A Man of Honor

THE RIVULETS OF BLUE BLOOD.

After puzzling himself over this human problem for half an hour he gave it up, and straightway began to work at another. He asked himself how it could be possible that Cousin Sudie should be attracted by Dr. Charley Harrison. Possibly the reader has had occasion to work at a similar problem in his time, and if so I need not tell him how incapable it proved of solution. Of the fact Robert was now convinced, and the fact annoyed him. It annoyed him too that he could not account for the fact; and then it annoyed him still more to know that he could be annoyed at all in the case, for he was perfectly sure—or nearly so—that he was not himself in love with his little friend at Shirley. And yet he felt a strange yearning to battle in some way with young Harrison, and to conquer him. He wanted to beat the man at something, it mattered little what, and to triumph over him. But he did not allow himself even mentally to formulate this feeling. If he had he would have discovered its injustice, and cast it from him as unworthy. His instinct warned him of this, and so he refused to put his wish into form lest he should thereby lose the opportunity of entertaining it.

With thoughts like these the young man rode homewards, and naturally enough he was not in the best of humors when he sat down in the parlor at Shirley.

The conversation, in some inscrutable way, turned upon Cousin Sarah Ann, and Robert so far forgot himself as to express pleasure in the thought that that lady was in no way akin to himself.

"But she is kin to you, Robert," said Aunt Catherine.

"How can that be, Aunt Catherine?" asked the young gentleman.

"Show him with the keys, Aunt Catherine, show him with the keys," said Billy, who had returned from court that day. "Come, Sudie, where's your basket? I want to see if Aunt Catherine can't muddle Bob's head as badly as she does mine sometimes. Here are the keys. Explain it to him, Aunt Catherine, and if he knows when you get through whether he is his great grandfather's nephew or his uncle's son once removed, I'll buy his skull for tissue paper at once. A skull that can let key-basket genealogy through it a'n't thick enough to grow hair on."

The task was one that the old lady loved, and so without paying the slightest attention to Billy's bantering she began at once to arrange the keys from Sudie's basket upon the floor in the shape of a complicated genealogical table. "Now my child," said she, pointing to the great key at top, "the smoke-house key is your great great grandmother, who was a Pembroke. The Pembrokes were always considered——"

"Always considered smoke-house keys—remember, Bob."

"Will you keep still, William? The Pembrokes were always considered an excellent family. Now your great great grandmother, Matilda Pembroke, married John Pemberton, and had two sons and one daughter, as you see. The oldest son, Charles, had six daughters, and his third daughter married your grandfather Pagebrook, so she was your grandmother—the store-room key, you see——"

"See, Bob, what it is to be well connected," said Billy; "your own dear grandmother was a store-room key."

"Hush, Billy, you confuse Robert."

"Ah! do I? I only wanted him to remember who his grandmother was."

"Well," said the old lady, "Matilda Pemberton's daughter, your great grand aunt, married a man of no family—a carpenter or something—the corn-house key there."

"There it is, Bob. A'n't you glad you descended from a respectable smoke-house key, through an aristocratic store-room key, instead of having a plebeian corn-house key in the way? There's nothing like blue blood, I tell you, and ours is as blue as an indigo bag; a'n't it, Aunt Catherine?"

"Will you never learn, Billy, not to make fun of your ancestors? I have explained to you a hundred times how much there is in family. Now don't interrupt me again. Let me see, where was I? O yes! Your great grand aunt married a carpenter, and his daughter Sarah was your second cousin if you count removes, fourth cousin if you don't. Now Sarah was your Cousin Sarah Ann's grandmother, as you see; so Sarah Ann is your third cousin if you count removes, and your sixth cousin if you don't. Do you understand it now?"

"Of course he does," said Billy; "but I must break up the family now, as I see Polidore's waiting for the madam's great grandfather, to wit, the corn-house key. Come Bob, let's go up to the stable and see the horses fed."

Mr. Pagebrook Manages to be in at the Death.

Not many days after Robert's uncomfortable dinner at The Oaks, a servant came over with a message from Major Pagebrook, to the effect that a grand fox-chase was arranged for the next morning. Foggy and Dr. Harrison had originated it, but Major Pagebrook's and several other gentlemen's hounds would run, and Ewing invited his cousins, Robert and Billy, to take part in the sport. Accordingly our two young gentlemen ate an early breakfast and rode over to that part of The Oaks plantation known as "Pine quarter," where the first fox-hunt of the season was always begun. They arrived not a moment too soon, and found the hounds just breaking away and the riders galloping after them. The first five miles of country was comparatively open, a fact which gave the fox a good start and promised to make the chase a long and a rapid one.

Robert Pagebrook had never seen a fox-chase, and his only knowledge of the sport was that which he had gleaned from descriptions, but he was on a perfect horse as inexperienced as himself; he was naturally very fearless; he was intensely excited, and it was his habit to do whatever he believed to be the proper thing on any occasion. From books he had got the impression that the proper thing to do in fox-hunting was to ride as hard as he could straight after the hounds, and this he did with very little regard for consequences. He galloped straight through clumps of pine, "as thick," Billy said, "as the hair on Absalom's head," while others rode around them. He plunged through creek "low grounds" without a thought of possible mires or quicksands. He knew that fox-hunters made their horses jump fences, but he knew nothing of their practice in the matter of knocking off top rails first, and accordingly he rode straight at every fence which happened to stand in his way, and forced his horse to take them all at a flying leap.

On and on he went, straight after the hounds, his pulse beating high and his brain whirling with excitement. The more judicious hunters of the party would have been left far behind but for the advantage they possessed in their knowledge of the country and their consequent ability to anticipate the fox's turnings, and to save distance and avoid difficulties by following short cuts. Robert rode right after the hounds always.

"That cousin of yours is crazy," said one gentleman to Billy; "but what a magnificent rider he is."

"Why don't you stop your cousin?" asked another, "he'll kill himself, to a certainty, if you don't."

"O I will!" replied Billy, "and I'll remonstrate with all the streaks of lightning I happen to overtake, too. I'm sure to catch a good many of them before I come up with him."

The fox "doubled" very little now, and it became evident that he was making for the Appomattox River, but whether he would cross it or double and run back was uncertain. Billy earnestly hoped he would double, as that might enable him to see Robert and check his mad riding, if indeed that gentleman should manage to reach the river with an unbroken neck.

On and on they went, fox running for dear life, hounds in perfect trim and full cry, and riders each bent upon "taking the tail" if possible. Robert remained in advance of all the rest, jumping every fence over which he could force his horse, and making the animal knock down those which he could not leap. His horse blundered at a ditch once and fell, but recovered himself with his rider still erect in the saddle, before anybody had time to wonder whether his neck was broken or not. Billy now saw a new danger ahead of his cousin. They were nearing the river, and the fox, an old red one, who knew his business, was evidently running for a crossing place where mire and quicksands abounded. Of this Robert knew nothing, and after his performances thus far there was no reason to hope that any late-coming caution would save him now. A thicket of young oaks lay just ahead, and the hounds going through it Robert followed quite as a matter of course. Billy saw here his chance, and putting spurs to his horse he rode at full speed around the end of the thicket, hoping to reach the other side in time to intercept his cousin, in whose behalf he was now really alarmed. As he swept by the end of the thicket, however, he passed two gentlemen whom he could not see through the bushes, but whose voices he knew very well. They were none other than Mr. Foggy Raves and Dr. Charles Harrison, and Billy heard what they were saying.

"You must take the tail, Charley, and not let that city snob get it. The fool rides like Death on the pale horse, and don't seem to know there ever was a fence too high to jump. He'd try to take the Blue Ridge at a flying leap if it got in his way. I'd rather kill a dozen horses than let him beat us. He put his finger into our little game with that saphead Ewing, and——"

"But my horse is thumped now, Foggy."

"Well, take mine then. He's fresh. I sent him over last night to meet me here, and I just now changed. I've hurt my knee and can't ride. Take, my horse and ride him to death but what you beat that——"

This was all that Billy had time to hear, but it was enough to change his entire purpose. He no longer thought of Robert's neck, but hurried on for the sole purpose of spurring his cousin up to new exertion. He reached the edge of the thicket just as Robert came out bare-headed, having lost his hat in the brush. His face was bleeding, too, from scratches and bruises received in the struggle through the oak thicket. The river was just ahead, but the fox doubled to the right instead of crossing.

"Come, Bob," said Billy, "you've got to take the tail to-day or die. Foggy and Charley Harrison have been setting up a game on you, and Charley has a fresh horse, borrowed from Foggy on purpose to beat you. But this double gives you a quarter start of him. Don't run your horse up hills, or you'll blow him out, and shy off from such thickets as that. You can ride round quicker than you can go through. Don't break your NECK, BUT TAKE THE TAIL ANYHOW."

He fairly yelled the last words at Robert, who was already a hundred yards ahead of him and getting further off every second.

The effect of his words on his cousin was not precisely what might have been expected. Before this Robert had been intensely excited and had enjoyed being so, but his excitement had been the result of his high spirits and his keen zest for the sport in which he was engaged. He had astonished everybody by the utter recklessness of his riding, but had not shared at all in their astonishment or known that his riding was reckless. He had ridden hard simply because he thought that the proper thing to do and because he enjoyed doing it. He rode now for victory. His features lost the look of wild enjoyment which they had worn, and settled themselves into a firm, hard expression of dogged determination. Here was his opportunity to do battle with young Harrison; and from Billy's manner, rather than from his words, he knew that the contest was not one of generous rivalry on Harrison's part. He felt that there was a contemptuous sneer somewhere back of Billy's words, and the thought nettled him sorely. But he did not lose his head in the excitement. On the contrary, he felt the necessity now for care and coolness, and accordingly he immediately took pains to become both cool and careful. He knew that Harrison had an advantage in knowing the country, and he resolved to share that advantage. To this end he brought his horse down to an easy canter and waited for Harrison to come up. He then kept his eye constantly on his rival and used him as a guide. When Harrison avoided a thicket he avoided it also. If Harrison left the track of the hounds for the sake of cutting off an angle, Robert kept by his side. This angered Harrison, who had counted confidently upon having an advantage in these matters, and under the influence of his anger he spurred his horse unnecessarily and soon took a good deal of his freshness out of him.

The two rode on almost side by side for miles. The fox was beginning to show his fatigue, and it was evident that the chase would soon end. Both the foremost riders discovered this, and both put forth every possible exertion to win. Just ahead of them lay a very dense thicket through which ran a narrow bridle-path barely wide enough for one horse, as Robert knew, for the thicket lay on Shirley plantation, the fox having run back almost immediately over his own track. It was evident now that "the catch" would occur in the field just beyond this thicket, and it was equally evident that as the two could not possibly ride abreast along the bridle-path, the one who could first put his horse into it would almost certainly be first in at the death. They rode like madmen, but Robert's horse was greatly fatigued and Harrison shot ahead of him by a single length into the path. There was hardly a chance for Robert now, as it was impossible in any case for him to pass his rival in the thicket, and he could see that the dogs had already caught the fox in the field, less than a rod beyond its edge.

"I've got you now, I reckon," shouted Harrison looking back, but at the moment his horse stumbled and fell. Robert could no more stop his own horse than he could have stopped a hurricane, and the animal fell heavily over Harrison, throwing Robert about ten feet beyond and almost among the dogs. Getting up he ran in among the bellowing hounds and, catching the fox in his hand, he held him up in full view of the other gentlemen, now riding into the field from different directions and cheering as lustily as possible.

Some very Unreasonable Conduct.

Quite naturally Robert was elated as he stood there bare-headed, and received the congratulations of his companions, who had now come up and gathered around him. Loudest among them was Foggy, who leaping from his horse cried out:

"By Jove, Mr. Pagebrook, I must shake your hand. I never saw prettier riding in my life, and I've seen some good riding too in my time. But where's your horse? Did you turn him loose when you jumped off?"

This served to remind Robert of the animal and of Harrison too, and going hastily into the thicket he found the Doctor repairing his girth, which had been broken in the fall. The Doctor was not hurt, nor was his horse injured in any way, but the black colt which had carried Robert so gallantly lay dead upon the ground. An examination showed that in falling he had broken his neck.

It was not far that our young friend had to walk to reach Shirley, but a weariness which he had not felt before crept over him as he walked. His head ached sorely, and as the excitement died away it was succeeded by a numbness of despondency, the like of which he had never known before. He had declined to "ride and tie" with Billy, thinking the task a small one to walk through by a woods path to the house, while Billy followed the main road. With his first feeling of despondency came bitter mortification at the thought that he had allowed so small a thing as a fox-chase to so excite him. The exertion had been well enough, but he felt that the object in view during the latter half of the chase, namely, the defeat of young Harrison, was one wholly unworthy of him, and the color came to his cheek as he thought of the energy he had wasted on so small an undertaking. Then he remembered the gallant animal sacrificed in the blind struggle for mere victory, and he could hardly force the tears back as the thought came to him in full force that the nostrils which had quivered with excitement so short a time since, would snuff the air no more forever. He felt guilty, almost of murder, and savagely rejoiced to know that the death of the horse would entail a pecuniary loss upon himself, which would in some sense avenge the wrong done to the noble brute.

The numbness and weariness oppressed him so that he sat down at the root of a tree, and remained there in a state of half unconsciousness until Billy came from the house to look for him. Arrived at the house he went immediately to bed and into a fever which prostrated him for nearly a week, during which time he was not allowed to talk much; in point of fact he was not inclined to talk at all, except to Cousin Sudie, who moved quietly in and out of the room as occasion required and came to sit by his bedside frequently, after Billy and Col. Barksdale quitted home again to attend court in another of the adjoining counties, as they did as soon as Robert's physician pronounced him out of danger. At first Cousin Sudie was disposed to enforce the doctor's orders in regard to silence; but she soon discovered, quick-witted girl that she was, that her talking soothed and quieted the patient, and so she talked to him in a soft, quiet voice, securing, by violating the doctor's injunction, precisely the result which the injunction was intended to secure. As soon as the fever quitted him Robert began to recover very rapidly, but he was greatly troubled about the still unpaid-for horse.

Now he knew perfectly well that Cousin Sudie had no money at command, and he ought to have known that it was a very unreasonable proceeding upon his part to consult her in the matter. But love laughs at logic as well as at locksmiths, and so our logical young man very illogically concluded that the best thing to do in the premises was to consult Cousin Sudie.

"I am in trouble, Cousin Sudie," said he, as he sat with her in the parlor one evening, "about that horse. I know Mr. Winger is a poor man, and I ought to pay him at once, but the truth is I have hardly any money with me, and there is no bank nearer than Richmond at which to get a draft cashed."

"You have money enough, then, somewhere?" asked Cousin Sudie.

"O yes! I have money in bank in Philadelphia, but Winger has already sent me a note asking immediate payment, and telling me he is sorely pressed for money; and I dislike exceedingly to ask his forbearance even for a week, under the circumstances."

"Why can't you get Cousin Edwin to cash a check for you?" asked the business-like little woman; "he always has money, and will do it gladly, I know."

"That had not occurred to me, but it is a good suggestion. If you will lend me your writing-desk I will write and——"

"Ah, there comes Cousin Edwin now, and Ewing too, to see you," said Miss Sudie, hearing their voices in the porch.

The visitors came into the parlor, and after a little while Sudie withdrew, intent upon some household matter. Ewing followed her. Robert spoke frankly of his wish to pay Winger promptly, and asked:

"Can you cash my check on Philadelphia for me, Cousin Edwin, for three hundred dollars? Don't think of doing it, pray, if it is not perfectly convenient."

"O it isn't inconvenient at all," said Major Pagebrook. "I have more money at home than I like to keep there, and I can let you have the amount and send your check to the bank in Richmond and have it credited to me quite as well as not. In fact I'd rather do it than not, as it'll save expressage on money."

Accordingly Robert drew a check for three hundred dollars on his bankers in Philadelphia, making it payable to Major Pagebrook, and that gentleman undertook to pay the amount that evening to Winger. Shortly after this business matter had been settled, Ewing and Miss Sudie returned to the parlor and the callers took their departure.

Robert and Sudie sat silent for some time watching the flicker of the fire, for the days were cool now and fires were necessary to in-door comfort. How long their silence might have continued but for an interruption, I do not know; but an interruption came in the breaking of the forestick, which had burned in two. A broken reverie may sometimes be resumed, but a pair of broken reveries never are. Had Mr. Robert been alone he would have rearranged the fire and then sat down to his thoughts again. As it was he rearranged the fire and then began to talk with Miss Sudie.

"I am glad to get that business off my hands. It worried me," he said.

"So am I," said his companion, "very glad indeed."

There must have been something in her tone, as there was certainly nothing in her words, which led Mr. Pagebrook to think that this young lady's remark had an unexpressed meaning back of it. He therefore questioned her.

"Why, Cousin Sudie? had it been troubling you too?"

"No; but it would have done so, I reckon."

"I do not understand you. Surely you never doubted that I would pay for the horse, did you?"

"No indeed, but—"

"What is it Cousin Sudie? tell me what there is in your mind. I shall feel hurt if you do not."

"I ought not to tell you, but I must now, or you will imagine uncomfortable things. I know why Mr. Winger wrote you that note."

"You know why? There was some reason then besides his need of money?"

"He was not pressed for the money at all. That wasn't the reason."

"You surprise me, Cousin Sudie. Pray tell me what you know, and how."

"Well, promise me first that you won't get yourself into any trouble about it—no, I have no right to exact a blind promise—but do don't get into trouble. That detestable man, Foggy Raves, made Mr. Winger uneasy about the money. He told him you were 'hard up' and couldn't pay if you wanted to; and I'm glad you have paid him, and I'm glad you beat Charley Harrison in the fox-chase, too."

With this utterly inconsequent conclusion, Cousin Sudie commenced rocking violently in her chair.

"How do you know all this, Cousin Sudie?" asked Robert.

"Ewing told me this evening. I'd rather you'd have killed a dozen horses than to have had Charley Harrison beat you."

"Why, Cousin Sudie?"

"O he's at the bottom of all this. He always is. Foggy is his mouth-piece. And then he told Aunt Catherine, the day you went to The Oaks, that he 'meant to have some fun when he got you into a fox-hunt on Winger's colt.' He said you'd find out how much your handsome city riding-school style was worth when you got on a horse you were afraid of. I'm so glad you beat him!"

MISS SUDIE DECLARES HERSELF "SO GLAD."

Now it would seem that Cousin Sudie's rejoicing must have been of a singular sort, as she very unreasonably burst into tears while in the very act of declaring herself glad.

Mr. Robert Pagebrook was wholly unused to the task of soothing a woman in tears. It was his habit, under all circumstances, to do the thing proper to be done, but of what the proper thing was for a man to do or say to a woman in tears without apparent cause, Mr. Robert Pagebrook had not the faintest conception, and so he very unreasonably proceeded to take her hand in his and to tell her that he loved her, a fact which he himself just then discovered for the first time.

Before he could add a word to the blunt declaration, Dick thrust his black head into the door-way with the announcement, "Supper's ready, Miss Sudie."

What Occurred Next Morning.

The reader thinks, doubtless, that Master Dick's entrance at the precise time indicated in the last chapter was an unfortunate occurrence, and I presume Mr. Pagebrook was of a like opinion at the moment. But maturer reflection convinced him that the interruption was a peculiarly opportune one. He was a conscientious young man, and was particularly punctilious in matters of honor; wherefore, had he been allowed to complete the conversation thus unpremeditatedly begun, without an opportunity to deliberate upon the things to be said, he would almost certainly have suffered at the hands of his conscience in consequence. There were circumstances which made some explanations on his part necessary, and he knew perfectly well that these explanations would not have been properly made if Master Dick's interruption had not come to give him time for reflection.

All this he thought as he drank his tea; for when supper was announced both he and Miss Sudie went into the dining-room precisely as if their talk in the parlor had been of no unusual character. This they did because they were creatures of habit, as you and I and all the rest of mankind are. They were in the habit of going to supper when it was ready, and it never entered the thought of either to act differently on this particular occasion. Miss Sudie, it is true, ran up to her room for a moment—to brush her hair I presume—before she entered the dining-room, but otherwise they both acted very much as they always did, except that Robert addressed almost the whole of his conversation during the meal to his Aunt Mary and Aunt Catherine, while Miss Sudie, sitting there behind the tea-tray, said nothing at all. After tea the older ladies sat with Robert and Sudie in the parlor, until the early bed-time prescribed for the convalescent young gentleman arrived.

It thus happened that there was no opportunity for the resumption of the interesting conversation interrupted by Dick, until the middle of the forenoon next day. Miss Sudie, it seems, found it necessary to go into the garden to inspect some late horticultural operations, and Mr. Robert, quite accidentally, followed her. They discussed matters with Uncle Joe, the gardener, for a time, and then wandered off toward a summer-house, where it was pleasant to sit in the soft November sunlight.

The conversation which followed was an interesting one, of course. Let us listen to it.

"The vines are all killed by the frost," said Cousin Sudie.

"Yes; you have frosts here earlier than I thought," said Robert.

"O we always expect frost about the tenth of October; at least the gentlemen never feel safe if their tobacco isn't cut by that time. This year frost was late for us, but the nights are getting very cool now, a'n't they?"

"Yes; I found blankets very comfortable even before the tenth of October."

"It's lucky then that you wa'n't staying with Aunt Polly Barksdale."

"Why? and who is your Aunt Polly?"

"Aunt Polly? Why she is Uncle Charles's widow. She is the model for the whole connection; and I've had her held up to me as a pattern ever since I can remember, but I never saw her till about a year ago, when she came and staid a week or two with us; and between ourselves I think she is the most disagreeably good person I ever saw. She is good, but somehow she makes me wicked, and I don't think I'm naturally so. I didn't read my Bible once while she staid, and I do love to read it. I suppose I shall like to have her with me in heaven, if I get there, because there I won't have anything for her to help me about, but here 'I'm better midout' her."

"I quite understand your feeling; but you haven't told me why I'm lucky not to have her for my hostess these cold nights."

"O you'd be comfortable enough now that tobacco is cut; but when Cousin Billy staid with her, a good many years ago, he used to complain of being cold—he was only a boy—and ask her for blankets, and she would hold up her hands and exclaim: 'Why, child, your uncle's tobacco isn't cut yet! It will never do to say it's cold enough for blankets when your poor uncle hasn't got his tobacco cut. Think of your uncle, child! he can't afford to have his tobacco all killed.' But come, Cousin Robert, you mustn't sit here; besides I want to show you an experiment I am trying with winter cabbage."

This, I believe, is a faithful report of what passed between Robert and Sudie in the summer-house. I am very well aware that they ought to have talked of other things, but they did not; and, as a faithful chronicler, I can only state the facts as they occurred, begging the reader to remember that I am in no way responsible for the conduct of these young people.

The cabbage experiment duly explained and admired, Mr. Robert and Miss Sudie walked out of the garden and into the house. There they found themselves alone again, and Robert plunged at once into the matter of which both had been thinking all the time.

"Cousin Sudie," he said, "have you thought about what I said to you last night?"

"Yes—a little."

"I will not ask you just yet what you have thought," said Robert, taking her unresisting hand into his, "because there are some explanations which I am in honor bound to make to you before asking you to give me an answer, one way or the other. When I told you I loved you, of course I meant to ask you to be my wife, but that I must not ask you until you know exactly what I am. I want you to know precisely what it is that I ask you to do. I am a poor man, as you know. I have a good position, however, with a salary of two thousand dollars a year, and that is more than sufficient for the support of a family, particularly in an inexpensive college town; so that there is room for a little constant accumulation. If I marry, I shall insure my life for ten thousand dollars, so that my death shall not leave my wife destitute. I have a very small reserve fund in bank too—thirteen hundred dollars now, since I paid for that horse. And there is still three hundred dollars due me for last year's work. These are my means and my prospects, and now I tell you again, Sudie, that I love you, and I ask you bluntly will you marry me?"

The young lady said nothing.

"If you wish for time to think about it Sudie—"

"I suppose that would be the proper way, according to custom; but," raising her eyes fearlessly to his, "I have already made up my mind, and I do not want to act a falsehood. There is nothing to be ashamed of, I suppose, in frankly loving such a man as you, Robert. I will be your wife."

The little woman felt wonderfully brave just then, and accordingly, without further ado, she commenced to cry.

The reader would be very ill-mannered indeed should he listen further to a conversation which was wholly private and confidential in its character; wherefore let us close our ears and the chapter at once.

In which Mr. Pagebrook Bids his Friends Good-by.

The next two or three days passed away very quickly with Mr. Robert and Miss Sudie. Robert made to his aunt a statement of the results, without entering into the details of his conferences with Miss Sudie, and was assured of Col. Barksdale's approval when that gentleman and Billy should return from the court they were attending. The two young people, however, were in no hurry for the day appointed for that return to come. They were very happy as it was. They discussed their future, and laid many little plans to be carried out after awhile. It was arranged that Robert should return to Virginia at the beginning of the next long vacation; that the wedding should take place immediately upon his coming; and that the two should make a little trip through the mountains and, returning to Shirley, remain there until the autumn should bring Robert's professional duties around again.

They were in the very act of talking these matters over for the twentieth time, one afternoon, when Maj. Pagebrook rode up. He seemed absent and nervous in manner, and after a few moments of general conversation asked to see Robert alone upon business. When the two were closeted together Maj. Pagebrook opened his pocket-book and taking out a paper he slowly unfolded it, saying: "I have just received this, Robert, and I suppose there is a duplicate of it awaiting you in the post-office."

Robert looked at the paper in blank astonishment.

"What does this mean?" he cried; "my draft protested! Why I have sixteen hundred dollars in that bank, and my draft was for only three hundred."

"It appears that the bank has failed," said Maj. Pagebrook. "At least I reckon that's what the Richmond people mean. They say, in a note to me, that it 'went to pot' a week ago. It seems there are a good many banks failing this fall. I hope you won't lose everything, though, Robert."

The blow was a terrible one to the young man. In a moment he took in the entire situation. To lose the money he had in bank was to be forced to begin the world over again with absolutely nothing; but at any rate he could pay the debt he owed to his cousin very shortly, and to be free from debt is in itself a luxury to a man of his temperament. He thought but a moment and then said:

"Cousin Edwin, I shall have to ask you to carry that protested draft for me a few days if you will. There is some money due me on the fifteenth of this month, and it is now the ninth. I asked that it should be sent to me here, but I shall go to Philadelphia at once, and I'll collect it when I get there and send you the amount. I promise you faithfully that it shall be remitted by the fifteenth at the very furthest."

"O don't trouble yourself to be so exact, Robert," replied Maj. Pagebrook. "Send it when you can; I'm in no very great hurry. Sarah Ann says we must invest all our spare money in the new railroad stock; but I needn't pay anything on that till the twenty-third, so there will be time enough. But for that I wouldn't care how long I waited."

"I shall not let it remain unpaid after the fifteenth at furthest," said Robert. "I do not like to let it lie even that long."

Maj. Pagebrook took his departure and Robert told Sudie of the bad news, telling her also that he must leave next morning for Philadelphia, to see if it were possible to save something from the wreck of the bank.

"Besides," said he, "I must get to work. There are nearly two months of time between now and the first of January, and I cannot afford to lose it now that I have lost this money."

"What will you do, Robert? You can't do anything teaching in that time."

"No, but I can do a good many things. I write a little now and then for the papers and magazines, for one thing. I can pick up something, I think, which will at least pay expenses."

He then told her of his arrangement with Maj. Pagebrook about the protested draft, and finished by repeating what that gentleman had said about the investment in railroad stock.

This troubled Miss Sudie more than all the rest, and Robert seeing it pressed her for a reason. But no reason would she give, and Robert was forced to content himself with the thought that his trouble naturally brought trouble to her. To her aunt, however, she expressed her conviction that Cousin Sarah Ann had suggested the railroad investment merely for the sake of compelling her husband to press Robert for payment. She was troubled to know that the payment must be deferred even for a few days, but rejoiced in the knowledge of Robert's ability to discharge his indebtedness speedily. It galled her to think of the unpleasant things which the amiable mistress of The Oaks would manage to say about Robert pending the payment. There was no help for it, however, and so the brave little woman persuaded herself that it was her duty to appear cheerful in order that Robert might be so; and whatever Miss Sudie believed to be her duty in any case Miss Sudie did, however difficult the doing might be. She accordingly wore the pleasantest possible smile and the most cheerful of countenances whenever Robert was present, doing every particle of her necessary crying in her own room and carefully washing away all traces of the process before opening the door.

Robert made all his preparations for departure that afternoon, and on the following morning was driven to the Court House in the family carriage. When he arrived there he got what letters there were for him in the post-office, read them, and talked a few moments with Ewing Pagebrook, who had spent the preceding night with Foggy and Dr. Harrison, and was now deeply contrite and rather anxious than otherwise that Robert should scold him. There was no time, however, even for the giving of advice, as the train had now come, and Robert must go at once. A hasty hand-shaking closed the interview, and Robert was gone.

Mr. Pagebrook Goes to Work.

When Robert arrived in Philadelphia his first care was to make inquiries with regard to the bank in which his money was deposited. He learned that it had suspended payment about one week before, and that its affairs were in the hands of an assignee. This was all he could find out on the afternoon of his arrival, and with this he was forced to content himself until the next day, when he succeeded with some little difficulty in securing an interview with the assignee. To him he said: "My only purpose is to ascertain the exact state of the bank's affairs, in order that I may know what to do."

"That I cannot tell you, sir. The books are still in confusion, and until they can be straightened out it is impossible to say what the result will be."

"Tell me, then, are the assets anything like equal to the liabilities?"

"That is exactly what the books must show. I can't say till we get a statement."

"You can at least tell me then," said Robert, provoked at the man's reticence, "whether there are any assets at all, or not."

"No, I can make no statement until the books are examined. Then a complete exhibit of affairs will be made."

"Pardon me," said Robert, "but this question is one of serious moment to me. You have been examining this bank's affairs for a week, I believe?"

"Yes, about a week."

"You must have some idea, then, whether or not there is likely to be anything at all left for depositors, and you will oblige me very much indeed by giving me your personal opinion on the subject. I understand how impossible it is to give exact figures; but you cannot have failed to discover by this time whether or not the assets amount to anything worth considering, as compared with the amount of the bank's liabilities. I would like the little information you can give me, however inexact it may be."

"My dear sir," said the assignee, "I'm afraid you don't understand these things. Our statement is not ready yet, and I can not possibly tell you what its nature will be until it is."

"When will it be ready, sir?" asked Robert.

"That I can not say as yet, but it will be forthcoming in due time, sir; in due time."

"Will it require a week, or a month, or two or three months? You can, at least, make an approximate estimate of the time necessary for its preparation."

"Well, no," said the man of business, "I should not like to make any promises; I am hard at work, and the statement will be ready in due time, sir; in due time."

Robert left the man's presence thoroughly disgusted. Thinking the matter over he concluded that the affairs of the bank must be in a very bad way. Otherwise, he argued, the man would not be so silent on the subject.

Now the assignee was perfectly right in saying that Robert did not understand these things. If he had understood them he would have known that the reticence from which he thus argued the worst, meant just nothing at all. Business men are not apt to commit themselves unnecessarily in any case, and especially in such a case as the one concerning which Robert had been inquiring. The bank might have been utterly bankrupt or entirely solvent, and that assignee would in either case have given precisely the same answers to our young friend's questions. He knew nothing with absolute certainty as yet, and could know nothing certainly until the last column of figures should be added up and the final balances struck. Then he could make a statement, but until then he would say nothing at all. He acted after his kind. Business is business; and, as a rule, business men know only one way of doing things.

Robert, however, was not a business man. He knew nothing about these things, and accordingly, making no allowance for a business habit as one of the factors in the problem, he proceeded to argue that if the affairs of the bank were in the least degree hopeful the man would have said so. As he had carefully and persistently avoided saying anything of the kind, Robert could only conclude that there was no hope at all to be entertained.

He quickly determined, therefore, to waste no more time. Abandoning his sixteen hundred dollars as utterly lost, he packed his valise and went at once to New York to find work of some kind. How he succeeded we shall best see from his letter to Cousin Sudie, from which I am allowed to quote a passage or two.

"I am very busy with some topical articles, as the newspaper folk call them. That is to say, I am visiting factories of various kinds and writing detailed accounts of their operations, coupling with the facts gathered thus, a gossipy account of the origin, history, etc., of the industry. I find the work very interesting, and it promises to be quite remunerative too. I fell into it by accident. About a year ago I spent an evening with a friend, Mr. Dudley, in New York, and while at his house his seven year old boy showed me some of his toys—little German contrivances; and I, knowing something about the toys and the people who make them—you know I made a summer trip through Europe once—fell to telling him about them. His father was as much interested as he, but the matter soon passed from my mind. When I came over here a week ago to look for something to do I visited the office of this paper, hoping that I should be allowed to do a little reporting or drudgery of some sort till something better should turn up. Who should I find in the editor's chair but my friend Dudley. I told him my errand, and his reply was:

"'I haven't a moment now, Pagebrook, but you're the very man I want; come up and see me this evening. We dine at half-past six, and over our roast-beef I can explain fully what I mean.'

"I went, as a matter of course, and at dinner Dudley said:

"'Our paper, Pagebrook, is meant to be a kind of American Penny Magazine. That is to say, we want to fill it full of entertaining information, partly for the sake of the information but more for the sake of the entertainment. Now I have tried at least fifty people, in the hope of finding somebody who could tell, in writing, just such things as you told our Ben when you were here a year ago. I never dreamed of getting you to do it, but you're just the man, and about the only one, too, I begin to think. Now, if you've a mind to do it, I can keep you busy as long as you like. I don't mean to confine you to this particular kind of work, but I'd rather have articles of that sort than any others, and the publishers won't grumble if I pay you twenty dollars apiece for them. They mustn't exceed two of our columns—say two thousand words in all—but if you can't tell your story in any particular instance within those limits, you can make two articles out of it. I've already told your toy story, but you can easily hunt up plenty of other things to tell about. Common things are best—things people see every day but know nothing about.'

"I set to work the next day, and have been busy ever since. I like to visit factories and learn all the petty details of their operations, and I find that it is the petty details which go to make the description interesting. I like the work so well that I almost wish I had no professorship, so that I might follow as a business this kind of writing, and some other sorts in which I seem to succeed—for I do not confine myself to one class of articles, or to one paper either, for that matter, but am trying my hand at a variety of things, and I find the work very fascinating. But it is altogether better, I suppose, that I should retain my position in the college, even if I could be sure of always finding as good a market as I do just now for my wares, which is doubtful. I have lost the whole of my little reserve fund—as the bank seems hopelessly broken; and if I had nothing to depend upon except the problematic sale of articles, I would do you a wrong to ask you to let our wedding-day remain fixed. As it is, my salary from the college is more than sufficient for our support, and as my expenses from now until the time appointed will be very small indeed, I shall have several hundred dollars accumulated by that time; wherefore if Uncle Carter does not object, pray let our plans remain undisturbed, will you not, Sudie?"

The rest of this letter, which is a very long one, is not only personal in its character, but is also of a strictly private nature; and while I am free to copy here so much of this and other letters in my possession as will aid me in the telling of my story, I do not feel myself at liberty to let the reader into the sacred inner chambers of a correspondence with which we have properly no concern, except as it helps us to the understanding of this history.

A Short Chapter, not very interesting, perhaps, but of some Importance in the Story, as the Reader will probably discover after awhile.

When the letter from which a quotation was made in the preceding chapter came to Miss Sudie, that young lady was not at Shirley but at The Oaks, where Ewing was lying very ill. He had been prostrated suddenly, a few days before, and from the first had been delirious with fever. The doctor had appeared unusually anxious regarding his patient ever since he was first summoned to see him, and Cousin Sarah Ann having given way to her alarm at the evident danger in which her son lay to such an extent as to be wholly useless to herself or to anybody else, Miss Sudie had been called in to act as temporary mistress of the mansion.

The very next mail after the one which brought her letter, had in it one from Robert addressed to Ewing himself. Miss Sudie, upon discovering it in the bag, carried it to Cousin Sarah Ann, and was very decidedly shocked when that estimable lady without a word broke the seal and read the letter, putting it carefully away afterwards in Ewing's desk, of which she had the key. Miss Sudie said nothing, however, and the matter was almost forgotten when in the evening the doctor came and sat down by the sick boy's bed.

"I think it my duty to tell you," said he to Cousin Sarah Ann, "that the crisis of the disease is rapidly approaching, and I must wait here until it passes. Your son is in very great danger; but we shall know within a few hours whether there is hope for him or not. I confess that while I hope the best I fear the worst."

Mrs. Pagebrook was thoroughly overcome by her fright. She loved her son, in her own queer way; and being a very weak woman she gave way entirely when she understood in how very critical a condition the boy was. It was necessary to exclude her from the room, and the doctor remained, with Miss Sudie and Maj. Pagebrook. About midnight he stood and looked intently at the sick man's features, listening also to his hard-coming breath. He stood there full half an hour—then turning to Miss Sudie, he said:

"It's of no use, Miss Barksdale. Our young friend is beyond hope. He cannot live an hour. Perhaps you'd better inform his mother."

But before Miss Sudie could leave the bedside, Ewing roused himself for a moment, and tried to say something to her.

"Tell Robert—I got sick the very day—twenty-one—"

This was all Miss Sudie could hear, and she thought the patient's mind was wandering still, as it had been throughout his illness. And these incoherent words were the last the young man ever uttered.

About a week after Ewing's death Cousin Sarah Ann said to Maj. Pagebrook:

"Cousin Edwin, are you ever going to collect that money from Robert? He promised to pay you on or before the fifteenth of November, and now it's nearly the last of the month and you haven't a line of explanation from him yet. I told you he wouldn't pay it till we made him. You oughtn't to've let him run away in your debt at all, and you wouldn't either, if you'd a'listened to me. Why don't you write to him?"

"Well, I don't like to press the poor fellow. He's lost his money you know, and I reckon he finds it hard to pull through till January. He'll pay when he can, I reckon."

"O that's always the way with you! For my part I don't believe he had any money in the bank; and besides he said there was some money coming to him on his salary, and he promised faithfully to pay you out of that. I told you he wouldn't, because I knew him. He tried to make out he was so much superior to the rest of us, and talked about 'reforming' poor Ewing, just as if the poor boy was a drunkard and—and—and—if you don't write I will, and I'll make him pay that money too, or I'll know why."

The conversation ended as such conversations usually did in Maj. Pagebrook's family, namely, by the abrupt departure of that gentleman from the house.

Cousin Sarah Ann evidently meant what she said, and her husband was no sooner out of the house than she got out her desk and wrote; not to Robert, however, but to Messrs. Steel, Flint & Sharp, attorneys and counselors at law, in New York city. Her note was not a long one, but it told the whole story of Robert's indebtedness from a not very favorable point of view, and closed with a request that the attorneys should "push the case by every means the law allows." This note was signed not with Cousin Sarah Ann's own but with her husband's name, and her first proceeding, after sealing the letter, was to send it by a servant to the post-office. She then ordered her carriage and drove over to Shirley.

Cousin Sarah Ann Takes Robert's Part.

Cousin Sarah Ann talked a good deal. Ill-natured people sometimes said she talked a good deal of nonsense, and possibly she did, but she never talked without a purpose, and she commonly managed to talk pretty successfully, too, so far as the accomplishment of her ends was concerned. In the present case, while I am wholly unprepared to say exactly why she wanted to talk, I am convinced that this excellent lady's visit to Shirley was undertaken solely for the purpose of securing an opportunity to talk.

Arrived there, she greeted her friends with her black-bordered handkerchief over her eyes, and for a time seemed hardly able to speak at all, so overpowering was her emotion. Then she said:

"I wouldn't think of visiting at such a time as this, of course, but Shirley seems so much like home, and I felt like I must have somebody to talk to who could sympathize with me. Dear Sudie was so good to me during—during it all."

After a time Cousin Sarah Ann composed herself, and controlled her emotion sufficiently to converse connectedly without making painful pauses, though her voice continued from first to last to be uncomfortably suggestive of recent weeping.

"Have you had any news of Robert lately?" she asked; "I do hope he's doing well."

"We've had no letters since Sudie's came while she was at your house," said Colonel Barksdale. "He was doing very well then, I believe, though he thought there was no hope of recovering anything from the bank."

"I'm so sorry," said Cousin Sarah Ann, "for I love Robert. He was so like an older brother to my poor boy. I feel just like a mother to him, and I can't bear to have anybody say anything against him."

"Nobody ever does say anything to his discredit, I suppose," said Col. Barksdale. "He is really one of the finest young men I ever knew, and the very soul of honor, too. He comes honestly by that, however, for his father was just so before him."

"That's just what I tell Cousin Edwin," said Cousin Sarah Ann. "I tell him dear Robert means to do right, and will do it just as soon as ever he can. Poor fellow! he has been so unfortunate. Somebody must have made Cousin Edwin suspicious of him, else he wouldn't think so badly of poor Robert."

"Why, Sarah Ann, what do you mean?" asked Col. Barksdale. "Surely Edwin has no reason to think ill of Robert."

"No, that he hasn't; and that's what I tell him. But he's been prejudiced and won't hear a word. He says nothing about it to anybody but me, but he really suspects Robert of meaning to cheat him, and—"

"Cheat him!" cried all in a breath, "Why, how can that be?"

"O it can't be, and so I tell Cousin Edwin; but he insists that Robert told him he would pay that three hundred dollars on or before the fifteenth, and I reckon the poor boy hasn't been able to do it, or he would."

"Why, Sarah Ann, you don't tell me that Robert has failed to pay Edwin that money!" said the Colonel.

"Why, I thought you knew that, or I wouldn't have told you about it. No, he hasn't sent it yet; but he will, of course, if I can keep Cousin Edwin from writing him violent letters about it."

"Hasn't he written to explain the delay?" asked the Colonel.

"No; and that's what Cousin Edwin always reminds me of when I try to take Robert's part. He says if he meant to be honest he would have written. I tell him I know how it is. I can fully understand Robert's silence. He has failed to get money when he expected it, I reckon, and has naturally hated to write till he could send the money. Poor boy! I'm afraid he'll overwork himself and half starve himself, too, trying to get that money together, when we could wait for it just as well as not."

"There certainly can be no apology for his failure to write, after promising payment on a definite day," said Col. Barksdale; "and I am both surprised and grieved that he should have acted in so unworthy a way!"

With this the Colonel arose and paced the room in evident anger. Robert's champion, Cousin Sarah Ann, could not stand this.

"Surely you are not going to turn against poor Robert without giving him a hearing, are you, Cousin Carter? I thought you too just for that, though I should never have mentioned the subject at all if I hadn't thought you all knew about it, and would take Robert's part like me."

"I shall give him a hearing," said the Colonel; "but in the meantime I must say his conduct has been very singular—very singular indeed."

"O he's only thoughtless!" said the excellent woman, in her anxiety to shield "dear Robert."

"No; he is not thoughtless. He never is thoughtless, whatever else he may be. If you wish to defend him, Sarah Ann, you must find some other excuse for his conduct. Confound the fellow! I can't help loving him, but if he isn't what I took him for, I'll——"

The Colonel did not finish his threat; perhaps he hardly knew how.

"Now, Cousin Carter, please don't you fly into a passion like Cousin Edwin does," said Cousin Sarah Ann, pleadingly, "but wait till you find out all the facts. Write to Robert, and I'm sure he will explain it all. I wish I hadn't said a word about it."

"You did perfectly right, perfectly," said Colonel Barksdale. "If Robert has failed in a point of honor, I ought to know it, because in that case I have a duty to do—a painful one, but a duty nevertheless."

"O you men have no charity at all. You're so hard on one another, and I'm so sorry I said anything about it. Good-by, Cousin Mary. Good-by, Sudie dear. Come and see me, won't you? I miss you so much in my trouble. Come often. Come and stay some with me. Do. That's a dear."

And so Cousin Sarah Ann drove away, rejoicing in the consciousness that she had vigorously defended the absent Robert; and perhaps rejoicing too in the conviction that that gentleman could not possibly explain his conduct to the satisfaction of Colonel Barksdale.

Miss Barksdale Expresses some Opinions.

Miss Sudie Barksdale was a very brave little woman, and she needed all her courage on the present occasion. She felt the absolute necessity there was that she should sit out Cousin Sarah Ann's conversation, and she sat it out, in what agony it is not hard to imagine. When that lady drove away Miss Sudie ran off to her room, where she remained for two or three hours. Upon her privacy we will not intrude.

Col. Barksdale called Billy from his office, and giving him the newly discovered facts, asked his opinion. Billy was simply thunderstruck.

"I can't understand it," said he; "Bob certainly had that money coming to him from his last year's salary, for he told me about it the day we first met in Philadelphia. If Bob isn't a man of honor, in the strictest sense of the term, I never was so deceived in anybody in my life. And yet this business looks as ugly as home-made sin. Bob knew perfectly well that if you or I had been at home when he left we wouldn't have allowed his protested draft to stand over at all, but would have paid it on the spot. He knew too that if he couldn't pay when he promised he could have written to me or to you explaining the matter, and we would have lent him the money for twenty years if necessary. I don't understand it at all. It looks ugly. It looks as if he meant to make that money clear."

"Well, my son," said Col. Barksdale, "I'll give him one chance to explain at any rate. I'll write to him immediately."

Accordingly the old gentleman went to his library and was engaged for some time in writing. After awhile there came a knock at his door, and Miss Sudie entered.

"Come in, daughter," said he, tenderly. "I want to talk with you."

"I thought you would," said the sad-eyed little maiden, "and that's why I came. I wanted our talk to be private."

"You're a good girl, my child." Then, after a pause, "This is bad news about Robert."

"Yes; and from a bad source," said Sudie.

"I do not understand you, daughter."

"We have the best of authority, Uncle Carter, for saying that 'men do not gather grapes of thorns!'"

"But, my child, I suppose there can be no doubt of the facts in this case, so far as we have them. We know the circumstances of Robert's indebtedness to Edwin, and whatever her motives may have been, Sarah Ann would hardly venture to say that he has neither paid nor written in explanation of his failure to do so, if he had done either."

"Perhaps not."

"Robert ought to have paid at any cost to himself if it were possible; and if it were not, then he should have written in a frank, manly way, explaining his inability to fulfill his promise. Appearances are so strongly against him that I have written with very little hope of eliciting any satisfactory reply."

"Will you mind letting me see what you have written, Uncle Carter?"

"No; you may read the letter. Here it is."

Miss Sudie read it. It ran thus:

"I have just now learned that you have wholly failed to fulfill your solemn and deliberate promise, made on the eve of your departure from Shirley, to the effect that you would, without fail, take up your protested draft for three hundred dollars ($300), held by your Cousin Major Edwin Pagebrook, on or before the fifteenth (15th), day of this current month. It is now the thirtieth (30th), and hence your promise is fifteen (15) days over due. I learn also that you have failed to write in explanation of your delinquency or in any way to account or apologise for it. Permit me to say that as your conduct presents itself to me at this time, it is unworthy the gentleman which you profess to be, and I now demand of you either that you shall give me immediately a satisfactory explanation of the matter—and that, I must confess, sir, seems hardly possible—or that you shall at once write to my niece and adopted daughter, releasing her from her engagement with you."

Having finished reading the letter Sudie handed it back to her uncle without a word of comment. Not that she was in this or in any other case afraid to express her opinion. Her uncle knew very well when he gave her the letter that she would say absolutely nothing about it until he should ask her, and he knew equally well that upon asking her he would get a perfectly honest expression of her thought, whatever it might happen to be. But Colonel Barksdale was, for the time, afraid to ask her opinion. He was a brave man and an honest one. He was known throughout the state as a lawyer of great ability and as a gentleman of the most undoubted sort. And yet at this moment he found himself afraid of a young girl, who stood in the relation of daughter to him—a girl who was never violent in word or act, a girl who honored him as a father and loved him with all her heart. He knew she would unhesitatingly speak the truth, and it was the truth of which he was afraid. He had not been aware, when he wrote, of any disposition to do Robert injustice, else, being a just man, he would have spurned the thought from him; but now that he felt bound to ask Miss Sudie for her opinion of his course, he became uncomfortably conscious that there had been other impulses than just ones governing him in his choice of language. At last he asked the dreaded question.

"What do you think, daughter?"

"I think you have not done yourself justice, Uncle Carter, in writing such a letter as that. The letter is not like you, at all."

"Well?"

"Do you mean why and wherefore?"

"Yes. Why and wherefore, Sudie?"

"Because it is not like you to do an act of injustice, and when you are betrayed into one you misrepresent yourself."

"But wherein is my letter an act of injustice, my child?"

"It assumes unproved guilt; and I believe even criminals are entitled to a more favorable starting-point than that in their efforts to clear themselves."

"But, Sudie, I have not assumed that Robert is guilty. I have asked him to explain."

"Yes; and in the very act of asking him to explain to you, his judge, you have assured him from the bench that the court believes an explanation impossible."

"Have I? Let me see."

After looking at the letter again he resumed:

"I believe you are right about that; I will rewrite the letter, omitting the objectionable clause. Is that all Sudie?"

"Perhaps when you come to rewrite the letter you will see that its tone is as unjust as any words could possibly be. It seems so to me."

"Let me try my hand again, daughter. Keep your seat please while I write a new letter instead of rewriting the old one."

"There. How will that do?" he asked, as he handed the young woman this hastily-written note.

"My Dear Robert: We have just been hearing some news of you, which I trust you will be able to contradict or explain. It is that you have failed to keep your promise in the matter of your indebtedness to Major Pagebrook, and that you have not even offered a word by way of apology or explanation. The peculiar relations in which you now stand to my family justify me, I think, in asking you to explain a matter which, unexplained, must reflect upon your character as an honorable man. Please write to me by return mail."

"That is more like you, Uncle Carter. But I am sorry to find that you are convinced, in advance, of Robert's guilt. You propose to sit in judgment upon his case, and a court should not only appear but be free from bias."

"Why, my daughter, I can hardly see how there can be any possible excuse in a case like this. You cannot deny that both facts and appearances are against him."

"I doubt whether we have the facts yet, Uncle Carter. Aside from my knowledge of Cous—of Sarah Ann Pagebrook's general character, I saw her do a dishonorable thing once. I saw her open and read a letter which was not addressed to her, and I have no faith whatever in her, or in any statement which comes from her or through her."

Colonel Barksdale was probably not sorry that the conversation was interrupted at this point by the entrance of a servant announcing a client. He felt that it would be idle to argue with Sudie in a matter in which her feelings were strongly enlisted, and he felt that in calling Robert to an account he was doing a simple duty. He was, therefore, rather pleased than otherwise to have an accident terminate a conversation which did not promise to terminate itself agreeably.

Miss Sudie went to her room and wrote to Robert on her own account. I am not at liberty to print her letter here, as I should greatly like to do, but the reader will readily guess its general nature. She told Robert in detail everything that had been said concerning him that day. She told him of her uncle's anger, and of the probability that everybody would believe him guilty if he failed to establish his innocence; but she assured him that she, at least, had no idea of doubting him for a moment.

"For your sake," she wrote, "I hope you will be able to offer a convincing explanation; but whether you can do that or not, Robert, I know that you are true and manly, and not even facts shall ever make me doubt your truth. I may never be able to see how your action has been right, but I shall know, nevertheless, that it has been so. My woman love is truer, to me at least, than logic—truer than fact—truer than truth itself."

All this was very illogical—very unreasonable, but very natural. It was "just like a woman" to set her emotions up in a holy place and compel her reason to do homage to them as to a god. And that is the very best thing there is about women, too. You and I, sir, would fare badly if in naming a woman wife we could not feel assured that her love will ever override her reason in matters concerning us.