!" he gasped. "Alive? Then, the story of his death was a lie. His heroic death was a sham."

"Dora will have to be told," groaned the colonel.

"No, certainly not," cried Ormsby. "If he attempts to show his face in New York, I'll have him arrested."

"No, no, Ormsby, you wouldn't do that. I must confess, it isn't any pleasure to hear that he's alive. It's a confounded nuisance! His death—damn it all! He sha'n't see her. They mustn't meet, Ormsby!"

"No, of course not—of course not. We'll have to send him to jail."

"Ormsby, you couldn't do it—you couldn't."

"Well, he mustn't see Dora."

"No—I'll attend to that."

The colonel read the telegram again.

"Arrived at Boston Parker House this morning. Start home this afternoon. Send message. Dying to see you.

"DICK SWINTON."

"What does the fool want to come home for?" growled the colonel. "Hasn't he any consideration for his mother and father and sister? Everybody thinks he's dead—why doesn't he remain dead? He sha'n't upset my girl. I'll see to that. I'll—I'll meet him myself."

"A good idea," observed Ormsby, who had grown thoughtful. "For my part, my duty is plain. A warrant is out for his arrest. I shall give information to the police that he is in the country again."

"No, Ormsby—no!" pleaded the colonel. "You'll utterly upset yourself with Dora. You won't stand a ghost of a chance.

"A hero with handcuffs doesn't cut an agreeable figure, or stand much of a chance. Dora has glorified him, you must remember. There will be a reaction of feeling. She'll alter her opinion, when she knows he's a criminal, flying from justice. They gave him his life, I suppose, because he hadn't the courage to die, and keep his country's secrets. The traitor!"

They resolved to say nothing of the arrival of the telegram. The colonel gave out that business affairs necessitated a journey to Boston, and Dora was to be told that he would be back in the evening.

Ormsby drove the colonel to the station in his motor. Afterward, he called at police-headquarters, and then at the bank. There, he wrote a letter to Herresford, reopening the matter of the seven thousand dollars, which had lain dormant all this time, true to the promise made to Dora. He had let the quarrel stand in abeyance in case of accidents. This was characteristic of the cautious Ormsbys, and quite in keeping with the remorseless character of the man who never forgave, and never desisted in any pursuit where personal gain was the paramount consideration.

Colonel Dundas had been genuinely fond of Dick Swinton—up to a point. The kind of regard he had for him was that which is accorded to many self-indulgent, reckless young men who are their own greatest enemies. He was always pleased to see him; but he would never have experienced pleasure in contemplating him as a possible son-in-law. His supposititiously heroic death had surrounded him with a halo of romance dear to the colonel's heart; but his sudden reappearance in the land of the living, with a warrant out for his arrest, and Dora's happiness in the balance, excited a growing anger.

All the way to Boston, the colonel fumed and swore. He muttered to himself and thumped the arms of his chair, rehearsing the things he meant to say when the rascal confronted him. How dare Dick send telegrams to his innocent child without her father's knowledge, in order that he might work upon her feelings! Perhaps, he thought of persuading her to elope with him—elope with a criminal! By the time he reached Boston, the colonel had built up a hundred imaginary wrongs that it was his duty to set right by plain speaking.

As he entered the vestibule of the hotel, he saw Dick Swinton—or someone like him—wrapped in a long, ill-fitting coat, walking up and down very slowly. The young man caught sight of the ruddy face of Colonel Dundas, and he tried to hurry, but his step was slow and uncertain. As they came near each other, he seized the colonel's arm.

"Colonel! Colonel!" he cried. "How glad I am to see you! Is Dora with you?"

"Dora—no, sir! What do you take me for? Good God! what a wreck you are! Where have you been? How is it you've come home?"

"I—I thought she would come!" gasped Dick, who looked very white. His eyes were unnaturally large, and his cheeks sunken, and his hands merely bones.

"Here, come out of the crowd," said the colonel, forgetting his tremendous speeches. He seized the young man by the arm, but gripped nothing like muscle. "Why, you're a skeleton, boy!" he exclaimed, adopting the old attitude in spite of himself.

"Yes, I'm not up to the mark," laughed Dick. "I thought you knew all about it."

"Knew all about it, man? You're dead—dead! Everyone, your father and mother and all of us, read the full story of your death in the papers."

"Yes; but I corrected all that," cried Dick, "My letters—they got my letters?"

"What letters?"

"The two I sent through by the men that were exchanged. Young Maxwell took one."

"Maxwell died of dysentery."

"Ah, that accounts for it. The other I gave to a sailor. He promised to deliver it."

"To whom did you write?"

"To Dora. I asked her to go to mother and explain things, so as not to give too great a shock. You don't mean to say that my mother doesn't know!"

"No, of course not—not through Dora, at any rate."

"Good heavens! Let's get to a telegraph-office, and I'll send her word at once. And father, too—dear old dad—he's had two months of sorrow that might have been avoided. What a fool I was! I ought to have telegraphed from Copenhagen."

"Copenhagen!"

"Yes; I escaped—nearly died of hunger—got on board a Danish ship as stowaway, and arrived at Copenhagen half-starved. But I wasn't up to traveling for a bit. I'm pulling around, gradually. I'm—well, to be sure! And mother doesn't know. What a surprise it will be! What a jollification! What a—!"

"Here, hold up, Dick—hold up, man—you're tottering."

The colonel's strong hand kept Dick on his feet. He led the young man gently through the vestibule.

"Here, come to a quiet place. You mustn't be seen in public," growled the colonel.

"Why not?" asked Dick. "I'm a little faint. You see, I haven't much money. I had to borrow. A square meal, at your expense, would do me a world of good, colonel. Let's go to the dining-room."

"Very well. We can get a quiet table there. But I want you to understand at once that, though I'm here, I'm not your friend."

"Eh? What?"

"Well, you can't expect it."

"Oh, you're angry with me because I'm fond of Dora. I suppose you saw my telegram and—intercepted it."

"Yes."

"Then Dora doesn't know!"

"No, Dora doesn't know—nor will she know. Better be dead, my boy—better be dead!"

"I beg your pardon?" queried Dick, gazing at the colonel with dull, tired eyes.

The colonel vouchsafed no explanation, but led the way into the dining-room. He selected a table in a corner, and thrust the menu over to Dick. The sick man's eyes ran listlessly down the card, and he gave it back.

"I'm too done. You order. Perhaps, a drink'll pull me up."

The colonel ordered brandy. He was now able to get a better look at the returned hero. The change in the young man shocked him, and he could see that the hand of death had clutched Dick harshly before letting him go.

"What was it—fever?" he asked, with soldier-like abruptness, as he scanned the lean, weary face.

"Enteric and starvation, and a bit of a wound, too. I was taken prisoner, but, when the ambulance cart was left in a general stampede, I was just able to cry out to a nigger to cut my bonds. He set me free; but, afterward, I think I went mad. I was in our lines, I know. It was a good old Yankee who set me free; but, when reason came, I was again in the wrong camp. The ambulance cart had got into its own lines again. At any rate, I was in different hands, with a different regiment, packed off to a proper prison camp. I sent word home, or thought I'd sent word. I thought you all knew. By Jove, what a lark it will be to turn up and see their faces!"

Dick took a long draught at the brandy, and a little color came into his face.

"I suppose they'll be glad and all that, as I'm something of a hero," he continued. "A chap on the train told me that the story of my capture got into the papers, and was written up for all it was worth. Another smack in the eye for Ormsby, that! Nutt got away, and told you I was dead, I suppose."

"Yes," answered the colonel, gloomily; then, leaning across the table: "Dick, my boy, I don't want to be hard on you. We are all liable to err. Don't you think it would have been better if you had remained dead?"

Dick looked blankly into his friend's face for some moments. A look of fear came into his eyes.

"What's the matter? What's happened? Dora's—alive?"

"Yes, of course."

"And my father and mother?"

"Oh, yes, yes, they're well—as well as can be expected under the circumstances."

"Well, what's the matter, then? What's happened?"

"Dick, you must know perfectly well what has happened. Your grandfather found out—the—er—what you did before you went away."

"What I did before I went away?"

"Well, it's no good skirmishing. Let's call it by its proper name—your forgery. Those two checks you cashed at the bank, originally for two and five dollars. I daresay you thought that your grandfather never looked at his pass-book. You were mistaken. And what a confounded fool you must have been to think that two amounts of such magnitude as two thousand and five thousand dollars could be overlooked."

Dick's lower jaw had dropped a little, and he looked at the colonel in blank surprise, yet with more listlessness than would a man in rude health when amazed. The colonel misread the signs, and saw only the astonishment of guilt unmasked.

"Your mother got the checks for you: but you added to the figures in another ink. The forgery was discovered, and by Ormsby, too, unfortunately, who is no friend of yours. The matter was hushed up, of course. You have to thank Dora for that. A warrant was out for your arrest, but Dora begged Ormsby to stay his hand for the sake of your mother and father. And—er—well, the long and short of it is that Ormsby was prepared to lose seven thousand dollars, rather than ruin your family. The news of your death—your heroic death, as we imagined—came at the opportune moment to help people to forget your folly."

Dick sat like a stone, calm, pale, holding his glass and listening intently. For an instant he seemed about to faint.

"Of course, we all thought," continued the colonel, "that you had put yourself into a tight corner on purpose, that you might respectably creep out of your difficulties by dying and troubling nobody. And we respected you for that. Everybody knew that you were up to your eyes in debt, and at loggerheads with your grandfather, that the old man had disinherited you, and all that. But surely you didn't owe seven thousand dollars!"

"Are you talking about the checks my mother gave me before I went away?" Dick asked, quietly.

"Of course I am. You know the circumstances better than I do. It's no good playing the fool with me, and I don't intend to have my daughter upset by telegrams and surreptitious communications. So, now, you know. You've done for yourself, my lad, and you'd better face it and remain dead."

"But my mother—she has explained?"

"Of course, she has, and it's nearly broken her heart. Think of her awful position, to have to confess that her son altered her checks—checks actually drawn in her name—and the money filched from the bank by a dirty trick! The bank's got to lose it. Your grandfather won't pay a cent."

"But my mother—?" faltered Dick again, leaning forward heavily on the table, and gazing at the colonel with eyes so full of horror that the elder man wondered whether suffering had not turned Dick's brain.

"Ah, you may well ask about your mother. She tried to do her best, I believe, to get your grandfather to pay up; but the shame of the thing is what I look at. That's why I came to you here, to-day. If your mother knows no more than Dora and all the rest—if they still think you're dead—well, why not remain dead? It's only charity—it's only kind. Your father and mother think that you died a hero's death, and, naturally, aren't disposed to look upon your crime quite in the same light as other people. Why, in heaven's name, when you got a chance of slipping out of life, and out of the old set, and making a fresh start, didn't you seize it?"

"You mean, why didn't I get shot?" asked Dick, slowly.

"Well, not exactly that. You know as well as I do that lots of chaps go to the front to get officially shot, and have their names on the list of the killed—men who really mean to turn over a new leaf, and get a fresh lease of life in another country, under another name, when the war is over. Others get put right out of the way, because they haven't the courage to do it themselves."

"But my mother could have explained!" cried Dick, huskily. He was so weak that he was unable to cope with agitation.

"Tut, tut, man, your mother could explain nothing. She could only tell the truth—that she gave you two checks for small amounts, and you put bigger amounts to them, and cashed them at the bank; in short, that her son was a forger."

"My mother said that!"

"Yes."

"God help her!" gasped Dick, with a gulp. He put his hand to his throat, and fell forward on the table, senseless.

The colonel jumped up in alarm. Waiters rushed forward, and they revived the sick man by further applications of brandy. He recovered quickly, and food was again set before him.

He ate mechanically, and for a long time there was silence between the two men. The colonel wished himself well out of the business, and felt the brutality of using harsh words to a man in such a condition of health. Yet, he was resolute in his purpose.

Dick appeared somewhat stronger after the meal. Every now and again, he would look up at the colonel in a dazed fashion, as if unable to believe the evidence of his senses. At last, he spoke again.

"I suppose—my brain isn't what it was. But I'm feeling better. Tell me again what my mother said—and my father."

The colonel detailed all that he knew, displaying considerable irritation in the process. This attitude of ignorance and innocence nettled him. He wound up with a soldier-like abruptness.

"Well, are you going to live, or do you intend to remain dead?"

"I'm going home."

"To be arrested?"

"No, to ask some questions."

"Don't be a fool. You'll be arrested at the station."

"No, I sha'n't. I've done a little dodging lately. I shall travel to some other place, and walk home. I've faced worse things than—"

The sentence was never finished. He seemed to realize that there could be nothing worse than to be falsely denounced by his own mother—the mother whom he loved and idolized, the most wonderful mother son ever had, the most beautiful woman in New York, the wife of John Swinton, chosen man of God.

"You'd better not come home," urged the colonel; "at any rate, as far as we are concerned."

"Ah, that means you intend to cut me."

"Yes; and as far as Dora is concerned—Well, the fact is, she's engaged to Ormsby now."

"Engaged to Ormsby?"

Dick put out his hand almost blindly to take his cap, and adjusted it on his head like a man drunk. He arose and staggered from the table. This was the last straw.

"Look here, boy—you want some money," exclaimed the colonel, brusquely. "I've come prepared. You'll find some bills in this envelope. Put it in your pocket."

Dick's hands hung limply at his sides. The colonel seized him by the loose front of his ulster, and kept him from swaying, at the same time thrusting the envelope into one of his pockets. Then, he took the young man's arm, and led him out into the vestibule.

"Bear up, my boy—bear up," he whispered. "You've got to face it. You're dead—remember that. Nobody but myself knows the truth. Be a man, for God's sake—for your mother's sake—for your father's. You've got the whole world before you. If things go very wrong—well, you can rely upon me for another instalment—just one more, like the one in your pocket. Write to me under some other name. Call yourself John Smith—do you hear?"

"Yes—John Smith," echoed Dick, huskily.

"Well, good-bye, my boy—good-bye," the colonel exclaimed. "I must catch my train." He tried to say something else. Words failed him. He turned and ignominiously escaped, leaving Dick standing alone, helpless and dazed.

"I'm going home—I'm going home," muttered Dick, as he thrust his hands into his ulster pockets, and tottered along toward the elevator, for he felt that he must get to his room at once.

"My own mother!—I can't believe it."



CHAPTER XX

THE WEDDING DAY ARRANGED

When the colonel suppressed Dick's telegram, and as he fondly imagined, silenced the young man in Boston, he left out of the reckoning a prying servant, who secretly examined the message which the colonel had thrown into a wastebasket torn across only twice. In consequence of this, hundreds of persons, presently, were discussing a rumor to the effect that Dick Swinton was still alive. Dora, as it chanced, heard nothing; but Vivian Ormsby—who thought that he alone shared the colonel's secret—heard the gossip circulating through the city.

"Dick Swinton is not dead," said the report, "he is hiding in New York."

Mr. Barnby spoke of this as laughable. But Ormsby knew that the truth must out sooner or later, and it was necessary that he should be ready. The police were on the alert—reluctantly alert, for they respected the rector. The banker, however, was a more important person than the clergyman, and his evident anxiety to lay hands on the forger was a thing not to be overlooked. There was also a little private reward mentioned.

The colonel, when Ormsby arrived to continue his courtship, heard of these rumors with alarm, and took every precaution to keep them from Dora by maintaining a constant watch over her. He was as impatient at the protracted engagement as was Ormsby himself, and one morning he attacked Dora upon the question of the marriage.

"Dora, your engagement is a preposterous thing, child. It's a shame to keep Ormsby waiting and dangling at your heels as you do. To look at you, no one would suspect you two were lovers."

"We are not, father. You know that very well."

"Fiddlesticks! You're willing enough to let him fetch and carry for you, and motor you all over the country, and smother you with flowers, and load you with presents. Yet, you are always as glum as a church-warden while he's here. And, when he's away, you seem to buck up and show that you can be cheerful, if you like."

"I have submitted to an engagement with Mr. Ormsby more to please you, father, than to please myself."

"Then, my child, why can't you please me by settling things right away. Marriage is a serious responsibility. It is a woman's profession, and the sooner she gets the hang of it, the quicker her promotion. I'm getting an old man, and I want to see you married before I die."

"Don't talk like that, father."

"Well, I'm not a young man, am I? The doctor told me this morning—but what the doctor told me has nothing to do with your feelings for Ormsby."

"Father, father, you're not keeping anything from me. What did the doctor say?"

The colonel saw his advantage, and, although he was inclined to smile, pulled a long face, and sighed.

"My child, I want to see you comfortably settled before I die. You wouldn't like me to leave you here alone with no one to look after you—"

"Father, father! What are you saying? I'm sure the doctor has told you something. I saw you looking very strange yesterday, and holding your hand over your heart."

The colonel wanted to exclaim, "Indigestion!" but he shook his head, and sighed mournfully once more.

"It's anxiety, my child, about your welfare. It's telling on me."

"I don't want to be an anxiety to you, father. I know I've not been a cheerful companion lately, but—it will be worse for you when I get married."

"Nothing of the sort, my girl. Ormsby and I have settled that we are not to be separated. He's looking out for a big place, where there'll be a corner for an old man. Come, come, have done with this shilly-shallying. What on earth is the use of a two years' engagement? At the end of the two years, do you suppose you will be able to break your word and Ormsby's heart? No, my girl, it's not right. Either you are going to marry Ormsby, or you are not. If you are, then it might as well be to-morrow as next month, and next month as next year. And as for two years—bah! Come, now, I'll fix it for you: four weeks from to-day."

"Impossible, father—impossible! I couldn't get my clothes ready—"

"Clothes be hanged! He's going to marry you, not your kit. You've got clothes enough to supply a boarding-school. Six weeks—I give you six weeks.—Ah! here's Ormsby. Ormsby, it's settled. Dora is to marry you in six weeks, or—she's no child of mine."

"I—I didn't say so, father," cried Dora, blushing hotly.

"I'm the happiest man in America!" cried Ormsby, coming over with outstretched hands, and a greater show of feeling than he had ever before displayed. He looked exceedingly handsome, and almost boyish.

"Say it is true!—say it is true!" he cried.

"Oh, as you please, as you please." And, turning to her father to hide her embarrassment, Dora murmured, "You're not really ill, father?"

"I tell you, my child, I shall be," roared the colonel, with a wink at Ormsby, "if this anxiety goes on any longer. Publish the date, Ormsby. Put it in the papers."

"At once!" cried the delighted lover. "I saw Farebrother to-day, and he assures me he has just the place we want, not twenty miles out. Shall we go over in the motor, and look at it? Will you come and choose your home—our home, Dora?"

"Of course she will," cried the colonel, starting up with wonderful alacrity for a sick man. "I'll go and order the motor, this minute."



CHAPTER XXI

DICK'S RETURN

The deepest stillness of night had settled down on Riverside Drive, when Dick Swinton came cautiously along the cross-town street, and paused near the corner, looking suspiciously to left and to right. Convinced, at last, that no one was about, he advanced toward his home in the shadow of the houses, going warily. At the beginning of the rectory grounds, he stopped and leaned against the wall, peering into the shadows for signs of a watching figure. All was silent as the grave. He slipped to the side gate without meeting anyone. Still going cautiously, he entered without a sound. The place was in shadow, but from a window on the ground floor a narrow beam of light shot out on the drive and across the lawn. It came from between the half-closed curtains of his father's study.

The rector was at work. It was Friday. Dick had chosen the day and the hour because he knew that it was his father's custom to sit up far into the night, preparing his Sunday sermon. Sunday morning's discourse was prepared on Friday evening; the evening homily on Saturday.

He crept to the window, and looked in. The light from the lamp was shining on his father's hair. How white it was! The iron-gray streaks were quite gone. And yet how little time had elapsed! The rector's Bible was at his elbow, lying open, and the desk was covered with sheets of manuscripts, spread about in unmethodical fashion. At the moment when Dick looked in, the rector picked up his Bible, and laid it open before him on the desk.

"He that covereth his sins shall not prosper; but whoso confesseth them shall have mercy."

John Swinton arose from the table, and closed the book abruptly. His study fire had burned low, yet the sermon was only half-finished.

For weeks past, his life had been a hideous burden. It was unendurable. Every time he opened his Bible, he read his own condemnation; and, as he slowly paced his study, he muttered text after text, always dealing with the one thing—confession.

He was between the devil and the deep sea. His wife's arguments for silence were unanswerable. The call of his conscience was unanswerable, too, except in one way—by confession. He was a living lie; his priesthood, a mockery. There was not a father or a mother in his congregation who would not turn from him in horror, if it were known that he shielded the guilty beneath the pall of the honorable dead.

As the rector walked up and down the room, Dick was able to look upon his father's face unobserved. The change shocked him. Was it grief for a dead son, or grief for an erring one, that had whitened his hair and hollowed his cheeks?

In the few days that had elapsed since his interview with Colonel Dundas, Dick had pulled up wonderfully. He had not come on to New York until he felt himself strong enough to face the ordeal before him. He had forgiven his mother from the first. What she did must have been done with the best intentions. The poverty of her son and the dire distress of his father had tempted her to obtain possession of money by forgery. The bank had at once suspected the ne'er-do-well son. The son had been proclaimed dead, and the mother had chosen silence.

These things, so unforgivable, were at once condoned by the tender-hearted lad, who only remembered his mother's caresses and her constant anxiety for his welfare from the day of his birth. It was the loss of Dora that stung him most—the thought that she had believed him dead and disgraced. His father's attitude puzzled him more, and he naturally jumped to the conclusion that John Swinton knew nothing; that he was deceived by his wife, like the rest; otherwise, he would have scouted the lie on the instant, no matter what the consequences. Such was the son's belief in his father's integrity.

What would his father's reception be?

He raised his finger to tap at the window, but paused as this thought occurred to him. The rector could not fail to receive him back from the dead joyfully; but there would be the inevitable reckoning to pay. Even now, the lad hesitated, wondering whether, after all, Colonel Dundas were not right in declaring him better dead. But he was not without hope; and his determination to be set right in Dora's eyes was inflexible.

He tapped at the window, gently. The rector started and listened, but hearing nothing further, supposed that he had been mistaken as to the sound.

The prodigal tapped again, this time with a coin. There was no mistaking the summons. The rector went to the window, flung back the curtains, and peered out, standing between the window and the light.

Dick pressed himself close to the glass, and took off his cap.

"Father!" he cried. "Open the window."

It was Dick's voice, but not Dick's face.

"Open the window."

Like a man in a dream, the rector loosened the catch, and opened the casement.

"Father—father! It is I—Dick—alive! and glad to be home."

The clergyman retreated as from a ghost—afraid.

"Don't be afraid of me. The report of my death was all a mistake, father."

"Dick—Dick—my boy—back—alive!"

The father folded his son to his heart, with a cry of joy and a sudden rush of tears. He babbled incoherently, and gasped for breath. Dick supported the faltering steps to the chair by the desk. Then, he closed the window silently, and flinging his cap upon the table, slowly divested himself of the long ulster.

The inevitable pause of embarrassment followed.

"I've come to have a talk with you, father," said Dick, cheerily. He seized the poker, and raked together the embers of the dying fire, as naturally as though no interval of time had elapsed since he was there last.

The rector wiped his eyes and pulled himself together, realizing, after the first rush of emotion, the terrible situation created by his son's return. His natural impulse was to rush upstairs to Mary, and tell her the glad news—glad, yet terrible. But Dick forestalled him by remarking quite casually:

"I want to see you first, father, before telling mother. My coming back will be a shock; and she ought to be prepared."

"Yes—you've taken me by surprise, my boy. Why didn't you write? Why didn't you let us know? Why didn't you telegraph?"

"I did write, and I thought you knew all about it, and would be expecting me, and, as soon as I landed, I telegraphed to Dora Dundas, thinking she would call on mother. But the colonel intercepted my telegram, and came himself, and told me of the—of the—"

The rector looked down at his desk; he could not face his son. His hand involuntarily clenched as it rested on the table.

"He told me of the mess I've got myself into over the bank business—told me they would arrest me if I came home. But I couldn't keep away, father." There were tears in Dick's voice now. "I just wanted to see you before—before emigrating."

"Emigrating, my boy! Why should you emigrate?"

This was hardly the tone that Dick expected: no reproach, no questioning.

"It's no good running the risk of a prosecution, is it, father? And, as I've disgraced the family, I'd—"

"You mean to say that you don't deny the bank's charge of forgery?"

"No—no, father, I don't deny it. Why should I?"

The rector looked at his son helplessly, in agonized appeal. His hands went up, and he bowed his head before him. Dick was the strong man, and he the weak one. Dick was ready to be wiped out of existence, rather than betray his mother. He believed that his father knew nothing.

"Dick—forgive!" The stricken father took a step forward, but his strength gave out, and he dropped upon his knees at his son's feet. "Dick! Dick! We are sinners, your mother and I. I ask your pardon. Forgive me, boy, forgive—It was my wish from the first that you should be set straight. I knew you were incapable of a fraud, and your mother confessed everything to me. I only consented to the blackening of your name at—at your mother's entreaty—to save Netty's life from ruin and your mother from prison."

"That's all right, father—that's all right," cried Dick huskily, with an affected cheeriness, as he raised the stricken man. "I'm not able to grapple with it all just now. You see, I've had enteric, and am still shaky. I've thought it all out. Mother was—was foolish. She wanted to set us all straight, to pay my debts and save me from arrest. Well, I can but return the compliment. A fellow can't see his own mother sent to prison. She did it for love of her husband and children. She only defrauded her own father; and, if he had an ounce of sentiment in him, or was in his right mind, he'd acknowledge the checks, and make us disgorge in some other way. I felt like going up to Asherton Hall first, and strangling the old villain in his bed."

"Dick, my boy, it is not his fault. It is he who has been right, and we who have been wrong. No man should spend money he does not possess. Debts that a man can never pay are robberies. I have condoned, I am worse than she—worse than all of you—I, the clergyman, who have been given the care of souls. Dick, there is more joy in heaven over one sinner that repenteth, and your mother and I have sincerely repented; but we have not atoned. You must see her to-night, and tell her that you mean to come home. You must tell the truth, and set yourself right in the eyes of all men. Your father and mother don't matter. You have a life before you, and a name that should go down in history, honored—"

"Oh, nonsense, father! What I've been through is nothing to what some of the chaps suffered. Some thriving colony is the place for me under a new name, a new life. So long as mother and you know, and send me a cheery word sometimes, and wish me well, I shall be all right. You see, it's easier to go when the girl that a fellow loves is—is going to marry another man, a rich man—a cad. But that's her affair. She thinks I'm a bad lot, and put away under the turf, and she's going to live her life comfortably like other people, I suppose. Old Dundas was always keen on Ormsby. When she's married—and settled down—then you must tell her the truth—that I didn't alter those checks, that I wasn't such a cheat, nor a coward either. Don't let her think I died a skunk who wanted to be shot to avoid the consequences of a forgery. Yes, you'll have to tell her that, father—you'll have to tell her—"

The words came out with difficulty. Dick, who was standing on the hearthrug, put out his hand blindly for support. It rested on a table for a moment, but only for a moment. His lips parted, and his eyes closed. Ere the rector could rush to his aid, he slipped to the floor in a faint. Emotion, in his present weak state, was too much for him. He had overestimated his strength.

"Dick—my boy!—my boy!" cried the father, raising him tenderly in his arms. "He'll die—he'll die after all!"

The study door opened suddenly. Mary in her nightdress, with her hair about her shoulders, and her eyes staring, entered the room, barefooted.

"I heard his voice, John—I heard his voice!" she cried, in shrill fear.

"Mary! Help, help! He's here—Dick—alive! He's fainted!"

The table stood between her and the dark form in the shadow on the floor. She advanced slowly.

"Dick—not dead!" she screamed.

Her cry rang through the house and awakened everybody. Netty heard the words upstairs, and sat up in bed, trembling. The servants heard them, and began to dress hurriedly.

Dick was lifted by his father from the floor to the couch, and the conscience-stricken mother looked on with drawn, white face. Love conquered her fear, and she put her arms about him and kissed him; but, when he opened his eyes, she drew away out of sight, fearing reproach. His first words might be bitter denunciation.

"He knows all; he understands," whispered the rector.

The study door stood open, and in another moment they became conscious of the half-clad figure of Jane, the housekeeper, looking in.

"Mr. Dick!" she screamed. "Mr. Dick! Not dead!" She turned and rushed upstairs to Netty's room.

She found Netty in a panic, pale and trembling.

"What has happened?"

"Mr. Dick—he's alive! alive! He's come home."

"He'll be arrested," was Netty's only thought, and she thrust Jane out of the room, telling her to hold her tongue. It was bitterly cold, and she went back to bed. She guessed that there must be a painful interview in progress down in the study, and her own joy—if any—at the return of her disgraced brother could wait.

She had no two points of view. She was sorry that Dick had returned. She regretted that the forger was not dead. It was so hideously inconvenient when one wanted to get married to have a disreputable brother in the family. She then and there resolved that Dick need not think he would ever get money out of Harry Bent.

It was a strange home-coming for the prodigal. His intention to emigrate as soon as he had seen his father and mother was frustrated by an attack of weakness, which made it impossible for him to be moved. He was helped to bed, miserably conscious that self-sacrifice would entail more than emigration. If he took upon his shoulders the family burden, it would be as a prisoner and a convict. The secret of his home-coming could not be kept, and Ormsby's warrant must take effect.



CHAPTER XXII

THE BLIGHT OF FEAR

Breakfast at the rectory on the morning following Dick's sensational return was a very solemn meal, for the blight of fear had fallen upon the whole household. No one slept. The father and mother had remained with Dick until the small hours of the morning, and, when they finally bade each other good-night, both were conscious that the old days of sweet comradeship were over forever.

There would be no more heart-to-heart speaking between these two, no sharing of burdens. The man must go his way and the woman hers, each with a load of sorrow to bear.

The rector was the only one really glad to find that the news of Dick's death was not true; but the joy of finding him alive was nullified by the terror of coming trouble. Mary was mentally stunned by the shock of Dick's return. She had grown accustomed to the thought of him as dead, and, of late, had been almost glad, since it saved the whole family from social ruin. Now, what would happen? She could not think, every faculty seemed benumbed. She had arisen and dressed in a perfectly mechanical manner, and, even now that she was sitting at the breakfast-table, her eyes had the strange and set expression which one sees in the eyes of the sleep-walker. Her voice, too, had unfamiliar notes as she read aloud the headings of the news columns, making a wretched pretense of keeping up appearances before the servants.

The domestics had been sworn to secrecy. This was not difficult, as all were devoted to Dick. He had always been a favorite. His kindness and consideration for those who served him was always in marked contrast to Netty's haughty and exacting nature. There was not a creature in the house who would not have run personal risk to serve him.

He was still in a state of prostration, weaker far than he knew, and on the brink of a serious collapse. The need for secrecy made it dangerous to call in medical aid, and he tried to allay his father's anxiety by assuring him that rest was all he needed. He would soon be well enough to start on his way again.

During breakfast, Netty had made no comment on her brother's return. Her eyes were red with weeping, but only because she saw the possibility of her brother in the dock, and Harry Bent's mother opposing her marriage. The rector and his wife scarcely exchanged a word; it was obvious that there was a growing antagonism between them. The woman already suspected her husband of leaning toward her son, with designs upon her liberty and reputation. The rector was hoping that his wife would come to her senses, now that her boy had returned, and see the wisdom of confession, without forcing upon him the painful task of telling the dreadful truth. The situation had been argued out between them until words ceased to have meaning, and by common consent all action was suspended until this morning, when, it was hoped, Dick would be rested, and able to join the council.

If anything, Dick was worse; listless, nerveless, unable to rise, and spending his time in dozes that were perilously near unconsciousness.

The meal ended, Netty escaped. Her mother hurried up to Dick, and the rector to his study, where he awaited his wife.