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"Read the address on your despatch," said Gholson, resuming his pen.

"Hmm; Charlotte Oliver. Are you sure you have the name just right?"

I could not speak, I shook my head, and for evidence in rebuttal I showed in my eyes two fountains of standing tears.

"Yes," he responded, "but not she! Her life is still hers; she will neither give it away nor throw it away. She wants it, and she wants it whole."

"You say she was so full of fun that day; what day?"

Ere the sun shall go down there are heads to be broke."

The bunch beamed an ecstatic bliss. What was the explanation; had her father arrived, or--or somebody else? The question went through me like an arrow. Was the cause of this heavenly radiance somebody else?--that was the barb; or was it I?--that was the soothing feather.

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